If my life were a movie, it would start with a Spelling Bee. The camera would fade from black to a close up, on a pair of lips.
"Please spell the word..." our lips say "VAGINA"
Notice the lanky kid on stage? Six feet tall. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. Hootie and The Blowfish T-shirt. This goofy piece of shit, he is me.
"VAJINA..." I say "V-A-J-I-N-A, VAJINA.
This close up of lips, tell me it's incorrect.
Some kid from behind the stage yells "What a pussy!"
I don't even think he meant the pun.
I walk off stage with my head down. A tear trickles down my left cheek. How was I supposed to know how to spell Vagina? I've never seen one. Not even read about one.
I'm a disgrace to pubescent boys everywhere. I'm even a disgrace to Hootie and The Blowfish . I don't even deserve to wear this T-shirt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my friend Hagen at the podium. I exit stage left as I hear his word.
"Please spell the word "CLITORIS." The Judge says
"I hate the Cock Suckin' word!" he says
Hagen tends to fail miserably when he's nervous. He also uses the words "Cock" and "Suckin" quite frequently. Even at Thirteen.
"Fine. I'll spell the Mother Fuckin' Word." he says
Also Note- The use of "Mother" and "Fucker" are used fairly common as well.
"C-L-I-T-O-R-I-S. Clitoris."
If my life were a movie, right now, at this moment in my life, eighty percent would hit the cutting room floor. Unless the camera wants to shoot me masturbating.
Please spell the word TABOO. T-A-B-O-O, TABOO
Read all the books and Dr. Joyce books you want. There are two kinds of liars in this world.
Those who say they don't masturbate
Those who say they've quit.
Unless you're the poor bastard who had both his arms ripped off from his tractor. He's the exception to the rule. I'm sure he still thinks about it.
Go ahead. Read your books, your facts. I dare you to find something different.
January 11th will make it eight months. Eight months since my wife left me.
The five stages of Grief after you've lost someone are:
Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance
If you don't believe me, ask my friend Stacy. Go ahead. He has a bachelors is Psychology. A real one.
To the above five stages, I'd like to make an amendment. It's actually more of an addition.
The six stages of grief after you've lost someone are:
Add- Masturbation Contemplation.
There are three kinds of liars in this world:
Those who don't think about masturbating.
Those who say they don't masturbate.
Those who say they've quit.
After sleeping in the same bed as your spouse for six years it gets kind of lonely when you don't, sleep in the same bed that is.
Tonight I lay on my back motionless. I can't sleep. The slightest noise is keeping me awake. The refrigerator runs. It sounds like a fucking jackhammer. A garage door from the neighborhood opens. It sounds like nails against a fucking chalkboard. Even the thoughts in, my own fucking head sound as if the volume is turn up to 50 on my television. I can't sleep. I am so so very tired but I can't sleep. It’s been so long since I’ve had a warm body lying next to mine you’d think I’d be used to it by now. I’m not. I probably never will, be used to it that is.
So I think about it.
Tell me I’m sick. Tell me I’m a fucking pervert for thinking about it. Tell me I’m a fucking weirdo for writing about it.
I’ll probably agree.
Tell me it’s wrong. Tell me most men and women don’t do it. Tell me once you’re past a certain age you shouldn’t even think about it.
I’ll call you a fucking liar.
There are four kinds of liars in this world:
Those who say they don’t masturbate
Those who say they’ve quit
Those who say they don’t think about masturbating
Those who say they’re too old to masturbate.
Sometime last week I had a conversation with Anonymous de New York. He told me he was masturbating at his computer when he noticed someone looking through his blinds. He forgot the cardinal rule to the pre-game warm up. Always make sure all binds are shut and drapes are pulled closed. Anonymous de New York told me he bolted up, ran to his door, opened the door and saw the perp running towards his car. He never mentioned if he had time to pull up his pants.
PLEASE SPELL THE WORD “VOYUER’
Here, on my couch, it’s been so long, even the highlight reel won’t work. I spent the last six years with someone. Here, on my couch I lay here and try to picture the faces from my past but they’re all a little fuzzy. I can’t even remember the names of some of them. If I had internet access, this would be easy. So fucking easy.
PLEASE SPELL THE WORD “DEMENTIA”
It seemed like only minutes later. I open my eyes and see the sunlight streaming through my blinds. I’ve heard stories about guys who fall asleep in the middle of intercourse. Most of them involve a lot of alcohol and ambien. I’ve never heard a story about someone falling asleep in the middle of masturbation. I don’t even think I started.
“C-L-I-T-O-R-I-S, CLITORIS”
The judge tells Hagen that he is correct.
Even Hagen knows his sexual anatomy. And he doesn't even masturbate.
EPILOGUE
Veronica from the internet desk stops by every so often to see if her patrons need any additional time on the computer. As I finish typing the above paragraph, a whisper in my ear asks me if I need more time. Her eyes are fixated on my computer screen. The font is set at 12 but looks like 30. In front of her line of sight are the letters C-L-I-T-O-R-I-S
She gives me a look
PLEASE SPELL THE WORD “PERVERT”
I would like to finish my story but can’t. Veronica’s looks tells me to leave. Maybe I’m just paranoid.
Also Note: I never had a Hootie and the Blowfish T-shirt. Honestly. Ask my friend Luke. He will tell you. You should also ask him about his closet and Thanksgiving dinner.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Worlds Greatest Dad
My son is the greatest. No doubt about it. I'm being bias of course, but after all he is my son. I only wish he could say the same for me. Not right now. I mean, he's only 11 months old. But as an adult. As an adult I only wish he could look back and say "My dad is the fucking greatest!"
We'll see.
Right now I feel far from it. Great that is.
Director Franz Frankenhiemer makes a left hand turn on to 110 Mulberry Blvd at preciously 11:01 AM.
He drives straight for 2 miles and at preciously 11:04 AM he enters the Porte-cochere to the Grand Larmont Hotel in Burbank, CA.
At 11:05 he opens the door to his BMW, tosses the keys to the Valet Attendant, and by 11:07 he is through the lobby doors, into the restaurant, and seated at table number 6. It's the one next to the bay window.
"Gentleman..." our director says "This better not be a waste of my fucking time."
The other two gentleman accompanying table number 6 are
David Danderage-Producer
Boris Markovich- Producer
"Go ahead! Tell him what you just told me..." Boris says "It's fucking Brilliant!"
A waitress comes by the table. She asks the three men what they would like to drink.
Franz tells her to Fuck off.
David Tells her they're busy
Boris orders an appetizer. It's the cave-aged gruyere and mostarda
David spills a small pile of white powder on the table.
"It's a new idea inside of an everyday concept." Says David
"You mean like Reality T.V.?" Franz Says
"It's American Idol!" Boris Says "But Better! Way fucking better!"
David Danderage chops the white powdery pile with a small razor blade.
"It's fucking Dancing with the Stars!" David says
" Meets Jerry Springer!" Says Boris "But better!"
David separates the powder into three separate lines.
Franz tells the two men to fucking get on with it.
Boris hands David a hundred dollar bill rolled into a small cylinder.
"It's called 'Worlds Greatest Dad!'" David says. He bends down and snorts one of the lines into his right nostril.
"It's like Survivor!" Boris Says "But Better! Off the fucking charts better!"
David hands the dollar bill back to Boris
"Each week we take three different dads..." David says " Each from a different social, economical, racial, and geographical climate..."
"It's like fucking American Gladiators..." Boris says "Meets Lost!" Boris bends down and snorts a white powdery line into his left nostril. "But only 'Season One Lost'..." he says " but better! Out of this fucking world better!"
"These Three dads are put through a series of competitive tests..." David says "Both are physically, and mentally challenging." He says
"It's like Jeopardy..." Boris says "But so much better! So fucking better!"
Boris hands the Hundred Dollar bill to Franz.
"and at the end of the month..." David says "We take the winners from each week,and pit them against each other."
"It's like Big Brother!" Boris Says "Big Brother Meets Spartacus." Says "I would've said Gladiator but I fucking hate Russell Crowe."
Franz bends down and snorts a white powdery line into his left Nostril.
The waitress comes by the table. She brings Boris his Appetizers. She asks the table if they need anything else.
"Fuck Off!" Franz Yells
"We're good for now." says David
Boris orders a diet coke. With a Lemon wedge.
Franz hands the Hundred Dollar bill back to David.
"So...Franz Baby, what do you think?" Asks David
"It's a sure thing!" says Boris "Like the actual quote." Says "Not the movie with fucking John Cusak."
Franz tells them he has to think about it. He looks at his watch and tells them he's late for another meeting. This one is with the creators of "Firehouse Rocks."
"The Reality show about Gay Firemen?" David Asks
"It was America's Got Talent." Boris says "meets the fucking bird cage." Says "But Better!"
Franz looks at his watch.
11:47 AM PST
He needs to drive 10 miles in 13 minutes.
So, at 11:48 AM, Director Franz Frankenhiemer stands from table number 6, shakes the hands of the two accompanying gentleman, leaves the restaurant, walks through the lobby and out the lobby doors and by 11:50 AM, he is seated behind the steering wheel to his BMW.
"It's like the real world." he thinks "Meets Days of fucking Thunder."
The clock on my computer screen tells me it's 10 after 12. I'd like to offer a creative Tie-in to the above story but can't.
I guess Christmas has put a lot of pressure on me.
There seems to be some sick part of society that tells us to buy the biggest and the best for our children, and if we can't, well, then we're just no fucking good.
So, right now. At 13 after Midnight, I feel as if I wouldn't even make it past the application process. You know. To the Reality T.V. show mentioned above.
It's like Maury Povich. Maury Povich meets Pulp fucking fiction. But not the send my wild teen to boot camp. I fucking hate when he does that.
We'll see.
Right now I feel far from it. Great that is.
Director Franz Frankenhiemer makes a left hand turn on to 110 Mulberry Blvd at preciously 11:01 AM.
He drives straight for 2 miles and at preciously 11:04 AM he enters the Porte-cochere to the Grand Larmont Hotel in Burbank, CA.
At 11:05 he opens the door to his BMW, tosses the keys to the Valet Attendant, and by 11:07 he is through the lobby doors, into the restaurant, and seated at table number 6. It's the one next to the bay window.
"Gentleman..." our director says "This better not be a waste of my fucking time."
The other two gentleman accompanying table number 6 are
David Danderage-Producer
Boris Markovich- Producer
"Go ahead! Tell him what you just told me..." Boris says "It's fucking Brilliant!"
A waitress comes by the table. She asks the three men what they would like to drink.
Franz tells her to Fuck off.
David Tells her they're busy
Boris orders an appetizer. It's the cave-aged gruyere and mostarda
David spills a small pile of white powder on the table.
"It's a new idea inside of an everyday concept." Says David
"You mean like Reality T.V.?" Franz Says
"It's American Idol!" Boris Says "But Better! Way fucking better!"
David Danderage chops the white powdery pile with a small razor blade.
"It's fucking Dancing with the Stars!" David says
" Meets Jerry Springer!" Says Boris "But better!"
David separates the powder into three separate lines.
Franz tells the two men to fucking get on with it.
Boris hands David a hundred dollar bill rolled into a small cylinder.
"It's called 'Worlds Greatest Dad!'" David says. He bends down and snorts one of the lines into his right nostril.
"It's like Survivor!" Boris Says "But Better! Off the fucking charts better!"
David hands the dollar bill back to Boris
"Each week we take three different dads..." David says " Each from a different social, economical, racial, and geographical climate..."
"It's like fucking American Gladiators..." Boris says "Meets Lost!" Boris bends down and snorts a white powdery line into his left nostril. "But only 'Season One Lost'..." he says " but better! Out of this fucking world better!"
"These Three dads are put through a series of competitive tests..." David says "Both are physically, and mentally challenging." He says
"It's like Jeopardy..." Boris says "But so much better! So fucking better!"
Boris hands the Hundred Dollar bill to Franz.
"and at the end of the month..." David says "We take the winners from each week,and pit them against each other."
"It's like Big Brother!" Boris Says "Big Brother Meets Spartacus." Says "I would've said Gladiator but I fucking hate Russell Crowe."
Franz bends down and snorts a white powdery line into his left Nostril.
The waitress comes by the table. She brings Boris his Appetizers. She asks the table if they need anything else.
"Fuck Off!" Franz Yells
"We're good for now." says David
Boris orders a diet coke. With a Lemon wedge.
Franz hands the Hundred Dollar bill back to David.
"So...Franz Baby, what do you think?" Asks David
"It's a sure thing!" says Boris "Like the actual quote." Says "Not the movie with fucking John Cusak."
Franz tells them he has to think about it. He looks at his watch and tells them he's late for another meeting. This one is with the creators of "Firehouse Rocks."
"The Reality show about Gay Firemen?" David Asks
"It was America's Got Talent." Boris says "meets the fucking bird cage." Says "But Better!"
Franz looks at his watch.
11:47 AM PST
He needs to drive 10 miles in 13 minutes.
So, at 11:48 AM, Director Franz Frankenhiemer stands from table number 6, shakes the hands of the two accompanying gentleman, leaves the restaurant, walks through the lobby and out the lobby doors and by 11:50 AM, he is seated behind the steering wheel to his BMW.
"It's like the real world." he thinks "Meets Days of fucking Thunder."
The clock on my computer screen tells me it's 10 after 12. I'd like to offer a creative Tie-in to the above story but can't.
I guess Christmas has put a lot of pressure on me.
There seems to be some sick part of society that tells us to buy the biggest and the best for our children, and if we can't, well, then we're just no fucking good.
So, right now. At 13 after Midnight, I feel as if I wouldn't even make it past the application process. You know. To the Reality T.V. show mentioned above.
It's like Maury Povich. Maury Povich meets Pulp fucking fiction. But not the send my wild teen to boot camp. I fucking hate when he does that.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Today is Thursday, December 23rd
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Busiest travel day of the year
Last minute shopping
Suicide Rates are high
Anxiety over family
Right now Stu is on edge. His hands are on Ten and Two and nail marks are digging into the steering wheel.
"I can't see anything!" he says
The fog is thick. Visibility I'm guessing is Ten feet. The bus is crawling along going now more than Ten miles an hour and what normally is a 25 minute ride, is taking close to 40. I stare out of the passenger window and write in my Moleskin.
In the aisle directly across from me is Suzanne. She is a Forty-Something single mother who works at Wal-mart.
"What are you doing?" she asks
"I'm just taking notes." I say
Suzanne pulls a green thermos from a reusable Wal-mart shopping bag.
"Are you a journalist or a writer or something like that?" She asks
"Sort of." I say
She unscrews the plastic lid and flips up on a red nozzle
"Are you published?"
"Sort of"
Her eyes open wide with excitement.
"Really! That is so cool!" She says "Who is your publisher?"
She pours what looks like coffee into the lid she previously unscrewed.
"Wait! Let me guess!" She says "Ummm...Random House?"
"No"
"Doubleday"
"Nope"
"Warner Books?"
"Try again?"
"Little Brown?"
"Blog Spot.com"I say
Her face is frozen.
"It's a website blog. It's free and anyone can do it." I say
Her look now reminds me of a Kid who just met Santa Claus but later learned he was fake. For a split second I was somebody. She was talking to a writer. Someone who made it. Now, she looks into the eyes of a wanna be disconnected from reality.
"Oh. That's nice." she says
She turns her face around and stares forward.
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Remember the Egg Nog
Take out the Roast
The Banks are only open till 1 tomorrow
Buy Wrapping Paper
My house is a fucking mess. Not just one room but ALL rooms. My water has been off for a few days. I have stacks of dishes in the sink. The stink of egg shells, frozen pizza, rotting ranch dressing, Tuna fish and stagnant water fills my kitchen.
Then there's the garbage. I keep forgetting to take out the garbage on Wednesdays’. So it sits there. Pilling up in my garage like a junk yard it sits there.
I scan the wreckage. Even while I sit among this infestation, I can't find the motivation to clean. I just sit there on the couch.
I sit there and think about masturbating.
The blinds are closed
The only thing I need now is a wipe rag. I decide just to sit there and do nothing.
Laziness 1
Motivation 0
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Two more days till Christmas
The winter Solstice was two days ago
The Temperature outside is 37 degrees Fahrenheit
Around Eleven O'clock my friend Luke calls. I pick up my phone and try to answer. The battery goes dead. I sit there on the couch. I'm too lazy to go plug the phone into my charger.
Laziness 1
Motivation 0
I sit there and feel bad. Yesterday was my friend’s birthday. I was supposed to be there. In Idaho. I was supposed to be there for his Birthday. My inheritance check from my trust fund was supposed to clear by then but it hasn't. I have no money for gifts of any kind for anyone. I sit here and feel bad.
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Taylor Swift among top gift under tree
Happy Birthday Eddie Vedder
Mince Pies on Sale at Marie Calanders
The Santa Clause with Tim Allen is on T.V. tonight
The Microwave tells me its 1:45. This means I need to get ready if I'm going to catch the bus into town. My Laziness tells me to call my Therapist and tell her I'm not going to group tonight. I tell my Laziness because it didn't let me plug my phone into it's charger I can't. I get up, take a shower, and put some fresh clothes on.
Motivation-Winner by default.
Laziness 2
Motivation 1
Stu drops me off at the Library a quarter past Three. The fog has thinned out but is still there. Inside, Cheryl directs me to computer station number three. It's here, at computer station number Three I sit and type. Thirty Minutes from now I will leave computer station number three and head towards my group. I have no idea what I will do tomorrow or the next.
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Busiest travel day of the year
Last minute shopping
Suicide Rates are high
Anxiety over family
Right now Stu is on edge. His hands are on Ten and Two and nail marks are digging into the steering wheel.
"I can't see anything!" he says
The fog is thick. Visibility I'm guessing is Ten feet. The bus is crawling along going now more than Ten miles an hour and what normally is a 25 minute ride, is taking close to 40. I stare out of the passenger window and write in my Moleskin.
In the aisle directly across from me is Suzanne. She is a Forty-Something single mother who works at Wal-mart.
"What are you doing?" she asks
"I'm just taking notes." I say
Suzanne pulls a green thermos from a reusable Wal-mart shopping bag.
"Are you a journalist or a writer or something like that?" She asks
"Sort of." I say
She unscrews the plastic lid and flips up on a red nozzle
"Are you published?"
"Sort of"
Her eyes open wide with excitement.
"Really! That is so cool!" She says "Who is your publisher?"
She pours what looks like coffee into the lid she previously unscrewed.
"Wait! Let me guess!" She says "Ummm...Random House?"
"No"
"Doubleday"
"Nope"
"Warner Books?"
"Try again?"
"Little Brown?"
"Blog Spot.com"I say
Her face is frozen.
"It's a website blog. It's free and anyone can do it." I say
Her look now reminds me of a Kid who just met Santa Claus but later learned he was fake. For a split second I was somebody. She was talking to a writer. Someone who made it. Now, she looks into the eyes of a wanna be disconnected from reality.
"Oh. That's nice." she says
She turns her face around and stares forward.
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Remember the Egg Nog
Take out the Roast
The Banks are only open till 1 tomorrow
Buy Wrapping Paper
My house is a fucking mess. Not just one room but ALL rooms. My water has been off for a few days. I have stacks of dishes in the sink. The stink of egg shells, frozen pizza, rotting ranch dressing, Tuna fish and stagnant water fills my kitchen.
Then there's the garbage. I keep forgetting to take out the garbage on Wednesdays’. So it sits there. Pilling up in my garage like a junk yard it sits there.
I scan the wreckage. Even while I sit among this infestation, I can't find the motivation to clean. I just sit there on the couch.
I sit there and think about masturbating.
The blinds are closed
The only thing I need now is a wipe rag. I decide just to sit there and do nothing.
Laziness 1
Motivation 0
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Two more days till Christmas
The winter Solstice was two days ago
The Temperature outside is 37 degrees Fahrenheit
Around Eleven O'clock my friend Luke calls. I pick up my phone and try to answer. The battery goes dead. I sit there on the couch. I'm too lazy to go plug the phone into my charger.
Laziness 1
Motivation 0
I sit there and feel bad. Yesterday was my friend’s birthday. I was supposed to be there. In Idaho. I was supposed to be there for his Birthday. My inheritance check from my trust fund was supposed to clear by then but it hasn't. I have no money for gifts of any kind for anyone. I sit here and feel bad.
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Taylor Swift among top gift under tree
Happy Birthday Eddie Vedder
Mince Pies on Sale at Marie Calanders
The Santa Clause with Tim Allen is on T.V. tonight
The Microwave tells me its 1:45. This means I need to get ready if I'm going to catch the bus into town. My Laziness tells me to call my Therapist and tell her I'm not going to group tonight. I tell my Laziness because it didn't let me plug my phone into it's charger I can't. I get up, take a shower, and put some fresh clothes on.
Motivation-Winner by default.
Laziness 2
Motivation 1
Stu drops me off at the Library a quarter past Three. The fog has thinned out but is still there. Inside, Cheryl directs me to computer station number three. It's here, at computer station number Three I sit and type. Thirty Minutes from now I will leave computer station number three and head towards my group. I have no idea what I will do tomorrow or the next.
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Apologee
Tap Tap
Testing Testing. One Two Three. Testing
I'd like to make an apology.
Feedback. Noise. Reverberation.
Tap Tap
I'd like to make an apology if I could. It's for all of my friends. Well, not ALL my friends I guess. Just the ones I push this stupid blog upon. I used to think I was creative. There was a time I thought I had talent. Now, it's all been siphoned away. At the bottom of the hose it falls into the pool of the more deserving. I should've spent more time. Done more research. Used a fucking spell checker. Something. I should of done something.
Feedback. Noise. Reverberation. Obscene shouts and lude gestures from the crowd.
Tap Tap
So, as I stated before. I'd like to make an apology. I'm sorry for pushing this blog. This shitty shitty blog. It's not funny. Don't get me wrong, I laugh but that's probably just me. I'm sorry for all the E-mails, Text Messages and Public Service announcements telling you to read my blog. If I had money, I'd drag a banner across the sky with my web address on it.
Yes I know I'm pathetic.
No it won't get any better.
I'm sorry for wasting your time.
Feedback. High pitch. Both ear drums ring. Shouts from crowd say, "Get off the fucking stage asshole!" Arms raise. Middle index finger extends. Crowd says, "Go suck a cock fuckface." Followed by "Shows us your tits!"
Tap Tap.
I'm sorry for making you feel like you had a choice. You didn't.
Man from back of crowd says "Cry me a fucking river homo!"
I thought if I wrote everything in Medias Res it would be clever. If I wrote in a Minimalistic style it would cover my ignorance.
Teenager from row four seat 3 stands up. Makes pumping motion with fist. Smacks lips. Winks. Blows kiss.
I though people would visit my site. I have ads by google. I thought people would visit my site and click on my links and I would make money. I could write and make money.
Something flies through air. Smacks Rectus Abdonimis. Hands Clench Rectus Abdonimis. Lean Forward. Whisper under my breath "Mother Fuckers." Something looks like Mash Potatoes. Tastes like Mash Potatoes.
Female from row 1 seat 11 says " There's more where that came from."
Senior Citizen. Female. Row 26 seat 14 Says "Run off the stage an cry to mommy pussy!"
Senior Citizen. Male. Row 26 Seat 15 probably husband raises hand and high fives Senior Citizen Female.
I though I was clever...
Voice from crowd I cannot see says "You already said that asshole."
Feedback. Noise. Reverberation.
Man in late forties stands up. Grabs Crotch. Pulls up on Crotch. Says "This is what I think of your apology!" followed by "Fucking Asshole!"
Tap Tap
Most importantly, I need to aplogize to myself. I need to apologize to myself for thinking I could write. Not only write, but write something people would want to read. I apologize to the word delusion. I give it no justice. I am more than that.
Man from back row with baby on his shoulders shouts "What does that even mean!"
I would also like to apologize to everyone on blogger.com
Calling People Names
Bad Ass Geek
Mr. London Street
Bag lady
Steam Me Up Kid
Fluster Me
I'm sorry for wasting your time. I lured you into my blog like something lures something else in. If I were clever enough I'd tell you what that something is.
Man in Wheelchair seated next to Women in row 7 seat 1 says "If I had legs I'd walk up there and kick in your fucking face!" Followed by "Asshole!"
Feedback. Noise. Silence.
Tap Tap
Mouth Moves. Microphone does not amplify voice.
Laughter from crowd.
Young man early twenties standing near side of stage holds a cord. I follow cord to microphone.
Young man early twenties holding cord says "I think you might be in the wrong place." Says"I don't want to be a dick but you really got to go."
Behind me Red banner reads "Jim Mortensen." Reads "Third Congressional District." Reads "Two More Years"
Testing Testing. One Two Three. Testing
I'd like to make an apology.
Feedback. Noise. Reverberation.
Tap Tap
I'd like to make an apology if I could. It's for all of my friends. Well, not ALL my friends I guess. Just the ones I push this stupid blog upon. I used to think I was creative. There was a time I thought I had talent. Now, it's all been siphoned away. At the bottom of the hose it falls into the pool of the more deserving. I should've spent more time. Done more research. Used a fucking spell checker. Something. I should of done something.
Feedback. Noise. Reverberation. Obscene shouts and lude gestures from the crowd.
Tap Tap
So, as I stated before. I'd like to make an apology. I'm sorry for pushing this blog. This shitty shitty blog. It's not funny. Don't get me wrong, I laugh but that's probably just me. I'm sorry for all the E-mails, Text Messages and Public Service announcements telling you to read my blog. If I had money, I'd drag a banner across the sky with my web address on it.
Yes I know I'm pathetic.
No it won't get any better.
I'm sorry for wasting your time.
Feedback. High pitch. Both ear drums ring. Shouts from crowd say, "Get off the fucking stage asshole!" Arms raise. Middle index finger extends. Crowd says, "Go suck a cock fuckface." Followed by "Shows us your tits!"
Tap Tap.
I'm sorry for making you feel like you had a choice. You didn't.
Man from back of crowd says "Cry me a fucking river homo!"
I thought if I wrote everything in Medias Res it would be clever. If I wrote in a Minimalistic style it would cover my ignorance.
Teenager from row four seat 3 stands up. Makes pumping motion with fist. Smacks lips. Winks. Blows kiss.
I though people would visit my site. I have ads by google. I thought people would visit my site and click on my links and I would make money. I could write and make money.
Something flies through air. Smacks Rectus Abdonimis. Hands Clench Rectus Abdonimis. Lean Forward. Whisper under my breath "Mother Fuckers." Something looks like Mash Potatoes. Tastes like Mash Potatoes.
Female from row 1 seat 11 says " There's more where that came from."
Senior Citizen. Female. Row 26 seat 14 Says "Run off the stage an cry to mommy pussy!"
Senior Citizen. Male. Row 26 Seat 15 probably husband raises hand and high fives Senior Citizen Female.
I though I was clever...
Voice from crowd I cannot see says "You already said that asshole."
Feedback. Noise. Reverberation.
Man in late forties stands up. Grabs Crotch. Pulls up on Crotch. Says "This is what I think of your apology!" followed by "Fucking Asshole!"
Tap Tap
Most importantly, I need to aplogize to myself. I need to apologize to myself for thinking I could write. Not only write, but write something people would want to read. I apologize to the word delusion. I give it no justice. I am more than that.
Man from back row with baby on his shoulders shouts "What does that even mean!"
I would also like to apologize to everyone on blogger.com
Calling People Names
Bad Ass Geek
Mr. London Street
Bag lady
Steam Me Up Kid
Fluster Me
I'm sorry for wasting your time. I lured you into my blog like something lures something else in. If I were clever enough I'd tell you what that something is.
Man in Wheelchair seated next to Women in row 7 seat 1 says "If I had legs I'd walk up there and kick in your fucking face!" Followed by "Asshole!"
Feedback. Noise. Silence.
Tap Tap
Mouth Moves. Microphone does not amplify voice.
Laughter from crowd.
Young man early twenties standing near side of stage holds a cord. I follow cord to microphone.
Young man early twenties holding cord says "I think you might be in the wrong place." Says"I don't want to be a dick but you really got to go."
Behind me Red banner reads "Jim Mortensen." Reads "Third Congressional District." Reads "Two More Years"
Friday, December 17, 2010
Limericks
I have ten minutes to write something. My laptop at home is broke. Something's wrong with the A drive. It won't let me insert my floppy disk. As dirty as that sounds, it sucks.
I can't insert my floppy disk.
I have only ten minu...eight minutes to write something.
Not that anyone reads this shit anymore.
More often than not, I lie awake at night. I lie awake at night with nothing to do. I could masterbate.
That sensation only lasts ten minutes at best. What then?
I remember a Limerick told to me by Luke's dad.
There once was a man from Kurplunk
Who locked himself in a trunk
While thinking of Venus
and stroking his Penis
He filled that trunk with gunk.
I decide to write a Limerick of my own
I think of the suberbs surrounding the Salt Lake Valley.
There once was a girl from Rose Park
Who loved to give head in the dark
While sucking my penis
She called herself Venus
But later I learned it was Clark
And that only took 7 minutes. What now? Maybe I should've masterbated.
I write my masterpiece down in my moleskin.
My time is up.
Have a great weekend
I can't insert my floppy disk.
I have only ten minu...eight minutes to write something.
Not that anyone reads this shit anymore.
More often than not, I lie awake at night. I lie awake at night with nothing to do. I could masterbate.
That sensation only lasts ten minutes at best. What then?
I remember a Limerick told to me by Luke's dad.
There once was a man from Kurplunk
Who locked himself in a trunk
While thinking of Venus
and stroking his Penis
He filled that trunk with gunk.
I decide to write a Limerick of my own
I think of the suberbs surrounding the Salt Lake Valley.
There once was a girl from Rose Park
Who loved to give head in the dark
While sucking my penis
She called herself Venus
But later I learned it was Clark
And that only took 7 minutes. What now? Maybe I should've masterbated.
I write my masterpiece down in my moleskin.
My time is up.
Have a great weekend
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Hey, I was just being honest
A while ago I thought about joining the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.-Mormons.
The Bishop, being the salesman that he was, told me that he would pay my power bill and help with food until I got on my feet. All I needed to do in return was "consider and pray." So I did. A great deal in fact. After a long of week of
Considering
and
Praying
I came to my conclusion.
"Bishop S., I don't think I want to be part of your church"
"May I ask why?"
"I dunno. It's a lot of stuff I guess. Stuff that's hard to believe."
"Like What?"
"I dunno. Just a bunch of stuff. Well, Okay. The Lamenites. They were descendants of Lamen and Lemuel and cursed with a dark skin for their wickedness and rebelliousness..."
"Yes..."
"Well, wouldn't you think if God wanted to fuck them over he would've made their skin Neon Green or something?"
"I'm sure he had his reasons."
"Okay well, what about all these big cities I've read about?"
"What about them?"
"Have you ever been to Zarahemla?"
"No."
"Do you know anyone that has been to Zarahemla?"
"Yes"
"That's not a character in the Book of Mormon?"
"No."
"What about the city of Nephi?"
"Yes. Yes I've been there."
"Not the town outside of Provo."
"Okay, you caught me."
"So...is there any archeological or anthropological evidence that these cities even exist?"
"Ummm....I'll have to check with my supervisor."
"I didn't think you had supervisors. Who would be your supervisor? You're a Bishop."
"His name is...Brother...Smith...yeah that's it."
"Can you call him for me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"'Cause he's...not here. He's in..........um..........Zarahemla. See, I do know someone who's been there."
" I don't believe you."
"Well, that's your problem now isn't it?"
"I still don't want to be a member of your church."
"Why? Haven't I answered all your questions?"
"No, not really."
"Well, it's not that simple. There are certain measures we need to take."
"Like what?"
"I dunno...Measures."
"That's not a good enough reason."
"You have an obligation!"
Phone rings
"Hold on for a minute Mike."
picks up phone
"Hello...Yeah...I'm sitting with him right now." Whispers "I'm trying to close a deal here...you're what? Giving it to Donnie! That's rediculious! I've been number one for over ten weeks now! Okay...yeah...yeah...I know...yeah...Okay...bye.
hangs up phone
"Sorry about that.Where were we?"
"You were telling me how I have an obligation."
"Okay. Right. We've invested a lot of time and Money in you. You have an obligation."
"I do?"
"Yes! We paid for your power bill!"
"I know and I thank you for it. But that doesn't change how I feel about the church."
"You gave me your word."
"I gave you my account number."
"Same diff."
"Look, can't I just be jumped out or something? That's what the crypts and bloods do."
"It's not that simple.
"Okay. Well, I don't think you’d want me anyway."
"Why?"
"I'm a quarter black."
"No your not. We checked your background. Even if you were, we have black members now. Since 1976.
"I smoke."
"I'll help you quit."
"I have a DUI on my record."
"That's okay."
"I'm Gay."
"So am I."
"You’re good."
"Thank You."
"What about tithing?"
"What about it?"
"I have to pay 10% of my monthly income right?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't have a job...and I'm kind of a dead beat so I don't plan on getting one so...10% of 0 is 0...but...if you’re okay with that?"
Picks up phone
“Security.”
The Bishop, being the salesman that he was, told me that he would pay my power bill and help with food until I got on my feet. All I needed to do in return was "consider and pray." So I did. A great deal in fact. After a long of week of
Considering
and
Praying
I came to my conclusion.
"Bishop S., I don't think I want to be part of your church"
"May I ask why?"
"I dunno. It's a lot of stuff I guess. Stuff that's hard to believe."
"Like What?"
"I dunno. Just a bunch of stuff. Well, Okay. The Lamenites. They were descendants of Lamen and Lemuel and cursed with a dark skin for their wickedness and rebelliousness..."
"Yes..."
"Well, wouldn't you think if God wanted to fuck them over he would've made their skin Neon Green or something?"
"I'm sure he had his reasons."
"Okay well, what about all these big cities I've read about?"
"What about them?"
"Have you ever been to Zarahemla?"
"No."
"Do you know anyone that has been to Zarahemla?"
"Yes"
"That's not a character in the Book of Mormon?"
"No."
"What about the city of Nephi?"
"Yes. Yes I've been there."
"Not the town outside of Provo."
"Okay, you caught me."
"So...is there any archeological or anthropological evidence that these cities even exist?"
"Ummm....I'll have to check with my supervisor."
"I didn't think you had supervisors. Who would be your supervisor? You're a Bishop."
"His name is...Brother...Smith...yeah that's it."
"Can you call him for me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"'Cause he's...not here. He's in..........um..........Zarahemla. See, I do know someone who's been there."
" I don't believe you."
"Well, that's your problem now isn't it?"
"I still don't want to be a member of your church."
"Why? Haven't I answered all your questions?"
"No, not really."
"Well, it's not that simple. There are certain measures we need to take."
"Like what?"
"I dunno...Measures."
"That's not a good enough reason."
"You have an obligation!"
Phone rings
"Hold on for a minute Mike."
picks up phone
"Hello...Yeah...I'm sitting with him right now." Whispers "I'm trying to close a deal here...you're what? Giving it to Donnie! That's rediculious! I've been number one for over ten weeks now! Okay...yeah...yeah...I know...yeah...Okay...bye.
hangs up phone
"Sorry about that.Where were we?"
"You were telling me how I have an obligation."
"Okay. Right. We've invested a lot of time and Money in you. You have an obligation."
"I do?"
"Yes! We paid for your power bill!"
"I know and I thank you for it. But that doesn't change how I feel about the church."
"You gave me your word."
"I gave you my account number."
"Same diff."
"Look, can't I just be jumped out or something? That's what the crypts and bloods do."
"It's not that simple.
"Okay. Well, I don't think you’d want me anyway."
"Why?"
"I'm a quarter black."
"No your not. We checked your background. Even if you were, we have black members now. Since 1976.
"I smoke."
"I'll help you quit."
"I have a DUI on my record."
"That's okay."
"I'm Gay."
"So am I."
"You’re good."
"Thank You."
"What about tithing?"
"What about it?"
"I have to pay 10% of my monthly income right?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't have a job...and I'm kind of a dead beat so I don't plan on getting one so...10% of 0 is 0...but...if you’re okay with that?"
Picks up phone
“Security.”
Friday, December 10, 2010
Deja George
I'm sure you've heard the saying, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."
We all have. It's one of those quotes you learn in Kindergarten. It's a phrase your Teachers, Parents, Bishop/priest/guru and whoever the fuck give people advice, utters throughout the first twelve or so years of our lives. I for one, attend to live by these rules. If I don't have anything nice to say, I simply don't say anything at all.
I just say it behind your back.
Sitting across from computer number one, is computer number three. Sitting behind computer number three is some guy whose name I don't know. Sitting behind computer number one is me. Sitting to the right of computer number one is computer number 2. Sitting behind computer number 2 is George. George(if your still reading after that fucking long and confusing paragraph), is a writer. COMIC BOOK Writer actually. His comic series titled, "Big George" is an LDS based comic book series that takes place throughout the Salt Lake Valley.
One thing about George that I don't think George knows, he's never met me before.
"Hi." Says George
The same people who tell you to never say anything mean about anyone, I think those are the same people who told me to never talk to strangers.
"Hello, how are you?"I say
My right index finger clicks the mouse that clicks the Internet Explorer icon.
"Not so good. I'm getting a divorce." he says
I squint and stare hard into his face.
"Yeah, came home from work last week and Susan had all my stuff moved out." George says
I continue to squint and continue to stare. Nothing comes to me.
George Continues
"I can't believe she left me for someone twenty years younger. I just don't know what I'm going to do."
His eyes start to tear up.
For Thanksgiving I was invited over to my in-laws house. My in-laws hate me. I ate dinner with them. It was uncomfortable.
Right now, at this moment, I would rather be passing potatoes to my father in law, taking dressing from my Mother in-law, watching football with my brother in-law. THAT was uncomfortable.
This feels worse.
I turn my focus towards computer screen number one. I type in the web address for my Gmail account.
There is a response from "Calling People Names" regarding my last blog entry.
She says it reminds her of the movie Porky's.
She says "it's pretty funny dude."
She also wants to know if I know any foreigners with huge wangers.
I write back. I tell her the coalition of Huge Wangers has black listed me due to the great indecent in-exposure of 1999. I tell her myself, and a bunch of my small dick'd buddies marched across the continental U.S. spreading our word for equality and the un-endowed.
Actually, I never typed these things. I was distracted
"Yeah so, enough about me, how are things going for you." He says
"um...good." I say with reluctance.
"Yeah well, that's good. My youngest one, well, she's dating a man who's four years older than her. Her boyfriend doesn't have the decency to come and introduce himself. She's never home, out all hours of the night..."
The face behind computer number three slides to my left. He stares me down. His brown beady eyes say "shut the fuck up."
I stare back. My eyes say "It's not me it's him." The face disappears back behind computer screen number three.
I open my facebook. I try and think of a quote that people will respond to. I need people to respond to my quotes. It makes me feel loved.
..."and then there's my dog.” He continues “O my precious Priscilla." he tears up again.
He tells me his dog was hit by a truck last week. He tells me it survived but has a broken Leg. He tells me he doesn't think he can nurse it back to health with everything that's been going on.
George, this man I've never met before, places his right hand on my left arm.
"Do you..." his lips are trembling..."do you think you could take her? My baby Priscilla? You know, take care of her for me."
I squint and stare.
I have never met this man before.
I'm sure of it.
While I have no intention of accepting his offer, I feel inclined to ask;
"What kind of dog is it?"
George tells me It's a blue Tick, Blue Healer mix.
In the search box to the top right, I type in;
"Blue Tick, Blue Healer Mix."
Google tells me the Blue Tick, Blue Heeler mix are “a breed of brave and trustworthy animals.”
I don't need anyone showing me up at home.
"Sorry, I don't think I have any room."
His eyes continue to run.
"That's okay." he says "I know you would if you could." He removes his hand from my arm.
A voice from computer number 3 says;
"If you two aren’t gonna shut up, I guess I'll just leave.” The man behind computer screen number 3 stands up from behind his monitor. “Fucking Assholes!” he says
The man from computer number 3 leaves.
The man from computer number two is crying. He’s bawling his fucking eyes out.
In the search box to the top right I type
“Strangers who think they know you but don’t.”
It takes me to website www. projectexperience.com
It looks like a message board. The consensus is
Since there is no connection or relationship between the two, One of, if not both of the parties feel like they can open up, tell the other individual anything. Since this individual will likely never see other party, they feel there will be no repercussions to any statements they may share.
This message board looks like it was written by a bunch of 14 year old kids.
I remember when I was 14, my friend Justin shared some of his Mountain dew with me. I had just finished playing basketball in the schoolyard so I was thirsty. It was right after Pepsi came out with their Big Slam Bottles. So, I was thirsty, Justin was there, he offered me a drink.
It was piss
…and I drank it. I drank a Big Slam of Urine. Not the whole bottle. I spit it out. Most of it.
What I’m trying to say is 14 year olds care what other people think. I never wanted to go back to school after that. Of course they feel comfortable sharing things with people they’ve never met.
How does this tie into my story? I don’t know. George is distracting me with his latest comic strip.
Finally, after twenty minutes of sobbing, George stands up from computer number 1.
He hands me a buisness card.It says;
George Lastname
Collector of valuable items
His E-mail address is on the bottom
Before he leaves he says "Thank you for listening."
I place the card in my right front pocket.
So, sitting here, in front of computer number 1, I type my moment with George. A broken man with something to share.
I pull the card from out of my pocket. On the back George has written something.
It says
"It was good to see you again. If you ever have anything you'd love to get off your chest, give me a call. Here is my cell phone number."
The disturbing new is; I still don't think I've ever met George Before.
The okay news is; Next time I see George, I don't have to pretend I've met him.
Then again...maybe I have.
We all have. It's one of those quotes you learn in Kindergarten. It's a phrase your Teachers, Parents, Bishop/priest/guru and whoever the fuck give people advice, utters throughout the first twelve or so years of our lives. I for one, attend to live by these rules. If I don't have anything nice to say, I simply don't say anything at all.
I just say it behind your back.
Sitting across from computer number one, is computer number three. Sitting behind computer number three is some guy whose name I don't know. Sitting behind computer number one is me. Sitting to the right of computer number one is computer number 2. Sitting behind computer number 2 is George. George(if your still reading after that fucking long and confusing paragraph), is a writer. COMIC BOOK Writer actually. His comic series titled, "Big George" is an LDS based comic book series that takes place throughout the Salt Lake Valley.
One thing about George that I don't think George knows, he's never met me before.
"Hi." Says George
The same people who tell you to never say anything mean about anyone, I think those are the same people who told me to never talk to strangers.
"Hello, how are you?"I say
My right index finger clicks the mouse that clicks the Internet Explorer icon.
"Not so good. I'm getting a divorce." he says
I squint and stare hard into his face.
"Yeah, came home from work last week and Susan had all my stuff moved out." George says
I continue to squint and continue to stare. Nothing comes to me.
George Continues
"I can't believe she left me for someone twenty years younger. I just don't know what I'm going to do."
His eyes start to tear up.
For Thanksgiving I was invited over to my in-laws house. My in-laws hate me. I ate dinner with them. It was uncomfortable.
Right now, at this moment, I would rather be passing potatoes to my father in law, taking dressing from my Mother in-law, watching football with my brother in-law. THAT was uncomfortable.
This feels worse.
I turn my focus towards computer screen number one. I type in the web address for my Gmail account.
There is a response from "Calling People Names" regarding my last blog entry.
She says it reminds her of the movie Porky's.
She says "it's pretty funny dude."
She also wants to know if I know any foreigners with huge wangers.
I write back. I tell her the coalition of Huge Wangers has black listed me due to the great indecent in-exposure of 1999. I tell her myself, and a bunch of my small dick'd buddies marched across the continental U.S. spreading our word for equality and the un-endowed.
Actually, I never typed these things. I was distracted
"Yeah so, enough about me, how are things going for you." He says
"um...good." I say with reluctance.
"Yeah well, that's good. My youngest one, well, she's dating a man who's four years older than her. Her boyfriend doesn't have the decency to come and introduce himself. She's never home, out all hours of the night..."
The face behind computer number three slides to my left. He stares me down. His brown beady eyes say "shut the fuck up."
I stare back. My eyes say "It's not me it's him." The face disappears back behind computer screen number three.
I open my facebook. I try and think of a quote that people will respond to. I need people to respond to my quotes. It makes me feel loved.
..."and then there's my dog.” He continues “O my precious Priscilla." he tears up again.
He tells me his dog was hit by a truck last week. He tells me it survived but has a broken Leg. He tells me he doesn't think he can nurse it back to health with everything that's been going on.
George, this man I've never met before, places his right hand on my left arm.
"Do you..." his lips are trembling..."do you think you could take her? My baby Priscilla? You know, take care of her for me."
I squint and stare.
I have never met this man before.
I'm sure of it.
While I have no intention of accepting his offer, I feel inclined to ask;
"What kind of dog is it?"
George tells me It's a blue Tick, Blue Healer mix.
In the search box to the top right, I type in;
"Blue Tick, Blue Healer Mix."
Google tells me the Blue Tick, Blue Heeler mix are “a breed of brave and trustworthy animals.”
I don't need anyone showing me up at home.
"Sorry, I don't think I have any room."
His eyes continue to run.
"That's okay." he says "I know you would if you could." He removes his hand from my arm.
A voice from computer number 3 says;
"If you two aren’t gonna shut up, I guess I'll just leave.” The man behind computer screen number 3 stands up from behind his monitor. “Fucking Assholes!” he says
The man from computer number 3 leaves.
The man from computer number two is crying. He’s bawling his fucking eyes out.
In the search box to the top right I type
“Strangers who think they know you but don’t.”
It takes me to website www. projectexperience.com
It looks like a message board. The consensus is
Since there is no connection or relationship between the two, One of, if not both of the parties feel like they can open up, tell the other individual anything. Since this individual will likely never see other party, they feel there will be no repercussions to any statements they may share.
This message board looks like it was written by a bunch of 14 year old kids.
I remember when I was 14, my friend Justin shared some of his Mountain dew with me. I had just finished playing basketball in the schoolyard so I was thirsty. It was right after Pepsi came out with their Big Slam Bottles. So, I was thirsty, Justin was there, he offered me a drink.
It was piss
…and I drank it. I drank a Big Slam of Urine. Not the whole bottle. I spit it out. Most of it.
What I’m trying to say is 14 year olds care what other people think. I never wanted to go back to school after that. Of course they feel comfortable sharing things with people they’ve never met.
How does this tie into my story? I don’t know. George is distracting me with his latest comic strip.
Finally, after twenty minutes of sobbing, George stands up from computer number 1.
He hands me a buisness card.It says;
George Lastname
Collector of valuable items
His E-mail address is on the bottom
Before he leaves he says "Thank you for listening."
I place the card in my right front pocket.
So, sitting here, in front of computer number 1, I type my moment with George. A broken man with something to share.
I pull the card from out of my pocket. On the back George has written something.
It says
"It was good to see you again. If you ever have anything you'd love to get off your chest, give me a call. Here is my cell phone number."
The disturbing new is; I still don't think I've ever met George Before.
The okay news is; Next time I see George, I don't have to pretend I've met him.
Then again...maybe I have.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Dream
Inhale
Broadcast Syndication is the sale of the right to broadcast radio and television shows to multiple individual stations without going through a broadcast network
Exhale
Inhale
Off-network syndication involves the sale of a program that was originally run on a specific network after the program has fulfilled its contractual obligation.
Exhale
What this means to us is;
We get to continue to watch shitty television shows years after they were cancelled from the primary network the program originally aired on.
What this means furthermore is;
Shitty fucking shows like MacGyver, Matlock, The scarecrow and Mrs. King, even fucking Airwolf, can be seen on lame channels that for whatever reason, decided to pick these programs up.
It’s amazing what you still find on Syndication.
Tonight I sit here fixated on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries.
Robert Stack talks about my missing penis. A close-up of my donger comes into view while that creepy background music plays.
Robert Stack says my penis was;
“Last seen somewhere between October 5th and November 26th 2003.”
The 1-800 number flashes across the screen.
Someone from forensics offers his theory.
He claims it’s possible that my stomach and my Penis collaborated together in a plot to overthrow my manhood. The forensics guy says it’s possible that my stomach grew, obstructing my view with intent to allow my penis to flee to a third world country. Probably India.
A close up of my Dagwood comes back across the screen.
Computer software is used to consider the past 7 years and display an image of what my penis may look like today. Despite the gray pubic hairs surrounding the base, everything else looks pretty much the same. The forensics guy says the gray may be an artificial dye used to throw off further investigations.
Finally, Rob…
I bolt up from the couch. My hands slide down past my stomach and over my genitals.
Still there. These dreams of mine are getting fucking weirder and weirder.
I pick up my phone and call my brother. I’m freaked out. I need to talk to somebody.
“Hello” the other line says
“Chris. O’ thank you for answering.” I sound panicked.
“What’s up dude? You sound like you’re in a panic or something.”
I start into my story. I talk about syndication
He yawns
I mention Unsolved Mysteries.
He doesn’t remember.
I mention my missing penis.
He doesn’t want to hear about my penis
I tell him it was just a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.
“Dude, I knew you where dreaming the whole time…” He says
“I know right? It’s not like I’m fat, or my penis is small.”
“…’cause I know you don’t have cable.” He says
“Oh. Right.” I say
I hurry and change the subject.
“How’s Mom doing?”
“Why don’t you find out yourself?”
“Cause I don’t feel like calling her myself yet.”
My brother tells me I only call people when I want something from them.
“Isn’t that the way it works.” I say
“No.” he says. “Some people call just to talk.”
“If I call just to talk, it’s because I WANT to talk. Therefore, I’m calling because I want something.”
No response. I think I’ve confused him. I don’t want to spend the rest of my evening discussing semantics. I hang up the phone.
I turn on my DVD player and finish watching Season Three of Big love.
EPILOGUE
Computer station number 12 is always quiet. It’s the computer I always request. I request it because of it’s isolation. It sits on a table all by itself. No one to the left of me, no one to the right of me. Just me and computer number 12.
Sitting across from me is computer number 11. Sitting in front of computer number 11 is some kid. His hair is blonde and in a pony tail. His face is covered with peach fuzz . To the left of the kid on computer number 11 is another fucking kid. His hair is short and brown. He also has peach fuzz all over his face. They discuss the new song they’re going to write during band practice.
“It’s called ‘Curb Stomp.’ The one with short brown hair says
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.” The blonde with a pony tail says.
The one with Short brown hair says it’s an anti-drinking song. He says it’s about finding people that drink, and stomping there head on the side of curb.
“Like in the movie ‘American History X.’ he says
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.” The blonde with a pony tail says again.
The kid with short brown hair says “I have the perfect spot for it in our setlist.” He says. “It will go great after we play ‘Gonna stab you till you bleed.’
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.”
I want to say “I thought blood kind of automatically comes with the territory of a stabbing.”
Running the risk of blowing my cover, I keep it to myself.
After further eavesdropping, I find out they call themselves “Asylum 49.” I want to ask what that means but continue to keep to myself.
After an hour, the librarian tells me my time is up. Asylum 49 has been here longer than me but still sits at computer number 11. I’d say something, but I don’t want to run the risk of a potential curb stomping. Or even worse, a stabbing till I bleed.
What does this have to do with Robert Stack and Unsolved Mysteries. Absolutely fucking nothing.
“Nice. Fucking nice dude."
Broadcast Syndication is the sale of the right to broadcast radio and television shows to multiple individual stations without going through a broadcast network
Exhale
Inhale
Off-network syndication involves the sale of a program that was originally run on a specific network after the program has fulfilled its contractual obligation.
Exhale
What this means to us is;
We get to continue to watch shitty television shows years after they were cancelled from the primary network the program originally aired on.
What this means furthermore is;
Shitty fucking shows like MacGyver, Matlock, The scarecrow and Mrs. King, even fucking Airwolf, can be seen on lame channels that for whatever reason, decided to pick these programs up.
It’s amazing what you still find on Syndication.
Tonight I sit here fixated on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries.
Robert Stack talks about my missing penis. A close-up of my donger comes into view while that creepy background music plays.
Robert Stack says my penis was;
“Last seen somewhere between October 5th and November 26th 2003.”
The 1-800 number flashes across the screen.
Someone from forensics offers his theory.
He claims it’s possible that my stomach and my Penis collaborated together in a plot to overthrow my manhood. The forensics guy says it’s possible that my stomach grew, obstructing my view with intent to allow my penis to flee to a third world country. Probably India.
A close up of my Dagwood comes back across the screen.
Computer software is used to consider the past 7 years and display an image of what my penis may look like today. Despite the gray pubic hairs surrounding the base, everything else looks pretty much the same. The forensics guy says the gray may be an artificial dye used to throw off further investigations.
Finally, Rob…
I bolt up from the couch. My hands slide down past my stomach and over my genitals.
Still there. These dreams of mine are getting fucking weirder and weirder.
I pick up my phone and call my brother. I’m freaked out. I need to talk to somebody.
“Hello” the other line says
“Chris. O’ thank you for answering.” I sound panicked.
“What’s up dude? You sound like you’re in a panic or something.”
I start into my story. I talk about syndication
He yawns
I mention Unsolved Mysteries.
He doesn’t remember.
I mention my missing penis.
He doesn’t want to hear about my penis
I tell him it was just a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.
“Dude, I knew you where dreaming the whole time…” He says
“I know right? It’s not like I’m fat, or my penis is small.”
“…’cause I know you don’t have cable.” He says
“Oh. Right.” I say
I hurry and change the subject.
“How’s Mom doing?”
“Why don’t you find out yourself?”
“Cause I don’t feel like calling her myself yet.”
My brother tells me I only call people when I want something from them.
“Isn’t that the way it works.” I say
“No.” he says. “Some people call just to talk.”
“If I call just to talk, it’s because I WANT to talk. Therefore, I’m calling because I want something.”
No response. I think I’ve confused him. I don’t want to spend the rest of my evening discussing semantics. I hang up the phone.
I turn on my DVD player and finish watching Season Three of Big love.
EPILOGUE
Computer station number 12 is always quiet. It’s the computer I always request. I request it because of it’s isolation. It sits on a table all by itself. No one to the left of me, no one to the right of me. Just me and computer number 12.
Sitting across from me is computer number 11. Sitting in front of computer number 11 is some kid. His hair is blonde and in a pony tail. His face is covered with peach fuzz . To the left of the kid on computer number 11 is another fucking kid. His hair is short and brown. He also has peach fuzz all over his face. They discuss the new song they’re going to write during band practice.
“It’s called ‘Curb Stomp.’ The one with short brown hair says
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.” The blonde with a pony tail says.
The one with Short brown hair says it’s an anti-drinking song. He says it’s about finding people that drink, and stomping there head on the side of curb.
“Like in the movie ‘American History X.’ he says
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.” The blonde with a pony tail says again.
The kid with short brown hair says “I have the perfect spot for it in our setlist.” He says. “It will go great after we play ‘Gonna stab you till you bleed.’
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.”
I want to say “I thought blood kind of automatically comes with the territory of a stabbing.”
Running the risk of blowing my cover, I keep it to myself.
After further eavesdropping, I find out they call themselves “Asylum 49.” I want to ask what that means but continue to keep to myself.
After an hour, the librarian tells me my time is up. Asylum 49 has been here longer than me but still sits at computer number 11. I’d say something, but I don’t want to run the risk of a potential curb stomping. Or even worse, a stabbing till I bleed.
What does this have to do with Robert Stack and Unsolved Mysteries. Absolutely fucking nothing.
“Nice. Fucking nice dude."
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
I take cheese with my whine, how 'bout you?
Pinch your thumb and index finger together. Now rub them against each other. Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.
Next, pinch a small amount of your hair between your thumb and index finger. Using the same rubbing motion as before, roll the hair around.
This is my day. Back flat against the couch, head towards the ceiling, and thumb and index finger rolling a piece of hair hour after hour. It’s quite hypnotizing. Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.
I open my laptop and attempt to work on my novel. I haven’t eaten in three days. The hunger is starting to get to me. Nothing makes sense. I read a sentence then read it again. Nothing makes sense.
My phone flips open. I scroll through a list of contacts searching for someone who may have the means to help me out.
Brother-Burned that bridge
Mom-Try again
Dad- Stole all my money
Step dad- Funny. Just keep moving
Jefferson-Makes Seven Twenty-five an hour and has child support. Keep going
Anonymous from New York-Already helped me out.
Luke-Going through a divorce. Too many court fees to pay. Should’ve asked two years ago.
Aldo-Broke
Archie- Apparently just won 2300 last week in Wendover.
I press send. It goes straight to voice mail.
“Yo, Yo, this is Archie, leave me a message and maybe I’ll get back to you.”
Beep
I doubt he’ll get back to me if I tell him I need him to order me a pizza.
I continue to scroll through the list
…Earlier in the day when I wasn’t so fucking hungry
There’s nothing better than waking up to sunshine. There really isn’t. Eyes open, sunbeams filter through the blinds, beams so big you can trace across the entire living room floor. There’s just something beautiful about it.
Today was nothing like that.
I think I was dreaming about an old girlfriend. I think we were just about to make out or something. Then it sounded like a running faucet.
No, it sounded like a car wash. I’ve never worked at a car wash but that’s what it sounded like. Suddenly I went from a possible blow job to spraying a hose against a 1980 something Buick lasabre…or something.
I open my eyes.
In front of me is Max. He’s standing on three legs. His fourth leg is hanging in the air while a stream of piss shoots all over the wall. After a few seconds he lowers his leg and looks in my direction.
“Fuck max.” I say. “You could’ve just asked me to let you outside.”
Max gives me a look. His look says “fuck you old man. We’ve talked about this. I’ll piss outside when you rub ice cubes over your balls every time you go ‘Cause that’s what it feels like when there’s snow on the ground.”
I’ve got to say, he has a point. I pick myself up off the couch and head into the bathroom. I make a quick glance towards the ice machine but keep moving.
Max looks at me. His look says “Yeah that’s what I though bitch.”
After the bathroom I flip open my phone and check the time.
My phone says its 8:25. It also tells me I have 1 voice message.
I press and hold down one.
The voice message is from my friend in New York who wants to remain anonymous.
It’s a short message. It says,“I'm so fucking wasted!” the message tells me to “Fucking call me back!”
It also calls me a fucking pussy. The message is over.
I call Anonymous. He answers and says hello.
“What’s up dude?” I say
“Dude, I pissed me pants last night.” He says
“That’s not good dude.”
“You’re not gonna tell anyone are you?”
“No.” To write and to tell are two different things. I think they are anyway.
“Good. ‘Cause it happened the night before too.”
I laugh. I tell him speaking of piss I woke up to my dog pissing on my living room wall.
“Did it get all over your pants or anything?” he asks
“No, just the wall and some of my floor.”
“Then that’s not even the same thing.”
I laugh again.
Anonymous tells me he needs to cut back on his drinking. He tells me if he continues to drink like he has he won’t have anymore pants because he threw the ones away that he pissed.
“That might be a good idea.” I say.
My stomach rumbles.
I tell him I have to go look for something to eat.
He says goodbye. I say goodbye. We both hang up.
I open the fridge, there is nothing. I open the cabinet there is nothing. I’ve done this ritual three days in a row. Both days yielding the same results. For over a week now I’ve been eating nothing but cliff bars and a chocolate protein drink. Now I have neither.
Max looks at me. His looks says “Don’t tell me we’re all out of food mother fucker.”
I sit on the couch and watch Big Love Season 2. It appeals to me this big love. Not because of the whole plural marriage thing. Don’t get me wrong, that’s cool and everything. But Big Love takes place in the Salt Lake Valley. They mention local suburbs like Murray, Sandy and Draper. There are constant references regarding the book of Mormon and the LDS prophet Joseph Smith Jr. The episode I watch now talks about Wendover. I love going to Wendover.
There’s just something about this big love show.
After the episode, the disc is through. There are three episodes on each disc. This was the last one on disc number three. I want to get up and change out the discs but I can’t. I’m hypnotized. I’m twirling my hair and I can’t stop. If you don’t believe me, try it.
Pinch your thumb and index finger together. Now rub them against each other. Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.
Next, pinch a small amount of your hair between your thumb and index finger.
Now, using the same rubbing motion as before, roll the hair around.
I repeat this process over, and over, and over, and over again. Seconds turn into minutes and minutes turn into hours. I have maybe five or six knots now in the back of my head. I try to undue the knots but end up pulling the hair from my scalp instead. Curious about the negative impacts my new habit has caused, I snap a picture of the back of my scalp. I have a big fucking bald spot now. I’ll just blame it on being Thirty.
My stomach rumbles.
I flip open my phone. The time tells me it’s six in the evening. I’ve wasted my day. I’ve wasted my day doing nothing but just sitting here on the couch twirling my hair.
Max is asleep on the couch. He wakes up and gives me a look. His look says “Don’t fucking look at me. I have an excuse to be lazy.”
So now I’ve gone through my list. There’s no one. Even if there was, what could I say? “Hi, this is Mike, sorry we haven’t spoken in a few weeks but do you think you could order me a pizza.” What a fucking looser.
I take one last glance around the room looking for something to eat. There is a piss stain on my wall and the floor beneath it.
I look at Max. My looks says…
EPILOGUE
I have been saved. Praise be to my friend Luke. Luke has saved me from starvation. Desperate times call for desperate measures. The last thing I wanted to do was call a friend and ask them to order me a pizza. I read that last sentence and shake my head. It even sounds weird. Calling someone for a pizza? I just couldn't take it anymore. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Thank you Luke. I'll pay you back when I get a chance. I'll pay you back when I get a chance but I don't do anal. Unless there's another pizza in it for me...with pineapple.
Next, pinch a small amount of your hair between your thumb and index finger. Using the same rubbing motion as before, roll the hair around.
This is my day. Back flat against the couch, head towards the ceiling, and thumb and index finger rolling a piece of hair hour after hour. It’s quite hypnotizing. Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.
I open my laptop and attempt to work on my novel. I haven’t eaten in three days. The hunger is starting to get to me. Nothing makes sense. I read a sentence then read it again. Nothing makes sense.
My phone flips open. I scroll through a list of contacts searching for someone who may have the means to help me out.
Brother-Burned that bridge
Mom-Try again
Dad- Stole all my money
Step dad- Funny. Just keep moving
Jefferson-Makes Seven Twenty-five an hour and has child support. Keep going
Anonymous from New York-Already helped me out.
Luke-Going through a divorce. Too many court fees to pay. Should’ve asked two years ago.
Aldo-Broke
Archie- Apparently just won 2300 last week in Wendover.
I press send. It goes straight to voice mail.
“Yo, Yo, this is Archie, leave me a message and maybe I’ll get back to you.”
Beep
I doubt he’ll get back to me if I tell him I need him to order me a pizza.
I continue to scroll through the list
…Earlier in the day when I wasn’t so fucking hungry
There’s nothing better than waking up to sunshine. There really isn’t. Eyes open, sunbeams filter through the blinds, beams so big you can trace across the entire living room floor. There’s just something beautiful about it.
Today was nothing like that.
I think I was dreaming about an old girlfriend. I think we were just about to make out or something. Then it sounded like a running faucet.
No, it sounded like a car wash. I’ve never worked at a car wash but that’s what it sounded like. Suddenly I went from a possible blow job to spraying a hose against a 1980 something Buick lasabre…or something.
I open my eyes.
In front of me is Max. He’s standing on three legs. His fourth leg is hanging in the air while a stream of piss shoots all over the wall. After a few seconds he lowers his leg and looks in my direction.
“Fuck max.” I say. “You could’ve just asked me to let you outside.”
Max gives me a look. His look says “fuck you old man. We’ve talked about this. I’ll piss outside when you rub ice cubes over your balls every time you go ‘Cause that’s what it feels like when there’s snow on the ground.”
I’ve got to say, he has a point. I pick myself up off the couch and head into the bathroom. I make a quick glance towards the ice machine but keep moving.
Max looks at me. His look says “Yeah that’s what I though bitch.”
After the bathroom I flip open my phone and check the time.
My phone says its 8:25. It also tells me I have 1 voice message.
I press and hold down one.
The voice message is from my friend in New York who wants to remain anonymous.
It’s a short message. It says,“I'm so fucking wasted!” the message tells me to “Fucking call me back!”
It also calls me a fucking pussy. The message is over.
I call Anonymous. He answers and says hello.
“What’s up dude?” I say
“Dude, I pissed me pants last night.” He says
“That’s not good dude.”
“You’re not gonna tell anyone are you?”
“No.” To write and to tell are two different things. I think they are anyway.
“Good. ‘Cause it happened the night before too.”
I laugh. I tell him speaking of piss I woke up to my dog pissing on my living room wall.
“Did it get all over your pants or anything?” he asks
“No, just the wall and some of my floor.”
“Then that’s not even the same thing.”
I laugh again.
Anonymous tells me he needs to cut back on his drinking. He tells me if he continues to drink like he has he won’t have anymore pants because he threw the ones away that he pissed.
“That might be a good idea.” I say.
My stomach rumbles.
I tell him I have to go look for something to eat.
He says goodbye. I say goodbye. We both hang up.
I open the fridge, there is nothing. I open the cabinet there is nothing. I’ve done this ritual three days in a row. Both days yielding the same results. For over a week now I’ve been eating nothing but cliff bars and a chocolate protein drink. Now I have neither.
Max looks at me. His looks says “Don’t tell me we’re all out of food mother fucker.”
I sit on the couch and watch Big Love Season 2. It appeals to me this big love. Not because of the whole plural marriage thing. Don’t get me wrong, that’s cool and everything. But Big Love takes place in the Salt Lake Valley. They mention local suburbs like Murray, Sandy and Draper. There are constant references regarding the book of Mormon and the LDS prophet Joseph Smith Jr. The episode I watch now talks about Wendover. I love going to Wendover.
There’s just something about this big love show.
After the episode, the disc is through. There are three episodes on each disc. This was the last one on disc number three. I want to get up and change out the discs but I can’t. I’m hypnotized. I’m twirling my hair and I can’t stop. If you don’t believe me, try it.
Pinch your thumb and index finger together. Now rub them against each other. Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.
Next, pinch a small amount of your hair between your thumb and index finger.
Now, using the same rubbing motion as before, roll the hair around.
I repeat this process over, and over, and over, and over again. Seconds turn into minutes and minutes turn into hours. I have maybe five or six knots now in the back of my head. I try to undue the knots but end up pulling the hair from my scalp instead. Curious about the negative impacts my new habit has caused, I snap a picture of the back of my scalp. I have a big fucking bald spot now. I’ll just blame it on being Thirty.
My stomach rumbles.
I flip open my phone. The time tells me it’s six in the evening. I’ve wasted my day. I’ve wasted my day doing nothing but just sitting here on the couch twirling my hair.
Max is asleep on the couch. He wakes up and gives me a look. His look says “Don’t fucking look at me. I have an excuse to be lazy.”
So now I’ve gone through my list. There’s no one. Even if there was, what could I say? “Hi, this is Mike, sorry we haven’t spoken in a few weeks but do you think you could order me a pizza.” What a fucking looser.
I take one last glance around the room looking for something to eat. There is a piss stain on my wall and the floor beneath it.
I look at Max. My looks says…
EPILOGUE
I have been saved. Praise be to my friend Luke. Luke has saved me from starvation. Desperate times call for desperate measures. The last thing I wanted to do was call a friend and ask them to order me a pizza. I read that last sentence and shake my head. It even sounds weird. Calling someone for a pizza? I just couldn't take it anymore. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Thank you Luke. I'll pay you back when I get a chance. I'll pay you back when I get a chance but I don't do anal. Unless there's another pizza in it for me...with pineapple.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Ass, Gas or Grass...No one Meditates for free
8:10 PM
Picture 25 bodies sitting in 25 chairs in a circle. Legs are flat on the floor, palms resting on Kneecaps and harmonious breathing fills the room.
“ Breath in, one, two, three, four, ” Our facilitator says. “ Breath out, one, two, three, four.”
This is group mediation. Part of Wednsday night’s “recreational therapy.”
“In One, Two, Three, Four, ” Our facilitator continues. “…and out one, two , three, four.”
“This is fucking stupid” say's Charles.
“Breath in One, Two, Three, Four..."
"Shushh, don't get us in trouble." says a voice to my left.
“Breath out One, Two, Three, Four.”
The only thing worse than meditation, is meditation with numb bum. When Alexander Parkes invented plastic in 1855, I’m sure he meant well. If Parkes however, had known the pain and suffering he had caused on recovering drug addicts on Wednesday nights he might change his mind. If I hadn’t sold my DeLorean to the Lybian’s in 1985 I’d travel back in time and lay it all out for him.
“Out, one,two,three,four”
I open my right eye and catch a quick glance at Charles. Through my peripheral vision, Charles is making a pumping motion with his fist above his crotch. Across from him sits an attractive lady, mid twenties and well endowed in the chest. After he has her attention, Charles winks, smacks his lips and blows a kiss
1 hr 50 min earlier
Every Wednesday, Both the North and South group, get together with the Young Adults group for a combined session of group activities. Chairs are set up in a circle and everyone arrives at six O'clock. In case I have to piss, I take the chair closet to the door. Sitting directly to the right of me is Charles. Charles is a sixteen year old acne stricken young man. He's here not because of addiction per say, but because, and I quote "I could no longer master the art of the deal." Charles was busted transporting 17 pounds of pot brownies across the transcontinental United States. So he claims.
So, Like a small percentage of Recovery Works clients, Charles was ordered to attend 28 sessions of intensive outpatient therapy.
Shortly after my arrival, Charles spots me, picks a chair next to mine, and sits down.
"What's up Miggity Mike?" he says. Charles sees the need to use “iggity” before every word
"Hey Charles." I respond. "how are you doing today man?" I ask
"Good, just Chiggity Chillin' he responds.
As we wait for the rest of the group to come in, I pull out my cell and pretend to text someone. My attempt to avoid small talk fails when I notice his hand waving in front of my face.
I look over towards him.
"You know the new girl?" he asks.
He pulls his chair six inches closer. He smells of Brut after shave and Marlboro Cigarettes.
"No" I say
Putting both hands about six inches away from his chest he says "sure you do,the one with Big Milky Titties?”
"Not ringing a bell dude."
"Serious!"
"Yes"
Actually, I lied.
I did know who he was talking about. Her name was Katharine. Everyone knew her. It was hard not too. Besides her chest size and beautiful blue eyes, Katharine was smart, funny and sexy. She was outspoken in class and had a whitty remark for everything.
I feel a nudge in my rib cage.
He points to a young lady sitting directly across from us.
"O her." I say, feigning sudden remembrance. "Yeah, I guess I do know her."
"Yeah, well later tonight, she's totally gonna be all over my nugs." Arm outstretched and palm down, he begins to make a motion that resembles a blow job.
“She’s 26” I tell him.
“So.” He says.
"Your only 16".
"So!" he says again.
"She could go to jail." I tell him.
"That's cool. Optical visits turn me on."
"It's conjugal." I tell him
"Whatever, jail or not, I'm tappin' that ass tonight!"
I turn my attention from Charles and listen to the group leader start our nightly check in.
We are asked to give our name, what we're here for, and if we could change anything about today what would we change.
I want to say; "My name is Mike, I'm an alcoholic, and I would've choose a different seat."
Instead I chose to go down the same road I always take. Mike, alcoholic, I would change everything.
Charles says "Charles, Dealer, and I would've slept in longer." Some of the younger kids in the group laugh.
After his turn, he leans over towards me and whispers, "I was going to say, I would've beat off two times, instead of once." I just smile and nod.
After the introductions, we meet outside for a group activity. "The goal..." our facilitator says, "is to drop an egg from a ten foot wall and not have it break." I remember doing this in Jr. High. In Mr. Cannon's science class I chose to wrap some duct tape around the middle of the egg and tried dropping the egg on its nose. Some fuckin' classmate told me if the pressure on the weakest part of the egg, the middle, was secure you could drop the egg on the end which was supposed to be the strongest. The egg was supposed to hold and I was supposed to win. It still broke. I think that same kid works for Boeing or something. Go fucking figure.
The facilitator tells us we can use:
-Ten Straws
-Five foot long strips of masking tape
-A pair of scissors
-A felt Tip pen
She explained that we were given 20 minutes to complete the task and each egg must be given a name.
The facilitator went around the group having each of us number off One through Four. It felt like P.E. class all over again.
"One"
"Two"
"Three"
"Four" Sounded off the first round. I skipped ahead and did the counting myself.I count myself as a three. To my relief Charles was a four. To Charles's relief, so was Katharine.
Luckily, I was teamed up with my friends.
"The drunken Trio" they called themselves. In a room full of opiate, meth, and cocaine addicts, these three somehow prided themselves on the fact that liquor was the only drug they used. Danny, the oldest of the three, once told me that an addict was somebody who passed out with a needle in their arm. "I only drink, therefore, I'm a drunk not an addict." He told me.
Danny, was bald,mid-fifties,held a great tan, and despite his age, sported a hoop earring in his left ear. Today he wore a red button up Hawaiian shirt consisting of white flowers scattered all around.
Scott, not too far behind Danny in age, looked like 70. After years of drinking his liver shut down and was all but pronounced dead. Both his cheek bones had been broke several times in several bar fights. He reminded me of a china doll whose face was put back together with glue.
Clay was the so called "younger brother." Mid Thirties I think. I remember a year ago, I read about a local MMA fighter who crashed his car into a telephone pole. His wife, while knocked out, was moved from the passenger seat to behind the wheel. Clay was heavily intoxicated, and at the time, thought it would be a good idea since his wife was sober. When she regained consciousness, she started babbling about being in the passenger seat one minute, and finding herself in the drivers seat the next. Clay was charged with a 3rd class felony for obstruction of justice and sentenced to 90 days in the Salt Lake County jail, plus 180 days IOP.
7:20
"What the fuck is that?" Charles asks.
Charles and his group had finished their model twenty minutes before everyone else. With Katharine in the bathroom and nothing else to do, he decides to comment and critique other models.
"It's your mother after I fucked her asshole." Clay responds.
"Ha ha, not so funny Dr. Jones!" Charles also has a thing for movie quotes. "You really think that piece of shit's gonna hold up? Whaddya call it?"
"Spudnick" Danny says
"Lets see your piece of shit." Scott says
Wrapped around every inch of the egg were straws followed by duct tape to hold the straws. On the duct tape the name "unbreakable" was scribbled on.
"You couldn't come up with a more original name?" I ask
"Fuck no! If the egg's unbreakable, why not name it the same?" He shoots a head nod towards our model. "It's better than your lame ass...Whatever it's called."
"Spudnick" Danny says.
Finally are facilitator corrals everyone up."Alright everybody, it's time to test your eggs." She says
Team "Super Drooper" goes first. Super Drooper's egg is connected to a parachute made from the straws and duct tape. Brandon, a tall and lanky twenty something year old has been designated to do the drop. He's instructed to stand on top of a three foot wall and drop the egg.
"That egg's gonna fuckin' briggity break." Charles says.
Brandon drops the egg. It falls as if it's attached to nothing and cracks open
"See" says Charles.
Up next is team "Tail Spin." Like Super Drooper's, they've also connected their egg to a parachute. The difference between Super Dooper's is the spiral it's parachute makes. Plus, It also looks like it doesn't suck as much.
Tail Spin Drops their egg.
"...and...splat! Fucking Lame!" Charles says
Up next is team "Spudnick." Our name represents the similarity our egg has with the Russian satellite.
"What was your motivation?" the facilitator asks
"Less is always more." I say
"Quality over Quantity" Danny says
"We didn't give a fuck what it looked like." Clay says
The group chose Danny to represent and do the drop. He stands on the ledge and presents our Model. We have several straws tapped randomly to the egg. It looks more like a large kidney stone than a satellite dish.
Danny drops the egg.
Splat!
"Fucking knew it!" Says Charles.
Next is team Unbreakable
"You've died with the rest, now watch the best." Charles says
He picks his egg up and stands on the three foot wall.
He reaches out his arm and releases the egg.
Nothing
8:10 PM
Picture 25 bodies sitting in 25 chairs in a circle. Legs are flat on the floor, palms resting on Kneecaps and harmonious breathing fills the room.
“ Breath in, one, two, three, four, ” Our facilitator says. “ Breath out, one, two, three, four.”
“This is fucking stupid” say's Charles.
“Breath in One, Two, Three, Four..."
"Shushh, don't get us in trouble." says a voice to my left.
“Breath out One, Two, Three, Four.”
In through the nose and out through the mouth my eyes are now closed. My eyes are now closed and close to entering into a peaceful and relaxing journey.
I’m gonna do it.” Says Charles.
To my left is a new girl. I think her name is Ann.
“Don’t you fucking dare asshole.” She says.
“I can’t hold it any longer.” Says Charles.
After three minutes of deep breathing we begin our journey.
“Picture yourself in an elevator.” Our facilitator says. “…and in that elevator you notice a color. A color that surrounds the elevator like a bright aura.”
Puefff
Snickering
“Charles, you fucking asshole!” Ann Whispers
“Inside the elevator you notice there an unlimited amount of numbers waiting to be pressed. Each button represents a floor. Each floor represents a choice you may or may not have made in your life.”
Puefff, puff, puuusshhhhh
Snickering
“That smells so bad.” Says Ann
“…Without putting to much though into it, press any button you’d like.”
ERRNNTTT
Laughing
“That’s it! Charles, you’re fucking disgusting!” Ann shouts.
I open my eyes. Ann is out of her chair and walking towards the door. Around the circle others are laughing as well.
After another five minutes of meditation, the facilitator turns off the soft music and turns on the lights. She makes not mention of the farting noise overheard during our journey.
Ann walks back into the room but stands on the other side of the circle. We hold hands, say the serenity prayer, and wrap up recreational therapy.
On the way to my car, I see Katharine cross the parking lot and get into her Honda Civic. I laugh to myself. I laugh not only at the fart noise, the shitty eggs that broke, and the square girl who left the room, but at Charles. I laugh at Charles and his confidence. As I’m laughing I see Charles. As I’m laughing I see Charles walk across the parking lot and into a Honda Civic. Katherine’s Honda Civic.
Picture 25 bodies sitting in 25 chairs in a circle. Legs are flat on the floor, palms resting on Kneecaps and harmonious breathing fills the room.
“ Breath in, one, two, three, four, ” Our facilitator says. “ Breath out, one, two, three, four.”
This is group mediation. Part of Wednsday night’s “recreational therapy.”
“In One, Two, Three, Four, ” Our facilitator continues. “…and out one, two , three, four.”
“This is fucking stupid” say's Charles.
“Breath in One, Two, Three, Four..."
"Shushh, don't get us in trouble." says a voice to my left.
“Breath out One, Two, Three, Four.”
The only thing worse than meditation, is meditation with numb bum. When Alexander Parkes invented plastic in 1855, I’m sure he meant well. If Parkes however, had known the pain and suffering he had caused on recovering drug addicts on Wednesday nights he might change his mind. If I hadn’t sold my DeLorean to the Lybian’s in 1985 I’d travel back in time and lay it all out for him.
“Out, one,two,three,four”
I open my right eye and catch a quick glance at Charles. Through my peripheral vision, Charles is making a pumping motion with his fist above his crotch. Across from him sits an attractive lady, mid twenties and well endowed in the chest. After he has her attention, Charles winks, smacks his lips and blows a kiss
1 hr 50 min earlier
Every Wednesday, Both the North and South group, get together with the Young Adults group for a combined session of group activities. Chairs are set up in a circle and everyone arrives at six O'clock. In case I have to piss, I take the chair closet to the door. Sitting directly to the right of me is Charles. Charles is a sixteen year old acne stricken young man. He's here not because of addiction per say, but because, and I quote "I could no longer master the art of the deal." Charles was busted transporting 17 pounds of pot brownies across the transcontinental United States. So he claims.
So, Like a small percentage of Recovery Works clients, Charles was ordered to attend 28 sessions of intensive outpatient therapy.
Shortly after my arrival, Charles spots me, picks a chair next to mine, and sits down.
"What's up Miggity Mike?" he says. Charles sees the need to use “iggity” before every word
"Hey Charles." I respond. "how are you doing today man?" I ask
"Good, just Chiggity Chillin' he responds.
As we wait for the rest of the group to come in, I pull out my cell and pretend to text someone. My attempt to avoid small talk fails when I notice his hand waving in front of my face.
I look over towards him.
"You know the new girl?" he asks.
He pulls his chair six inches closer. He smells of Brut after shave and Marlboro Cigarettes.
"No" I say
Putting both hands about six inches away from his chest he says "sure you do,the one with Big Milky Titties?”
"Not ringing a bell dude."
"Serious!"
"Yes"
Actually, I lied.
I did know who he was talking about. Her name was Katharine. Everyone knew her. It was hard not too. Besides her chest size and beautiful blue eyes, Katharine was smart, funny and sexy. She was outspoken in class and had a whitty remark for everything.
I feel a nudge in my rib cage.
He points to a young lady sitting directly across from us.
"O her." I say, feigning sudden remembrance. "Yeah, I guess I do know her."
"Yeah, well later tonight, she's totally gonna be all over my nugs." Arm outstretched and palm down, he begins to make a motion that resembles a blow job.
“She’s 26” I tell him.
“So.” He says.
"Your only 16".
"So!" he says again.
"She could go to jail." I tell him.
"That's cool. Optical visits turn me on."
"It's conjugal." I tell him
"Whatever, jail or not, I'm tappin' that ass tonight!"
I turn my attention from Charles and listen to the group leader start our nightly check in.
We are asked to give our name, what we're here for, and if we could change anything about today what would we change.
I want to say; "My name is Mike, I'm an alcoholic, and I would've choose a different seat."
Instead I chose to go down the same road I always take. Mike, alcoholic, I would change everything.
Charles says "Charles, Dealer, and I would've slept in longer." Some of the younger kids in the group laugh.
After his turn, he leans over towards me and whispers, "I was going to say, I would've beat off two times, instead of once." I just smile and nod.
After the introductions, we meet outside for a group activity. "The goal..." our facilitator says, "is to drop an egg from a ten foot wall and not have it break." I remember doing this in Jr. High. In Mr. Cannon's science class I chose to wrap some duct tape around the middle of the egg and tried dropping the egg on its nose. Some fuckin' classmate told me if the pressure on the weakest part of the egg, the middle, was secure you could drop the egg on the end which was supposed to be the strongest. The egg was supposed to hold and I was supposed to win. It still broke. I think that same kid works for Boeing or something. Go fucking figure.
The facilitator tells us we can use:
-Ten Straws
-Five foot long strips of masking tape
-A pair of scissors
-A felt Tip pen
She explained that we were given 20 minutes to complete the task and each egg must be given a name.
The facilitator went around the group having each of us number off One through Four. It felt like P.E. class all over again.
"One"
"Two"
"Three"
"Four" Sounded off the first round. I skipped ahead and did the counting myself.I count myself as a three. To my relief Charles was a four. To Charles's relief, so was Katharine.
Luckily, I was teamed up with my friends.
"The drunken Trio" they called themselves. In a room full of opiate, meth, and cocaine addicts, these three somehow prided themselves on the fact that liquor was the only drug they used. Danny, the oldest of the three, once told me that an addict was somebody who passed out with a needle in their arm. "I only drink, therefore, I'm a drunk not an addict." He told me.
Danny, was bald,mid-fifties,held a great tan, and despite his age, sported a hoop earring in his left ear. Today he wore a red button up Hawaiian shirt consisting of white flowers scattered all around.
Scott, not too far behind Danny in age, looked like 70. After years of drinking his liver shut down and was all but pronounced dead. Both his cheek bones had been broke several times in several bar fights. He reminded me of a china doll whose face was put back together with glue.
Clay was the so called "younger brother." Mid Thirties I think. I remember a year ago, I read about a local MMA fighter who crashed his car into a telephone pole. His wife, while knocked out, was moved from the passenger seat to behind the wheel. Clay was heavily intoxicated, and at the time, thought it would be a good idea since his wife was sober. When she regained consciousness, she started babbling about being in the passenger seat one minute, and finding herself in the drivers seat the next. Clay was charged with a 3rd class felony for obstruction of justice and sentenced to 90 days in the Salt Lake County jail, plus 180 days IOP.
7:20
"What the fuck is that?" Charles asks.
Charles and his group had finished their model twenty minutes before everyone else. With Katharine in the bathroom and nothing else to do, he decides to comment and critique other models.
"It's your mother after I fucked her asshole." Clay responds.
"Ha ha, not so funny Dr. Jones!" Charles also has a thing for movie quotes. "You really think that piece of shit's gonna hold up? Whaddya call it?"
"Spudnick" Danny says
"Lets see your piece of shit." Scott says
Wrapped around every inch of the egg were straws followed by duct tape to hold the straws. On the duct tape the name "unbreakable" was scribbled on.
"You couldn't come up with a more original name?" I ask
"Fuck no! If the egg's unbreakable, why not name it the same?" He shoots a head nod towards our model. "It's better than your lame ass...Whatever it's called."
"Spudnick" Danny says.
Finally are facilitator corrals everyone up."Alright everybody, it's time to test your eggs." She says
Team "Super Drooper" goes first. Super Drooper's egg is connected to a parachute made from the straws and duct tape. Brandon, a tall and lanky twenty something year old has been designated to do the drop. He's instructed to stand on top of a three foot wall and drop the egg.
"That egg's gonna fuckin' briggity break." Charles says.
Brandon drops the egg. It falls as if it's attached to nothing and cracks open
"See" says Charles.
Up next is team "Tail Spin." Like Super Drooper's, they've also connected their egg to a parachute. The difference between Super Dooper's is the spiral it's parachute makes. Plus, It also looks like it doesn't suck as much.
Tail Spin Drops their egg.
"...and...splat! Fucking Lame!" Charles says
Up next is team "Spudnick." Our name represents the similarity our egg has with the Russian satellite.
"What was your motivation?" the facilitator asks
"Less is always more." I say
"Quality over Quantity" Danny says
"We didn't give a fuck what it looked like." Clay says
The group chose Danny to represent and do the drop. He stands on the ledge and presents our Model. We have several straws tapped randomly to the egg. It looks more like a large kidney stone than a satellite dish.
Danny drops the egg.
Splat!
"Fucking knew it!" Says Charles.
Next is team Unbreakable
"You've died with the rest, now watch the best." Charles says
He picks his egg up and stands on the three foot wall.
He reaches out his arm and releases the egg.
Nothing
8:10 PM
Picture 25 bodies sitting in 25 chairs in a circle. Legs are flat on the floor, palms resting on Kneecaps and harmonious breathing fills the room.
“ Breath in, one, two, three, four, ” Our facilitator says. “ Breath out, one, two, three, four.”
“This is fucking stupid” say's Charles.
“Breath in One, Two, Three, Four..."
"Shushh, don't get us in trouble." says a voice to my left.
“Breath out One, Two, Three, Four.”
In through the nose and out through the mouth my eyes are now closed. My eyes are now closed and close to entering into a peaceful and relaxing journey.
I’m gonna do it.” Says Charles.
To my left is a new girl. I think her name is Ann.
“Don’t you fucking dare asshole.” She says.
“I can’t hold it any longer.” Says Charles.
After three minutes of deep breathing we begin our journey.
“Picture yourself in an elevator.” Our facilitator says. “…and in that elevator you notice a color. A color that surrounds the elevator like a bright aura.”
Puefff
Snickering
“Charles, you fucking asshole!” Ann Whispers
“Inside the elevator you notice there an unlimited amount of numbers waiting to be pressed. Each button represents a floor. Each floor represents a choice you may or may not have made in your life.”
Puefff, puff, puuusshhhhh
Snickering
“That smells so bad.” Says Ann
“…Without putting to much though into it, press any button you’d like.”
ERRNNTTT
Laughing
“That’s it! Charles, you’re fucking disgusting!” Ann shouts.
I open my eyes. Ann is out of her chair and walking towards the door. Around the circle others are laughing as well.
After another five minutes of meditation, the facilitator turns off the soft music and turns on the lights. She makes not mention of the farting noise overheard during our journey.
Ann walks back into the room but stands on the other side of the circle. We hold hands, say the serenity prayer, and wrap up recreational therapy.
On the way to my car, I see Katharine cross the parking lot and get into her Honda Civic. I laugh to myself. I laugh not only at the fart noise, the shitty eggs that broke, and the square girl who left the room, but at Charles. I laugh at Charles and his confidence. As I’m laughing I see Charles. As I’m laughing I see Charles walk across the parking lot and into a Honda Civic. Katherine’s Honda Civic.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
burrrring me my coat please
The only thing worse than having no license, is having no license in November.
“Anyone going to Stansbury?” I ask the group. No one responds. I’ve asked this question so many times people avoid me like the bubonic plague.
Tonight is cold. Extremely cold. Extremely fucking cold. At this point I’ll take anyone I can get. Junkie, ex junkie, drunk, non drunk, fat, short, tall, transsexual…just give me a fucking ride.
Someone I’ve never met walks out of the building. “Excuse me, sir?” He never makes eye contact. He walks right by me as he might pass a panhandler in the street.
“Anybody…anyone?” I ask in desperation.
It’s cold. Fucking cold.
Even though I’ve bummed a half a pack from him already, Derrick hands me a cigarette.
“I’d give you a ride if I had a car.” He says
“I’d give myself a ride if I had a car.” I say. I light the Cigarette and take a deep drag.
Right now it’s just the four of us. Derrick, Clay, some kid who’s name I don’t know, and myself. Everyone else has left. Left to the comfort of heated sedans, pickups and SUV’s.
Forty minutes earlier, inside the comfort of a heated building, I ask Clay if I can catch a ride back to Stansbury. He tells me his wife might have a friend with her.
“…and if that’s the case…” he says, “…you aint gonna fit.”
I remain optimistic.
Walking out of the building Clay tells me he has bad news. He says there is no room in the car. He says I’ll have to find another ride. He says he’s sorry.
I say fuck.
So, now it’s the four of us. Clay waits for his wife. Derrick waits for his brother. Some kid I don’t know waits for someone I don’t know. I, I wait for my body to stop shivering. It’s so fucking cold.
The only thing worse than having no license in November, is having no license and living in Stansbury.
Earlier in the day…when it was warmer.
Sitting across from her I felt the question coming. Call it my sixth sense. For some reason I have a unique ability to know when someone’s about to ask a question I have no valid answer to.
“Do you have a job right now?” my therapist asks
“Yes”
“You do? What is it?”
“I’m a writer.” I say
“Do you get paid for the things you write?” she asks
“No”
“Then it’s not a real job.” On the computer screen behind her is a list of charges. Since my initial payment in August, I have yet to make another.
“Well, I may not get paid…at the moment, but it’s a job.”
“Does anyone read the stuff you write?” she asks
“No” I say
She mentions my outstanding balance. I tell her I coming into some money at the end of the month. I tell her I should be getting a third of my trust fund. I tell her I promise to make a payment as soon as I can.
“Just make sure you make a payment at the end of the month.” She says
“Okay, Thank You.” I say
My Therapist asks if I have my homework assignment. I pull out a folded piece of paper from my coat pocket.
“Are you comfortable reading it?” she asks
“Sure, why not.” I say
In my last therapy session, I talk about my old basketball coach. I talk about my old basketball coach and how I quit halfway through the season because I hated him. I hated him because he would call me names like; pussy, faggot and heartless. If you ask what brought this conversation on, I couldn’t tell you. That’s how things go in therapy. One minute I’m talking about exercise and the next my coach is calling me a worthless piece of shit. All the while the segway between the two remains natural and unnoticed.
My therapist has the shinning I guess.
So last week she tells me to write a letter to my coach. I’m to tell him everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. For this letter I have two editions. The first, and probably the more honest of the two, remained in my pocket. It read;
“ Dear Coach Overcast,
You are a prick and I fucking hate you!
Sincerely,
Mike Walter”
This was everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. Somehow I felt it didn’t carry enough substance to satisfy my therapist.
I read the letter.
I say things like “I should’ve come to you with my concerns instead of quit.” And “ It really hurt me when you would say…” Finally, I came across words like “Thank” and “you” and “Sincerely.”
I was done.
“How do you feel?” she asks
“Better, I feel better.” I wasn’ t just saying it either. I actually did feel better. She makes a suggestion to burn the letter. She says it’s symbolic of putting the past behind me. If that’s all it took, you know, to put the past behind me, I should become an arsonist.
Next we discuss my father, my marriage, and my weight loss. I tell her I finally broke the 250 plateau I hit. “This morning the scale showed 247.” I say.
I tell her I’m up to running 2 miles a day. She writes this on her yellow note pad.
Finally, after an hour, our time is up. Before I can leave she pulls a book from her shelf and hands it to me.
“I want you to read this.” She tells me.
The book is titled “King baby”.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask.
“Just read it, and next week we will discuss it.”
I place the book in my backpack and standup.
“Can I ask one final question?” I ask
“yes.”
“Do I talk to much during group? ‘Cause if I do, I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do know.”
“I really don’t.”
“No, I think you do.”
Fuck. I’m busted. I guess I do know.
“I guess I care what people think of me.” I say. “I don’t want to be that guy in group that always talks and doesn’t let anyone else get a word in.”
She asks me if I’m asking the questions to help people, or to impress someone. It sounds like a rhetorical question so I don't respond.
I stand from my chair, thank my therapist and leave the room.
Recovery can be very time consuming.
The clock in the lobby reads 2:05. I have almost an hour until family group.
As I look around for a seat, some kid seated next to his mother is coughing all over chairs and Newsweek magazines. I find the furthest possible chair away from the coughing kid.
I sit down and pick up an old edition of Highlights Magazine. I turn it over to the back and play the “What’s missing game.” On the left is a picture. On the right is the same picture but with certain objects missing. Just as I’m about to make some headway in solving this important mystery, I hear the sound of a cough followed by a whiff of air against my face.
“You gonna read that?” Coughing kid asks
He’s pointing at another issue of Highlights.
I remember in season three of 24, when people were in contact with this deadly virus, they would walk through some kind of sanitation shower. I wish I had that now.
I don’t even speak. I don’t even speak because I’m holding my breath, trying not to inhale this deadly virus that is thrust upon me. I shake my head “no.”
He leans over me and grabs the magazine. I still hold my breath.
He walks back to his chair.
I’m still holding my breath.
I get up and decide to walk outside. From the chair, to the door, to the outside, I hold my breath.
I get outside.
I exhale. Whooossshhhhh
I think about flipping open my phone and making a Doctors appointment. I guess I should’ve talked about being a hypochondriac to my therapist. She’d probably just have me burn a doctor’s note from my mother or something.
…not quite as early in the day but still a little warmer…
Family group gives me anxiety. Everything gives me anxiety, but as of late, family group especially.
“Where’s your support?” my therapist asks
Sitting around a long conference style table are four different couples. Not necessarily romantically involved couples, but pairs. Mother and sons, brothers and sisters, friends and acquaintances.
I sit by myself.
Family group gives me anxiety. Probably because I feel like a fucking looser.
We talk about relapse prevention. The facilitator gives us all a piece of paper. We write down triggers. Triggers are what us drug addicts call things that make us want to use. I look around the room. My trigger is not here. My trigger is separated from me. She is in her parent’s basement living rent free with my son. Next, we write A game plan. A game plan we have in case we come across a trigger. People write down things like;
Call your therapist.
Go for a run
Watch a movie.
Take a hot bath.
I write down things like;
Call my therapist
Go for a run
Watch a movie
Take a hot bath
They all seemed like good plans to me.
After 45 minutes, family group was done.
The only thing left for the night was men’s group. I flip open my cell phone and look at the time. My clock tells me still have an hour and a half till then.
Outside Derrick is bumming a cigarette from someone. I walk up and ask Derrick to broker a deal. I ask him, to ask the cigarette lender if he has another smoke. He tells me no. He tells me he feels weird cause he just barely asked for one. He tells me to ask. I tell him no. I tell him I feel weird asking someone who I don’t know. He asks if I want to walk to the gas station with him so he can buy a pack of smokes. I say yes.
After an hour and a half of walking, talking, and smoking cigarettes, Men’s group starts.
Every Mens group, someone has to teach. Tonight is Shane’s turn. He has a video about street drugs. The street drugs mentioned in the video are;
PCP
Crack
X
LSD
And Cannabis.
After the video, our facilitator asks us if we’ve ever used any of these drugs. Every hand in the room goes up. We share some of our experiences. I talk about Ecstasy and how it made me feel invincible. Someone mentions crack and how is made sex better. Someone talks about crack and mentions how it made sex impossible.
After an hour and 15 minutes of shared experiences, Men’s group was over.
So now, now I’m standing outside in the cold. All I want is a ride. A ride no ones wants to give. Finally I compromise. I ask Derrick if he will take me to the library. He says he has to ask his ride but thinks it’s possible.
So here I am. At the Tooele city library, warming my hands and writing this out.
May everyone have a safe and sober holiday season.
It’s so fucking cold….
“Anyone going to Stansbury?” I ask the group. No one responds. I’ve asked this question so many times people avoid me like the bubonic plague.
Tonight is cold. Extremely cold. Extremely fucking cold. At this point I’ll take anyone I can get. Junkie, ex junkie, drunk, non drunk, fat, short, tall, transsexual…just give me a fucking ride.
Someone I’ve never met walks out of the building. “Excuse me, sir?” He never makes eye contact. He walks right by me as he might pass a panhandler in the street.
“Anybody…anyone?” I ask in desperation.
It’s cold. Fucking cold.
Even though I’ve bummed a half a pack from him already, Derrick hands me a cigarette.
“I’d give you a ride if I had a car.” He says
“I’d give myself a ride if I had a car.” I say. I light the Cigarette and take a deep drag.
Right now it’s just the four of us. Derrick, Clay, some kid who’s name I don’t know, and myself. Everyone else has left. Left to the comfort of heated sedans, pickups and SUV’s.
Forty minutes earlier, inside the comfort of a heated building, I ask Clay if I can catch a ride back to Stansbury. He tells me his wife might have a friend with her.
“…and if that’s the case…” he says, “…you aint gonna fit.”
I remain optimistic.
Walking out of the building Clay tells me he has bad news. He says there is no room in the car. He says I’ll have to find another ride. He says he’s sorry.
I say fuck.
So, now it’s the four of us. Clay waits for his wife. Derrick waits for his brother. Some kid I don’t know waits for someone I don’t know. I, I wait for my body to stop shivering. It’s so fucking cold.
The only thing worse than having no license in November, is having no license and living in Stansbury.
Earlier in the day…when it was warmer.
Sitting across from her I felt the question coming. Call it my sixth sense. For some reason I have a unique ability to know when someone’s about to ask a question I have no valid answer to.
“Do you have a job right now?” my therapist asks
“Yes”
“You do? What is it?”
“I’m a writer.” I say
“Do you get paid for the things you write?” she asks
“No”
“Then it’s not a real job.” On the computer screen behind her is a list of charges. Since my initial payment in August, I have yet to make another.
“Well, I may not get paid…at the moment, but it’s a job.”
“Does anyone read the stuff you write?” she asks
“No” I say
She mentions my outstanding balance. I tell her I coming into some money at the end of the month. I tell her I should be getting a third of my trust fund. I tell her I promise to make a payment as soon as I can.
“Just make sure you make a payment at the end of the month.” She says
“Okay, Thank You.” I say
My Therapist asks if I have my homework assignment. I pull out a folded piece of paper from my coat pocket.
“Are you comfortable reading it?” she asks
“Sure, why not.” I say
In my last therapy session, I talk about my old basketball coach. I talk about my old basketball coach and how I quit halfway through the season because I hated him. I hated him because he would call me names like; pussy, faggot and heartless. If you ask what brought this conversation on, I couldn’t tell you. That’s how things go in therapy. One minute I’m talking about exercise and the next my coach is calling me a worthless piece of shit. All the while the segway between the two remains natural and unnoticed.
My therapist has the shinning I guess.
So last week she tells me to write a letter to my coach. I’m to tell him everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. For this letter I have two editions. The first, and probably the more honest of the two, remained in my pocket. It read;
“ Dear Coach Overcast,
You are a prick and I fucking hate you!
Sincerely,
Mike Walter”
This was everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. Somehow I felt it didn’t carry enough substance to satisfy my therapist.
I read the letter.
I say things like “I should’ve come to you with my concerns instead of quit.” And “ It really hurt me when you would say…” Finally, I came across words like “Thank” and “you” and “Sincerely.”
I was done.
“How do you feel?” she asks
“Better, I feel better.” I wasn’ t just saying it either. I actually did feel better. She makes a suggestion to burn the letter. She says it’s symbolic of putting the past behind me. If that’s all it took, you know, to put the past behind me, I should become an arsonist.
Next we discuss my father, my marriage, and my weight loss. I tell her I finally broke the 250 plateau I hit. “This morning the scale showed 247.” I say.
I tell her I’m up to running 2 miles a day. She writes this on her yellow note pad.
Finally, after an hour, our time is up. Before I can leave she pulls a book from her shelf and hands it to me.
“I want you to read this.” She tells me.
The book is titled “King baby”.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask.
“Just read it, and next week we will discuss it.”
I place the book in my backpack and standup.
“Can I ask one final question?” I ask
“yes.”
“Do I talk to much during group? ‘Cause if I do, I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do know.”
“I really don’t.”
“No, I think you do.”
Fuck. I’m busted. I guess I do know.
“I guess I care what people think of me.” I say. “I don’t want to be that guy in group that always talks and doesn’t let anyone else get a word in.”
She asks me if I’m asking the questions to help people, or to impress someone. It sounds like a rhetorical question so I don't respond.
I stand from my chair, thank my therapist and leave the room.
Recovery can be very time consuming.
The clock in the lobby reads 2:05. I have almost an hour until family group.
As I look around for a seat, some kid seated next to his mother is coughing all over chairs and Newsweek magazines. I find the furthest possible chair away from the coughing kid.
I sit down and pick up an old edition of Highlights Magazine. I turn it over to the back and play the “What’s missing game.” On the left is a picture. On the right is the same picture but with certain objects missing. Just as I’m about to make some headway in solving this important mystery, I hear the sound of a cough followed by a whiff of air against my face.
“You gonna read that?” Coughing kid asks
He’s pointing at another issue of Highlights.
I remember in season three of 24, when people were in contact with this deadly virus, they would walk through some kind of sanitation shower. I wish I had that now.
I don’t even speak. I don’t even speak because I’m holding my breath, trying not to inhale this deadly virus that is thrust upon me. I shake my head “no.”
He leans over me and grabs the magazine. I still hold my breath.
He walks back to his chair.
I’m still holding my breath.
I get up and decide to walk outside. From the chair, to the door, to the outside, I hold my breath.
I get outside.
I exhale. Whooossshhhhh
I think about flipping open my phone and making a Doctors appointment. I guess I should’ve talked about being a hypochondriac to my therapist. She’d probably just have me burn a doctor’s note from my mother or something.
…not quite as early in the day but still a little warmer…
Family group gives me anxiety. Everything gives me anxiety, but as of late, family group especially.
“Where’s your support?” my therapist asks
Sitting around a long conference style table are four different couples. Not necessarily romantically involved couples, but pairs. Mother and sons, brothers and sisters, friends and acquaintances.
I sit by myself.
Family group gives me anxiety. Probably because I feel like a fucking looser.
We talk about relapse prevention. The facilitator gives us all a piece of paper. We write down triggers. Triggers are what us drug addicts call things that make us want to use. I look around the room. My trigger is not here. My trigger is separated from me. She is in her parent’s basement living rent free with my son. Next, we write A game plan. A game plan we have in case we come across a trigger. People write down things like;
Call your therapist.
Go for a run
Watch a movie.
Take a hot bath.
I write down things like;
Call my therapist
Go for a run
Watch a movie
Take a hot bath
They all seemed like good plans to me.
After 45 minutes, family group was done.
The only thing left for the night was men’s group. I flip open my cell phone and look at the time. My clock tells me still have an hour and a half till then.
Outside Derrick is bumming a cigarette from someone. I walk up and ask Derrick to broker a deal. I ask him, to ask the cigarette lender if he has another smoke. He tells me no. He tells me he feels weird cause he just barely asked for one. He tells me to ask. I tell him no. I tell him I feel weird asking someone who I don’t know. He asks if I want to walk to the gas station with him so he can buy a pack of smokes. I say yes.
After an hour and a half of walking, talking, and smoking cigarettes, Men’s group starts.
Every Mens group, someone has to teach. Tonight is Shane’s turn. He has a video about street drugs. The street drugs mentioned in the video are;
PCP
Crack
X
LSD
And Cannabis.
After the video, our facilitator asks us if we’ve ever used any of these drugs. Every hand in the room goes up. We share some of our experiences. I talk about Ecstasy and how it made me feel invincible. Someone mentions crack and how is made sex better. Someone talks about crack and mentions how it made sex impossible.
After an hour and 15 minutes of shared experiences, Men’s group was over.
So now, now I’m standing outside in the cold. All I want is a ride. A ride no ones wants to give. Finally I compromise. I ask Derrick if he will take me to the library. He says he has to ask his ride but thinks it’s possible.
So here I am. At the Tooele city library, warming my hands and writing this out.
May everyone have a safe and sober holiday season.
It’s so fucking cold….
Jefferson
I think it was 6:07 when Jefferson called. That’s what my phone said anyway. I was supposed to meet up with him this afternoon in Salt Lake. We were supposed to attend an A.A. meeting after his interview with his aftercare program. So at 6:07 I pick up my phone and say hello.
“Whats up fucker.”Says a voice on the other line.
“Just sitting here with my dick in my hand.” I answer. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for someone to come put their dick in my hand.” He says.
Football players pat each other on the ass. I think drug addicts talk about slapping each other on the genitals.
“Be careful what you wish for.” I say.
I ask Jefferson what time he finished with his errands. He tells me he just got home about an hour ago. I tell him I wouldn’t of had time to go to a meeting because I needed to catch the bus back to Tooele so I could attend my group.
“So, do you really get paid for your blog.” He asks.
“Only if you click on the links.” I say. I tell him each link pays anywhere from 3 cents a click, to 25 cents.
“O’ cool.” He says. His voice tone tells me my blog is shit.
“Yep.” I say. My voice tone agrees.
“You’d make more money if it was a porno site.” He says
We both laugh. I tell him we should make a “girls gone wild.” Type of website but title it “Salt Lake Chicks Gone Crazy.” Or something. We both laugh again.
Jefferson tells me he has a girl coming over in about ten minutes. I ask him if it’s the same hippy girl from the summer. He tells me it is.
“Does she leave her Birkenstocks on when you fuck.” I ask. We both laugh
I offer to hide in his closet and film our first piece of footage.
We make a few more jokes about an endeavor in the porno industry and both hang up.
Afterwards I put on my green puffer coat and head into the garage for a cigarette. Tonight is cold. Really fucking cold. I put the cigarette in my mouth and watch the end waggle back and fourth as my body shivers. I can barley hold the lighter steady enough to light it. After only three drags, I surrender to the cold. I flick the cigarette against my garage wall and walk back inside.
On the living room floor is a dog turd. On the living room couch is the dog that left the turd. Sitting on the edge of the couch, Max plays off his guilt. I look out the window and into the nine degree weather outside. Twelve inches of snow still covers my walkway.
Re-phrase.
I have not yet removed the twelve inches of snow covering my walkway.
Re-phrase again.
Because of my chronic laziness and poor inhibition, I have not yet removed the twelve inches of snow from my walkway.
If I was supposed to shit outside, I’d opt for the living room floor too. “You’re lucky I’m nice.” I say. I pick up the turd with a piece of toilet paper and flush it down the toilet.
I walk back to the couch and continue to watch Prison Break. It’s an episode about a young man who hung himself because he was tired of getting raped by his cellmate. If it wasn’t the gritty crimes or the Governmental conspiracy, I probably wouldn’t watch. Sometimes it reminds of my Ten days in jail. I know, I know. Jail isn’t prison and prison isn’t jail but it was still traumatic. I think I have PTSD or something from it. Jefferson would probably call me a pussy. I don’t think I could argue with him. At least I never got raped by my cellmate. And if I did I wouldn’t hang myself. I’d look for a way to turn it into a positive. I’d probably just become gay or something. Fake it till you make it.
After the episode, I open my laptop and begin to write this all out. I can’t think of any creative endings to the day. I guess I have prison rape on my mind.
Next I think I’ll watch OZ season one.
“Whats up fucker.”Says a voice on the other line.
“Just sitting here with my dick in my hand.” I answer. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for someone to come put their dick in my hand.” He says.
Football players pat each other on the ass. I think drug addicts talk about slapping each other on the genitals.
“Be careful what you wish for.” I say.
I ask Jefferson what time he finished with his errands. He tells me he just got home about an hour ago. I tell him I wouldn’t of had time to go to a meeting because I needed to catch the bus back to Tooele so I could attend my group.
“So, do you really get paid for your blog.” He asks.
“Only if you click on the links.” I say. I tell him each link pays anywhere from 3 cents a click, to 25 cents.
“O’ cool.” He says. His voice tone tells me my blog is shit.
“Yep.” I say. My voice tone agrees.
“You’d make more money if it was a porno site.” He says
We both laugh. I tell him we should make a “girls gone wild.” Type of website but title it “Salt Lake Chicks Gone Crazy.” Or something. We both laugh again.
Jefferson tells me he has a girl coming over in about ten minutes. I ask him if it’s the same hippy girl from the summer. He tells me it is.
“Does she leave her Birkenstocks on when you fuck.” I ask. We both laugh
I offer to hide in his closet and film our first piece of footage.
We make a few more jokes about an endeavor in the porno industry and both hang up.
Afterwards I put on my green puffer coat and head into the garage for a cigarette. Tonight is cold. Really fucking cold. I put the cigarette in my mouth and watch the end waggle back and fourth as my body shivers. I can barley hold the lighter steady enough to light it. After only three drags, I surrender to the cold. I flick the cigarette against my garage wall and walk back inside.
On the living room floor is a dog turd. On the living room couch is the dog that left the turd. Sitting on the edge of the couch, Max plays off his guilt. I look out the window and into the nine degree weather outside. Twelve inches of snow still covers my walkway.
Re-phrase.
I have not yet removed the twelve inches of snow covering my walkway.
Re-phrase again.
Because of my chronic laziness and poor inhibition, I have not yet removed the twelve inches of snow from my walkway.
If I was supposed to shit outside, I’d opt for the living room floor too. “You’re lucky I’m nice.” I say. I pick up the turd with a piece of toilet paper and flush it down the toilet.
I walk back to the couch and continue to watch Prison Break. It’s an episode about a young man who hung himself because he was tired of getting raped by his cellmate. If it wasn’t the gritty crimes or the Governmental conspiracy, I probably wouldn’t watch. Sometimes it reminds of my Ten days in jail. I know, I know. Jail isn’t prison and prison isn’t jail but it was still traumatic. I think I have PTSD or something from it. Jefferson would probably call me a pussy. I don’t think I could argue with him. At least I never got raped by my cellmate. And if I did I wouldn’t hang myself. I’d look for a way to turn it into a positive. I’d probably just become gay or something. Fake it till you make it.
After the episode, I open my laptop and begin to write this all out. I can’t think of any creative endings to the day. I guess I have prison rape on my mind.
Next I think I’ll watch OZ season one.
Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and little shits at the library far far away.
From November 23rd
Sitting here, trying to figure out where to start, my eye burns. I’ve just rubbed pizza sauce over my eyeball-on accident of course- and it hurts. My left eye has been closed for over a minute now. Trying to type with one eye open fucks with my equilibrium. And I say that truthfully. It isn’t just an opportunity to use a cool word like “equilibrium.”
I’ve never been self conscious about my writing. I know its shit. If anyone else read my shit, they’d know its shit too. It’s just not that good. But it’s mine. I take comfort in that my shit is my own. I write what I want to write. I don’t take requests. The only influences I listen to are the ones my own reality creates. So…I’ve never been self conscious about my writing.
Never
Until Today
“How come all your stories start at the end and end at the begining?” Little fucker asks me.
“How come you don’t drive a car?” I ask
Sitting at the computer to my left is some kid. Some kid, who looks no older than Ten years of age. Some kid who feels he has advice to offer.
“Because I don’t have my driver’s license.” He says
“Exactly!” I sit there and act like my comment made absolute and perfect sense. Though I don’t think Little Fucker buys it.
I turn my attention back towards the computer screen.
“It’s not very funny either.” He says
I sigh
“What’s not?” I ask him.
“Your introduction. It’s not very funny.”
“What do you know about introductions?” I ask
“I know yours isn’t funny.” He says
I turn my monitor to the right, moving it out of his view.
“Shouldn’t you be looking at Disney.com or something?”
“I’m Ten years old.” He says. He moves his chair to the right and back into view
“Yeah, So.” I say.
“So… I’ve outgrown all that Disney shit.”
“You shouldn’t say shit.” I tell him. I look around the room with hopes of finding someone who might resemble the same genetics little fucker has. Aside from his small frame, Little Fucker has short brown hair, blue eyes, and a mole on his left cheek. His T-shirt says “Idaho” at the top, followed by a potato in the middle and the phrase “my little spud” written across the bottom.
“You say bad words in your stories.” He says.
“But I’m an adult. Adults don’t have bad words
“Yes they do!” he says. “I bet you can’t go into McDonalds and say, ‘I’d like to order a fucking hamburger!’ They’d probably arrest you or something.”
Little Fuckers lips are blue. Probably from the sucker he was chewing on a minute ago.
“I’m gonna tell your mom all the bad words you’re saying when she comes to get you.” I say
“I’m gonna tell her all the bad words your writing down.”
I sigh.
“Look, I’ve got some very important work I need to finish.”
“No you don’t. It’s not important because it’s stupid.” He says.
I can't take anymore abuse. I lay down my king and surrender. I’ve been bested by a Ten year old. A fucking Ten year old! I close out of my blog, log out of my facebook and Gmail, and stand up. Little Fucker slides back over to his computer.
“It was nice to meet you.” I say to him. “See ya.” He says back.
I walk to an open space in the Library and sit in a chair. I pull my moleskin from the backpack and try to remember my conversation with Little Fucker. I write down quotes and laugh. Some strange passerby gives me a weird look as she sees me laughing to myself. I write this down in my moleskin as well.
After twenty minutes or so I hear a familiar voice.
“Wait mom, I want to say good bye to my friend.” The familiar voice says. Before I can put it together, little fucker is standing directly in front of me.
“Are you gonna write about me in your next story.” He asks.
I look up at the mom. She returns a look of something that resembles terror. Terror with a dash of curious suspicion.
I should probably lie. I should probably stand up and say something like, “Who are you and what are you talking about.” Instead I sit there with a dumb shit look on my face.
“if you write about me, make sure you…”
“JOEY!” His mom calls.
JOEY. It always nice to put a name with a face.
Joey the Little Fucker runs back to his mom. She bends down and whispers something into his hear. It kinda sounds like;
“Do you know that man?”
Joey The Little Fucker looks up towards his mom and whispers something like;
“Yeah, he’s a writer. He was writing a story on the computer. It wasn’t very funny though.”
Mom gives me another one of those looks.
“I told him he shouldn’t use so many bad words.”
Another one of those looks.
“He told me adults don’t have any bad words.”
One of those looks.
“I told him that even adults shouldn’t use words like that
One of those looks.
Great. She probably thinks I’m a fucking pervert or something.
Joey the Little Fucker and his mom head towards the door. She gives me one more look for the road.
“Fucking amazing.” I say under my breath. I write down the past few minutes in my Moleskin.
You may have won the battle Joey the Little Fucker, but you haven’t won the war.
Sitting here, trying to figure out where to start, my eye burns. I’ve just rubbed pizza sauce over my eyeball-on accident of course- and it hurts. My left eye has been closed for over a minute now. Trying to type with one eye open fucks with my equilibrium. And I say that truthfully. It isn’t just an opportunity to use a cool word like “equilibrium.”
I’ve never been self conscious about my writing. I know its shit. If anyone else read my shit, they’d know its shit too. It’s just not that good. But it’s mine. I take comfort in that my shit is my own. I write what I want to write. I don’t take requests. The only influences I listen to are the ones my own reality creates. So…I’ve never been self conscious about my writing.
Never
Until Today
“How come all your stories start at the end and end at the begining?” Little fucker asks me.
“How come you don’t drive a car?” I ask
Sitting at the computer to my left is some kid. Some kid, who looks no older than Ten years of age. Some kid who feels he has advice to offer.
“Because I don’t have my driver’s license.” He says
“Exactly!” I sit there and act like my comment made absolute and perfect sense. Though I don’t think Little Fucker buys it.
I turn my attention back towards the computer screen.
“It’s not very funny either.” He says
I sigh
“What’s not?” I ask him.
“Your introduction. It’s not very funny.”
“What do you know about introductions?” I ask
“I know yours isn’t funny.” He says
I turn my monitor to the right, moving it out of his view.
“Shouldn’t you be looking at Disney.com or something?”
“I’m Ten years old.” He says. He moves his chair to the right and back into view
“Yeah, So.” I say.
“So… I’ve outgrown all that Disney shit.”
“You shouldn’t say shit.” I tell him. I look around the room with hopes of finding someone who might resemble the same genetics little fucker has. Aside from his small frame, Little Fucker has short brown hair, blue eyes, and a mole on his left cheek. His T-shirt says “Idaho” at the top, followed by a potato in the middle and the phrase “my little spud” written across the bottom.
“You say bad words in your stories.” He says.
“But I’m an adult. Adults don’t have bad words
“Yes they do!” he says. “I bet you can’t go into McDonalds and say, ‘I’d like to order a fucking hamburger!’ They’d probably arrest you or something.”
Little Fuckers lips are blue. Probably from the sucker he was chewing on a minute ago.
“I’m gonna tell your mom all the bad words you’re saying when she comes to get you.” I say
“I’m gonna tell her all the bad words your writing down.”
I sigh.
“Look, I’ve got some very important work I need to finish.”
“No you don’t. It’s not important because it’s stupid.” He says.
I can't take anymore abuse. I lay down my king and surrender. I’ve been bested by a Ten year old. A fucking Ten year old! I close out of my blog, log out of my facebook and Gmail, and stand up. Little Fucker slides back over to his computer.
“It was nice to meet you.” I say to him. “See ya.” He says back.
I walk to an open space in the Library and sit in a chair. I pull my moleskin from the backpack and try to remember my conversation with Little Fucker. I write down quotes and laugh. Some strange passerby gives me a weird look as she sees me laughing to myself. I write this down in my moleskin as well.
After twenty minutes or so I hear a familiar voice.
“Wait mom, I want to say good bye to my friend.” The familiar voice says. Before I can put it together, little fucker is standing directly in front of me.
“Are you gonna write about me in your next story.” He asks.
I look up at the mom. She returns a look of something that resembles terror. Terror with a dash of curious suspicion.
I should probably lie. I should probably stand up and say something like, “Who are you and what are you talking about.” Instead I sit there with a dumb shit look on my face.
“if you write about me, make sure you…”
“JOEY!” His mom calls.
JOEY. It always nice to put a name with a face.
Joey the Little Fucker runs back to his mom. She bends down and whispers something into his hear. It kinda sounds like;
“Do you know that man?”
Joey The Little Fucker looks up towards his mom and whispers something like;
“Yeah, he’s a writer. He was writing a story on the computer. It wasn’t very funny though.”
Mom gives me another one of those looks.
“I told him he shouldn’t use so many bad words.”
Another one of those looks.
“He told me adults don’t have any bad words.”
One of those looks.
“I told him that even adults shouldn’t use words like that
One of those looks.
Great. She probably thinks I’m a fucking pervert or something.
Joey the Little Fucker and his mom head towards the door. She gives me one more look for the road.
“Fucking amazing.” I say under my breath. I write down the past few minutes in my Moleskin.
You may have won the battle Joey the Little Fucker, but you haven’t won the war.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Fucking Thanksgiving
Happy Thanksgiving everyone. No one reads my shitty blog anyway, but happy Thanksgiving none the less.
This is gross. I'm gross for writing it. If you don't want to read something fucking gross, don't read it.
I have a friend who's name is Dave. Dave is gross. He is fucking gross but can be funny sometimes. Last night Dave tells me he hasn't been laid in three months. He tells me his brother in law was defrosting a Turkey on the kitchen table. He tells me his brother in law was defrosting a turkey on the kitchen table and he was turned on by it. He tells me it's legs where spread open and a big giant hole was just sitting there. Just sitting there waiting for someone to do something to it. Dave tells me for a minute he seriously thought about fucking the turkey. He tells me that if the whole was smaller, he probably would've done it.
Happy Thanksgiving.
This is gross. I'm gross for writing it. If you don't want to read something fucking gross, don't read it.
I have a friend who's name is Dave. Dave is gross. He is fucking gross but can be funny sometimes. Last night Dave tells me he hasn't been laid in three months. He tells me his brother in law was defrosting a Turkey on the kitchen table. He tells me his brother in law was defrosting a turkey on the kitchen table and he was turned on by it. He tells me it's legs where spread open and a big giant hole was just sitting there. Just sitting there waiting for someone to do something to it. Dave tells me for a minute he seriously thought about fucking the turkey. He tells me that if the whole was smaller, he probably would've done it.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Wednesday
My Streak of Non Creative Titles continues. It think it's the show 24. It has me hypnotized. Yesterday afternoon I checked out season 3 from the library. They were out of season's one and two. Call it my linear habit, but I'm always' prone to watching a T.V. series from the beginning. I won't even watch a T.V. show if I didn't start it from the beginning. I remember being upset as a kid because I never knew why the A Team called themselves the A Team. I can only assume it was given in the first episode. Because of that fact however, I never watched the A team again.
Today the library feels more like a day care than a public institution. Wednesday's are "story" days. 20-30 kids, aged anywhere from 2-6, sit in a circle and listen to one of the librarians read a story. I must have showed up just as the story had ended because the circle was clapping and the librarian was taking her bows.
In through the doors I turn right and head towards the computer desk. A lady, the same one who helped me find my book yesterday, was working the counter.
"Hi, how are you today?" she asks.
"Good, can't complain I guess." I say. She takes my passport and writes my name down on a piece of paper. I ask her how her day is going.
"Much better." she tells me. She says she gets nervous when she reads to kids. She said she gets stage freight.
"Their just kids." I say
"Exactly." she says. Whatever that means. She tells me to sit at computer number 8.
I sit; open up my blog, and think of a creative title. So here I am. Typing a blog entitled "Wednesday." Most people will blame their lack of creativity on a lot of things. Loss of sleep, sex, lack of drug use, too much drug use. I blame Jack Bauer. I blame Jack Bauer and the Salazar family cartel. Well, more the Salazar Family than Jack. All they had to do was pay for the Virus and get the fuck out of dodge.
...see what I mean.
Today is Wednesday. That means its garbage pickup day. I wanted this day to be symbolic. I wanted to write about my own personal, inner garbage. How I was going to try and get rid of it. You know, leave my baggage at the door, that sort of thing.
Then I rode the bus. I rode the bus and met a women named Cindy. I think she was a woman. Actually I think she was man. Cindy thinks she's a woman. I mean she dresses like a women but looks like a man. Something like that anyway. Cindy is tall, about Six feet two inches. She has the build of a Linebacker. Her hair is long, blonde, and looks like Bo Derek, but her voice sounds like Burgess Merideth. Cindy wants to get off near the Payless Shoes near the Albertson’s grocery. As the bus drives she talks to herself.
"I'm gonna do it. Yup, I'm gonna do it, I swear!" she mumbles.
The bus stops a block from Payless Shoes.
"I need to let you off here hon." The driver says
"But the store is still a block away." Cindy says
"I know, but it's off my route."
"The other driver does it."
"and I would too, if I wasn't running late."
Cindy bolts up from her seat."Well fuck you then!" she says. "You want me to walk, I'll walk, but if I catch a cold, I'm sending the fucking bill to your company."
"Okay, have a nice day." the driver says.
"Go fuck yourself asshole!" Cindy says. She storms off the bus in red high heel shoes.
After an hour of reading my book, I return to the Library desk. The same lady from before is still there. I hand her my passport.
"If you could just go ahead and fill out your address and phone number please." Four columns up, my name address and phone number are still there from before.
"You don't remember me?" I ask
"Of course I do. You were just here." She smiles at me. I stare at her for a moment. I hope the extra time will let the practical set in. After fifteen seconds I decide it would be much faster if just fill in the information. She sends me to computer number 7.
At computer number 7 I open up my facebook. I become a facebook quoting machine! I think everything I comment on is hilarious. My friends from high school make a joke about our old Algebra teacher. I comment. I see a stupid picture of my old boss. I comment. I even make stupid comments of myself. I comment, I comment, I comment. I comment and I think it's hilarious. After my comments, I sit down and type out my blog. Before I do, I read another blog. Something I follow. It's funny, at least I think so. I notice he has over a thousand followers. I have none. I decide to E-mail him asking for advice.
Dear Badass Geek,
Hi Badass. I am a longtime follower, first time writer...or something like that. Love your blog. Anyway, I'm trying to get someone other than my wife (whom I am currently separated from) to be a follower of my blog. I noticed you are doing extremely well in that area. Perhaps you could break me off a little piece of advice. You know, on how to increase my list of followers.
I would love to hear from you, please respond,
Afterwards I check my Inbox every five minutes awaiting his response. So far, he hasn't responded. O well.
Now I sit here, at computer number 7, without anything else to say or do. I check my facebook. No one responds to my comments. I want to go home and finish 24. It's addicting. So, like the stupid title to today's blog, my creativity is lost. I have 24 on the brain and my creativity is lost. So...fuck it. I'll write to you tomorrow.
Today the library feels more like a day care than a public institution. Wednesday's are "story" days. 20-30 kids, aged anywhere from 2-6, sit in a circle and listen to one of the librarians read a story. I must have showed up just as the story had ended because the circle was clapping and the librarian was taking her bows.
In through the doors I turn right and head towards the computer desk. A lady, the same one who helped me find my book yesterday, was working the counter.
"Hi, how are you today?" she asks.
"Good, can't complain I guess." I say. She takes my passport and writes my name down on a piece of paper. I ask her how her day is going.
"Much better." she tells me. She says she gets nervous when she reads to kids. She said she gets stage freight.
"Their just kids." I say
"Exactly." she says. Whatever that means. She tells me to sit at computer number 8.
I sit; open up my blog, and think of a creative title. So here I am. Typing a blog entitled "Wednesday." Most people will blame their lack of creativity on a lot of things. Loss of sleep, sex, lack of drug use, too much drug use. I blame Jack Bauer. I blame Jack Bauer and the Salazar family cartel. Well, more the Salazar Family than Jack. All they had to do was pay for the Virus and get the fuck out of dodge.
...see what I mean.
Today is Wednesday. That means its garbage pickup day. I wanted this day to be symbolic. I wanted to write about my own personal, inner garbage. How I was going to try and get rid of it. You know, leave my baggage at the door, that sort of thing.
Then I rode the bus. I rode the bus and met a women named Cindy. I think she was a woman. Actually I think she was man. Cindy thinks she's a woman. I mean she dresses like a women but looks like a man. Something like that anyway. Cindy is tall, about Six feet two inches. She has the build of a Linebacker. Her hair is long, blonde, and looks like Bo Derek, but her voice sounds like Burgess Merideth. Cindy wants to get off near the Payless Shoes near the Albertson’s grocery. As the bus drives she talks to herself.
"I'm gonna do it. Yup, I'm gonna do it, I swear!" she mumbles.
The bus stops a block from Payless Shoes.
"I need to let you off here hon." The driver says
"But the store is still a block away." Cindy says
"I know, but it's off my route."
"The other driver does it."
"and I would too, if I wasn't running late."
Cindy bolts up from her seat."Well fuck you then!" she says. "You want me to walk, I'll walk, but if I catch a cold, I'm sending the fucking bill to your company."
"Okay, have a nice day." the driver says.
"Go fuck yourself asshole!" Cindy says. She storms off the bus in red high heel shoes.
After an hour of reading my book, I return to the Library desk. The same lady from before is still there. I hand her my passport.
"If you could just go ahead and fill out your address and phone number please." Four columns up, my name address and phone number are still there from before.
"You don't remember me?" I ask
"Of course I do. You were just here." She smiles at me. I stare at her for a moment. I hope the extra time will let the practical set in. After fifteen seconds I decide it would be much faster if just fill in the information. She sends me to computer number 7.
At computer number 7 I open up my facebook. I become a facebook quoting machine! I think everything I comment on is hilarious. My friends from high school make a joke about our old Algebra teacher. I comment. I see a stupid picture of my old boss. I comment. I even make stupid comments of myself. I comment, I comment, I comment. I comment and I think it's hilarious. After my comments, I sit down and type out my blog. Before I do, I read another blog. Something I follow. It's funny, at least I think so. I notice he has over a thousand followers. I have none. I decide to E-mail him asking for advice.
Dear Badass Geek,
Hi Badass. I am a longtime follower, first time writer...or something like that. Love your blog. Anyway, I'm trying to get someone other than my wife (whom I am currently separated from) to be a follower of my blog. I noticed you are doing extremely well in that area. Perhaps you could break me off a little piece of advice. You know, on how to increase my list of followers.
I would love to hear from you, please respond,
Afterwards I check my Inbox every five minutes awaiting his response. So far, he hasn't responded. O well.
Now I sit here, at computer number 7, without anything else to say or do. I check my facebook. No one responds to my comments. I want to go home and finish 24. It's addicting. So, like the stupid title to today's blog, my creativity is lost. I have 24 on the brain and my creativity is lost. So...fuck it. I'll write to you tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Tuesday
I've never realized how much the Tooele public library relies on its natural lighting until today. The weather outside is dark, cloudy, and looks like it could snow at any moment. As I pull open the glass door to the library, the weather inside the building looks the same. Upon entering, I take five steps, turn left, and head for the bathroom. Inside a man stands in front of the only sink. In his hand is a paper towel, which he's rubbing over his armpits. I go into the bathroom stall and take a piss. When I come out he's still there. Using another sheet of paper towel, he rubs a lather of soap off of his chest and stomach. I need to wash my hands. I stand behind him. "Excuse me" I say. He says sorry and moves out of the way. I wet my hands and reach for the soap dispenser. Below it, are a pair of dentures. "Sorry, let me grab those." he says. He picks up his dentures and stands to the side. I wash my hands, dry them with the air dryer, and leave.
Now I sit in front of a computer and write about it. I'll think about it all day. I'll probably dream about it. I picture a giant pair of dentures chasing after me. Trying to chomp my legs off or something. I left my weekend update on a floppy disk at home. At least now I have something to write about. Maybe I'll send an article to the tribune titled "The underground washrooms.-How transients stay clean in Tooele county." or something like that.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go brush my teeth.
Now I sit in front of a computer and write about it. I'll think about it all day. I'll probably dream about it. I picture a giant pair of dentures chasing after me. Trying to chomp my legs off or something. I left my weekend update on a floppy disk at home. At least now I have something to write about. Maybe I'll send an article to the tribune titled "The underground washrooms.-How transients stay clean in Tooele county." or something like that.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go brush my teeth.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Phffff...is this thing on?
Those Mother Fuckers called my passcode today!I had big things to do today. Big things! I mean, I'm sure I will. So now, I'm on the bus talking to Stu about Migratory Animals. Today’s conversation stems from an earlier conversation we had yesterday regarding Sparrows...or was it pigeons...maybe it was osprey...fuck it. Anyway, yesterday Stu tells me he's fascinated by Sparrows...or pigeons or whatever they are because they don't migrate south like thier brethren. I tell him to watch "Winged Migration". I tell him it's a 2001 documentary by Jacques Perrin. "It was nominated for an Academy Award for best documentary."
Stu just nods and continues driving. " I could tell he gives two shits about Jacques Perrin, or the nomination, but he seemed interested in the documentary.
So today Stu tells me he researched the movie I told him about. Said it looked really interesting. Said he couldn't find the movie at the Red Box.
"I don't think you’re gonna find the movie at the Red Box." I say. "You'll have to go to Hollywood Video." Stu tells me Hollywood video is out of business because of Red Box. I tell him to try blockbuster then. By now the bus has left my stop and started towards the medical center. Stu tells me he found a show on the National Geographic Channel about Migratory Animals. Tells me to check it out. He gives me the date and time of each episode. I write them down in my Moleskin. Just before the Medical Center stop, Stu picks up the Microphone. "Medical Center Plaza." He says through the microphone. I turn around looking over both my shoulders. I'm the only one on the bus. "Anyway, it fascinates me that these birds can just sit there, you know, on a telephone wire and watch the world go by for hours at a time." I write down his quote in my Moleskin. We approach the Firehouse stop. " Firehouse Plaza." Stu says over the microphone. At the stop his cell phone rings. It sounds something like Beethoven's second symphony. While Stu takes his phone call, I look out the window and notice a group of kids playing soccer on a nearby field. Nine boys and one girl run back and fourth, kicking the soccer ball toward opposite ends. The girl suddenly stops and kicks one of the young boys in the nuts.The boy curls down to his knees while the girl runs towards the ball. I think of irony, I think of irony and pretend that twenty years from now, the one girl playing soccer will be standing at an alter with the young boy who got his nuts kicked in. During the reception, one of thier little bastard friends will make a speech. He'll tell the mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles about the young boy who had his nuts kicked in. He'll talk about the young girl who did it, and how they fell in love. "Village and Sixth Street." Stu says over the microphone.
Stu just nods and continues driving. " I could tell he gives two shits about Jacques Perrin, or the nomination, but he seemed interested in the documentary.
So today Stu tells me he researched the movie I told him about. Said it looked really interesting. Said he couldn't find the movie at the Red Box.
"I don't think you’re gonna find the movie at the Red Box." I say. "You'll have to go to Hollywood Video." Stu tells me Hollywood video is out of business because of Red Box. I tell him to try blockbuster then. By now the bus has left my stop and started towards the medical center. Stu tells me he found a show on the National Geographic Channel about Migratory Animals. Tells me to check it out. He gives me the date and time of each episode. I write them down in my Moleskin. Just before the Medical Center stop, Stu picks up the Microphone. "Medical Center Plaza." He says through the microphone. I turn around looking over both my shoulders. I'm the only one on the bus. "Anyway, it fascinates me that these birds can just sit there, you know, on a telephone wire and watch the world go by for hours at a time." I write down his quote in my Moleskin. We approach the Firehouse stop. " Firehouse Plaza." Stu says over the microphone. At the stop his cell phone rings. It sounds something like Beethoven's second symphony. While Stu takes his phone call, I look out the window and notice a group of kids playing soccer on a nearby field. Nine boys and one girl run back and fourth, kicking the soccer ball toward opposite ends. The girl suddenly stops and kicks one of the young boys in the nuts.The boy curls down to his knees while the girl runs towards the ball. I think of irony, I think of irony and pretend that twenty years from now, the one girl playing soccer will be standing at an alter with the young boy who got his nuts kicked in. During the reception, one of thier little bastard friends will make a speech. He'll tell the mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles about the young boy who had his nuts kicked in. He'll talk about the young girl who did it, and how they fell in love. "Village and Sixth Street." Stu says over the microphone.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
I'll take felonies for $400 Alex...
"...It didn't used to be like this." So the story goes.
"I mean, You guys used to be able to piss in the privacy of your own stall." Jeff says as he hands me the cup to piss into. This has become the highlight of my week. It's sad really. That something like a urine sample would be something to revolve a whole week around. It's not like I'm afraid of failing. I've been clean for weeks. It's a simple case of "Stage Freight" that gets to me. Last week I almost didn't make it. The urnine sample that is. I simply didn't prepare myself. You see, Valley Mental Health's center for recovery requires that you call everyday, Monday-Saturday. Each client is given a passcode. My Passcode is Bigbird.(Some people say it fits me.) So...each morning you're required to call this 800 number. If your passcode is called, you're required to show up between the hours of 5:00 PM and 7:00PM. As the message states, "Doors will be locked at 6:50." Anyway, last week, my code was called. For some reason or another, I downplayed my inability to pee with someone looking over my shoulder. So, at 5:00, I showed up, dropped my pants, did the dance and stood there. Standing in front of the Urnial, I found myself cursing my penis. "Why don't you just go you mother fucker!"
"You know, after three minutes, you've got to go wait in the lobby for another half hour... "Jeff tells me "...and if you still can't go after that, it's marked as a positive sample, and the judge frowns on that you know."
As if I wasn't under enough pressure. "How could you do this to me." I whispered to my non co-operating penis. "After I'll I've done for you." I say
After three minutes of standing, the time was up. In the lobby, I tried to make ammends. "I'm sorry I said those things baby, daddy didn't mean it." I said. During my groveling, the receptionist kept throwing weird looks in my direction. Everyone else just assumed it was normal. After all, I was in the lobby of a nuropsyciatric institue.
"Lets go Walter!" Jeff yells from the hallway. I take a deep breath and follow him into the mens room. "I hear it helps to cough." Some girl yells from the lobby.
The second time around, the mens room looks more like a court room. "Do you swear to take a piss, a true piss, and nothing but a piss." the judge says.
I move into the stall.
"Drop em and turn." he says. I undo my button, pull down my zipper, and drop my pants to the floor. After my 360 degree turn, I grab the cup and head for the urinal.
"Yeah, it didn't used to be like this." Jeff says. "I mean, You guys used to be able to piss in the privacy of your own stall." Listening to him talk makes me nervous. I think about asking him to rub my shoulders.
"You see, there was this one guy, thought he could outsmart the system." Jeff continues " Guy comes out of the stall one day right...hands me his cup of urine...when I go to take the cup from his hands, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. You know what it was?" He asks
Fuck, now I've got to multi-task. "What?"
"The dumb son of a bitch forgot to zip up his zipper." He says " To make things worse, he wasn't wearing any underware." The good news is;I'm focused on his story. The bad news is; I'm focused on his story. Nothings comming out still.
" So hanging out of his zipper was this rubber looking penis. Just flopped out, looking right at me. I'm mean, this is my job. I look at dicks all day. You think I don't know what a real dick looks like. Anyway, I tell him to pull his pants down and lift his shit up. Sure enough, there was this rubber dildo connecting to a wire that ran all the way up to a small bag stuck in his armpit. So this guy starts freaking out, yelling at me ya know. Telling me it was called the whizzinator 1000, and he paid $400.00 bucks for it. So I tell him, 'Well, you just paid $400.00 for a felony, cause that's considered tampering." I laugh. As I laugh I pee. On the bus ride home, I thank the whizzinator 1000. I thank it's magical rubber penis in all it's shinning glory. I thank the pouch of fake urine and the $400.00 bucks this guy paid for it. After all, one mans loss, is another mans gain. So the story goes.
"I mean, You guys used to be able to piss in the privacy of your own stall." Jeff says as he hands me the cup to piss into. This has become the highlight of my week. It's sad really. That something like a urine sample would be something to revolve a whole week around. It's not like I'm afraid of failing. I've been clean for weeks. It's a simple case of "Stage Freight" that gets to me. Last week I almost didn't make it. The urnine sample that is. I simply didn't prepare myself. You see, Valley Mental Health's center for recovery requires that you call everyday, Monday-Saturday. Each client is given a passcode. My Passcode is Bigbird.(Some people say it fits me.) So...each morning you're required to call this 800 number. If your passcode is called, you're required to show up between the hours of 5:00 PM and 7:00PM. As the message states, "Doors will be locked at 6:50." Anyway, last week, my code was called. For some reason or another, I downplayed my inability to pee with someone looking over my shoulder. So, at 5:00, I showed up, dropped my pants, did the dance and stood there. Standing in front of the Urnial, I found myself cursing my penis. "Why don't you just go you mother fucker!"
"You know, after three minutes, you've got to go wait in the lobby for another half hour... "Jeff tells me "...and if you still can't go after that, it's marked as a positive sample, and the judge frowns on that you know."
As if I wasn't under enough pressure. "How could you do this to me." I whispered to my non co-operating penis. "After I'll I've done for you." I say
After three minutes of standing, the time was up. In the lobby, I tried to make ammends. "I'm sorry I said those things baby, daddy didn't mean it." I said. During my groveling, the receptionist kept throwing weird looks in my direction. Everyone else just assumed it was normal. After all, I was in the lobby of a nuropsyciatric institue.
"Lets go Walter!" Jeff yells from the hallway. I take a deep breath and follow him into the mens room. "I hear it helps to cough." Some girl yells from the lobby.
The second time around, the mens room looks more like a court room. "Do you swear to take a piss, a true piss, and nothing but a piss." the judge says.
I move into the stall.
"Drop em and turn." he says. I undo my button, pull down my zipper, and drop my pants to the floor. After my 360 degree turn, I grab the cup and head for the urinal.
"Yeah, it didn't used to be like this." Jeff says. "I mean, You guys used to be able to piss in the privacy of your own stall." Listening to him talk makes me nervous. I think about asking him to rub my shoulders.
"You see, there was this one guy, thought he could outsmart the system." Jeff continues " Guy comes out of the stall one day right...hands me his cup of urine...when I go to take the cup from his hands, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. You know what it was?" He asks
Fuck, now I've got to multi-task. "What?"
"The dumb son of a bitch forgot to zip up his zipper." He says " To make things worse, he wasn't wearing any underware." The good news is;I'm focused on his story. The bad news is; I'm focused on his story. Nothings comming out still.
" So hanging out of his zipper was this rubber looking penis. Just flopped out, looking right at me. I'm mean, this is my job. I look at dicks all day. You think I don't know what a real dick looks like. Anyway, I tell him to pull his pants down and lift his shit up. Sure enough, there was this rubber dildo connecting to a wire that ran all the way up to a small bag stuck in his armpit. So this guy starts freaking out, yelling at me ya know. Telling me it was called the whizzinator 1000, and he paid $400.00 bucks for it. So I tell him, 'Well, you just paid $400.00 for a felony, cause that's considered tampering." I laugh. As I laugh I pee. On the bus ride home, I thank the whizzinator 1000. I thank it's magical rubber penis in all it's shinning glory. I thank the pouch of fake urine and the $400.00 bucks this guy paid for it. After all, one mans loss, is another mans gain. So the story goes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
