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….
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
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.
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