Escaping the Babble

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Here’s a way to make some extra cash:

1) Find out which team I think should win in any given World Cup match

2) Load up bets on the opposite team

3) Profit!!

I thought Germany would pull it out today. Klinsmann has been helping them kick some ass, Klose has been a fantastic standout during the cup, they are hosting, they have (scratch that, had) a perfect record at Dortmund, and they’ve never beaten Italy in World Cup matches so that should have provided plenty of motivation.

Guess not. Commence rotten mood bender.

************

While there is certainly a litany of drawbacks to working through the night, there are several positives that make such a thing acceptable. One of these things (and top of my list) is that the night is quiet. It provides opportunity to focus on work that needs to be done instead of dealing with the unavoidable barrage of bullshit that seems to be a consequence of large groups coming together for “work.” If there is nothing pressing to be done, the night is good for contemplation and stillness in a world with precious little of either.

Unless, of course, the night security guard decides he’s going to be your friend.

The font of retarded babble that flows out of this guy is truly staggering. At first, I tried to humor him and remain polite, getting out of Dodge at the earliest opportunity whenever he gets going. It only took two weeks to get annoyed, which is actually a pretty long time for me. I used to enjoy venturing outside into the quiet (and much cooler) night air for a smoke as the clock continues it grind forward. Not anymore. I now spend many quality minutes just staring into the mirror trying to figure out what it is about my face that seems to express, “Hey, I’d just love to hear what you have to say!”

Over these last two weeks I’ve made efforts to give more obvious (while still maintaining some modicum of civility) signals indicating that I’m not interested in being pals. Walking past without making eye contact. Entranced by the goings on of my cell phone. Fake talking on my cell.

Nothing works.

Tonight, I had to hang up my fake conversation and not enjoy my smoke while babblespout gained momentum and I wished for traffic to throw myself in front of. Here’s a sample of the continuous (one-sided) conversation:

“So, most people might be embarrassed by this, but I’m not, I think it’s kind of funny. I almost locked myself in that closet right by you. You know which one I’m talking about? Anyway, there’s something wrong with the lock on that door, so I was like, I wonder what’s wrong with this thing? So I shut the door and figured I would try to fix it from the inside. All of the sudden I couldn’t get out! Luckily, I messed with it and finally worked, but I was in there for, like, 20 minutes. Still don’t know what’s wrong with it. There are a lot of batteries in that room. We had big batteries, well, bigger than that, on some of the Navy ships and subs I used to be on sometimes. One of the big battery rooms was next to the switch room we used to have to clean, man, that thing would get really dirty even though the room was mostly unoccupied ‘cuz of the dirt the diesel engines would always kick up. Boy, we had to clean that thing like every day sometimes…..”

On and on. I gave up with the polite nods and smiles, choosing instead to communicate my apathy by staring out into space. No dice. I turned my back to him, and still the stream of verbal diarrhea continued unabated. Frustrated and tired, I finally gave up with the nice. I cut him off mid-ramble.

“OK, well, I’m gonna go take a shit.”

He seemed perplexed by this. I walked away with a smile on my face as I raised a silent toast to my friend, the bathroom stall, last bastion of peace and quiet, my shelter from the babbling storm..

The Run Up

Per usual during the Vegas run up, it’s time to ask the question.

Are we there yet?

Less than 60 hours to go, 30 of which will be spent working, sort of. I’ve determined that I’ll be doing as little as possible this week as there are other, infinitely more important things to be thinking about.

There are the questions that get asked every trip. Questions like, “How can I tweak my drunken gambling strategy to maximize my chances of hitting the world’s most unlikely big money slot jackpot?”

Still haven’t hit on a definitive answer for that one, but I suspect it’s something along the lines of…Turn 70. Spend all money and free time sitting before the intoxicating reels until one of the following occurs: a) Death b) Jackpot (to be used to buy a few more years sitting some in front of said intoxicating reels).

Then there are the trip specific questions like, “Will my room at the Excal smell like someone spent a week and two days roasting elephant shit?”

Being a superstitious bastard, this is a big question. The last (and only) time I stayed at the Excal, Mrs. Head and I were dating. It was a spur of the moment proposition, one that couldn’t realistically be turned down, what with all of the underlying and oft unspoken “you snooze, you lose” pressure to perform in the dating arena. The happiness of our arrival was somewhat overshadowed by fact that it smelled as though someone shoved a diarrhea-afflicted baby in the air duct of our room and turned up the heat. I had some good gambling luck and some great love luck that came out of that trip. Five years later, this is what I wonder:

If my room at the Excal doesn’t smell like shit, should I be worried that there will be no luck? Can room odor accurately predict something that many would argue may not even exist? (I suppose that if I determine it truly should smell like shit and that I just won’t be happy until it does, it’s a problem I can easily correct without calling upon hotel staff)

**********

World Cup was nothing more than a giant disappointment this past weekend. Thankfully, exhaustion was such that I forgot to put any money on the games—which would have been money lost.

I’d like to know what the hell was going through Rooney’s mind. Also, someone should inform Ronaldo that just because he now holds the record for goals scored does not mean that it’s time to just stop playing. And where the fuck was Ronaldinho? It was as though the field swallowed him; one hardly even noticed he was playing. Both games had me searching out spare supplies of anti-depressants, even though it was obvious that both teams fully deserved to lose (which pissed me off even more because I’m bordering-on-vociferous anti-Portugal).

Germany and France is going to make a great final. If Zidane performs as well as he did in the Brazil game, Germany is going to have a rough ninety minutes. Of course, this is all running on the assumption that they will make it to the final. If Germany fails to triumph over Italy, I’m going to be in a seriously rotten mood for at least 48 hours.

Training with Bums

Note: This was written in the wee hours, but I was unable to post it due to being rudely interrupted and consequently deluged with issues for the last four hours of what turned out to be the longest I’ve worked in some time. I ended up being awake for Germany vs. Argentina, though. Words fail me, what a fantastic game. Anyway, here’s the already outdated post, for what it’s worth.

It’s been said time and time again, but I’m going to say it one more time.

Three cheers for the DVR.

At 7AM this morning I will be on the tail end of a 16-hour shift, oy vay. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been on a work bender like this. I want so badly to stay awake to see Germany put a beating on Argentina, but my body is already telling me that it isn’t going to happen. Of course, I then have to make sure I avoid any and all sports news until I’ve watched the game for myself, another challenge presented by third shift work that I hadn’t thought of. Challenge? Boy I have been spending way too much time at work….I’m defaulting to corporate-speak. What I meant was, my schedule is fuckin’ retarded.

**********
Yesterday I also realized that not reading any blogs for at least the last month meant that not only was I not up on community happenings, I couldn’t even remember where the tourney was (sad) so I stole away for a few to catch up on April’s site.

Republicans? In the same room? At the same time? Oh dear.

Blogger tourney + copious alcohol = Dare I speculate? Interesting and odd. Whatever the party rifts, I’m confident Al can/will bridge the gap with SoCo.

Why isn’t Al steering foreign policy? Someone should look into that.

***********
Third shift has been great for Vegas sleep training, but once again I find myself worried about my lack of alcohol training, as I’ve had nary a sip in months. It’s shameful, I know. The only other folks awake while I’m working at this time of night are the bums outside the Circle K who await the morning rush so they can beg enough money to buy a tall can of Steel Reserve Wild Bull XXX fine malt liquor for breakfast. So I was thinking……

Maybe, just maybe, I can train with them.

Think about it. The investment would be minimal. Hell, I could buy a case of that shit they drink to give as tuition and still have enough change left from my $20 to buy breakfast or some crack before I black out. I’d venture to say that if I lived through it I could get back into prime drinking shape in 72 hours or less.

I would have Volanda be my mentor. She’s a crazy lady the Mrs. and I have seen outside of the K a few times. I call her Volanda because that was the first name that came to mind when I initially saw her. I suspect her real name is Batshitfuckincrazy. Picture Shanene from Martin with half the teeth and coated in dirt and spandex, yelling that she’ll pay two bucks for someone to give her a ride up to 32^nd street, and you’ll have a good idea. She’s a living billboard that serves as a stern warning to those girls who might be thinking about dropping out of hooker school. It’s a known fact that hookers who complete their education make 43% more than hooker dropouts. It’s science.

I should hook her up with Big James (again, not real name). Big James likes to wander a two block area close to where I live. He’s approximately 47lbs (if he’s wearing a backpack of rocks) and has achieved the world’s record for Lowest Worn Pants. Big James, I think, is not nearly the criminal he would have passing motorists believe, as it would be seriously impossible for the guy to run from police ever. His pants are belted at approximately mid-calf level (Seriously, Mid. Fucking. Calf.), forcing him to take steps so tiny that old Chinese women seem like Carl Lewis by comparison. And he has a cane. Did I not mention the cane? Up and down the street he travels, twirling his pseudo-pimpcane that looks more like something stolen form a nursing home.

Big James and Batshitfuckincrazy. A match made in heaven.

**waves**

I’m moving to a different work schedule which should be a bit more relaxed…

--Human Head, June 06

Uhhh, yeah, that sort of didn’t happen. Well, the change in work schedule happened it just isn’t any more relaxed, go figure.

Good: I’ve been writing. Bad: The writing has been for work, on my own time. Good: It’s being noticed and is paying off. Bad: I’m likely going to get slapped by a midget and few others when we arrive in Vegas. Each week seems busier than the last, so much so, by the time a day of rest rolls around (default is usually Sunday) I don’t want to touch a PC or see another file that remotely has anything at all to do with Microsoft Office. Time has become the liquid that runs freely off the surface of my life and onto the floor. Can someone grab me a paper towel?

So tonight I said fuckit. I think third shift is gonna make for some good late night insanity. Plus, I’ll likely be awake for any conceivable weekday dial-a-shot. The only downside to that is I have to stay sober at work. ONLY downside? As downsides go, that one is pretty big. This is my third week on third shift and I’m finally getting adjusted to the night life, such as it is when you must spend it working. Thankfully, it’s a 4x10 schedule so the week cruises by pretty fast, and hell, its good training for Vegas.

Oh man, it’s so very close. The fact just hit me today, and I came into work tonight super-pumped (for lack of a more eloquent expression).

We just closed on our new house last week, which is another one of my many excuses for not posting. It’s a hell of an adjustment, paying triple the amount for half the space, but I won’t complain too much about that. Renting these last three months has brought about the determination that I would/will go to the ends of the earth to own rather than rent. Going back to renting, even temporarily, has been, well, fucking retarded and wholly nerve-wracking. Now that closing is done we’re actually doing the work that needs to be done (floors, etc) so it will be nice when we move in at the end of July. Yes, end of July. Repair work and the legal wrangling to break our lease will take every bit of that time.

Except for Vegas. A just in time and well earned relief.

Then there’s the other excuse, World Cup. Every spare moment has been devoted to watching the games I’ve recorded, which is as it should be. After all, it only comes around every four years and is, dare I say, exponentially more entertaining than the Olympics (that could just be me, though :))

That’s it for now, gotta get back to work (after I step out for a smoke). Hope I don’t get waylaid by a Tasmanian crackhead, and yes, it really is a possibility.

I’ve got stories in the pipe. They’re coming, I swear it. One more month should see my liquefied time gelling a bit.

30

What’s up pussycat? Tom Jones turns 66 tomorrow.

Whilst I turn 30.

Tom Jones is loaded, and loved by women the world over. I’m not loaded, but I do have grey ear hair that forced me into a plucking situation I’d rather have avoided.

Them’s the breaks when the years tick by. It does seem as though the lame portions of aging are happening a bit early, though. How come I’m on the brink of achieving full-on senior citizen ear hair, but so much farther away from retirement? It doesn’t quite seem fair.

We’re currently buying a house much sooner than we expected, which is a great thing, except for the part where we have to move for the second time within sixth months. Good god, there was a Princess in town and we didn’t even have the time to hang out. Not being able to hang out or post or read posts leads me to the obvious conclusion that we’re too busy, but sometimes that shit is unavoidable.

Kind of like turning 30.

I’m moving to a different work schedule which should be a bit more relaxed, meaning some (hopefully) more frequent posts. Hell, I just want the time to read a few because life is awfully depressing without a daily dose of inebriated bloggers.

Inebriated bloggers that we’ll see in a month. Fuckin’ A.

Warning: Worst. Post. Ever.

A weekend with the in-laws means activities. It is the load that those having to receive visitors must bear. There are worse loads.

Saturday activities took us on two hour drive to Sedona, which ended up being very worth it. It afforded an opportunity to let the car out a little and discover, at long last, that driving can be fun. Or will be, once the car isn’t so new.

67% of the people in Sedona yesterday tried to crash into me (this wild guesstimate is likely being too conservative). Dull-eyed tourists put together a coordinated attack which was launched immediately upon our arrival. I especially liked the guy in the gold for Taurus that, while looking directly at me, pulled out into my lane and stopped while I’m going 40 and am close enough to make out the crinkles in his dumbfounded squint. A close call later finally found us in a parking lot, searching for the kind of relief that can only be provided by parking. Giant black GMC douchebag didn’t get the memo, though, as he (without a pretense of looking until halfway out of the space) backed towards us at a high rate. That one almost brought me out swinging.

Hooray Beer! Helping people give less of a shit for centuries.

Once we escaped the onslaught of dullards in control of high speed metal objects, I finally go a chance to take a look around. Wow, very nice. I now know where I’d truly like to live; I just have to find a way to get a 747 full of cash. I need some Architectural Digest shit in some scenery like that.

I guess I’m trying to say that you should go if the opportunity presents itself. Once we got off the tourist strip we accidentally wandered onto it was a pretty amazing place.

It shouldn’t have taken this long, but I just realized how awful this post is. Why did I feel the need to type all that? It should read like this:

Nothing to see here, move along. My apologies for this travesty of a post.

Pre-In-Law Wednesday Madness! No interest until 2012!

This is the pre-in-laws post.

Once they get here, there’s going to be little time and even less opportunity to visit here and bray like an ass for the Interwebs folk.

I better get while the gettin’s good. Time’s a wastin’. No time like the present. Better oatmeal than no meal.

Last weekend, oh boy, last weekend. Friday brought Mrs. Head and I to the casino for a triumphant re-taking of the 3/6 acreage. The peasants fled before my mighty hammer. They wept beneath the crushing onslaught of one who hasn’t tasted card battle in many months. I almost felt bad as they trudged off, their entire $40 in chips having met with a very sudden demise, one after the other. Just the thought brings wistful tears of joy. Weekend in the poker room is an amazing thing. Still. So much for that sharp decline in poker popularity.

2 hours, net +33BB’s. God, why can’t it always be like that?

Mothers Day ended the weekend on good note. Phone calls were made and no tears were shed, no arguments had, so we went and bought a car. ‘03 Audi A4 3.0 Quattro. It’s very cool.

However, it wasn’t all perfect. I came across another head on the Hydra of political correctness.

Twice this last weekend, it came up in the normal course of conversation that I’d been in the military. Twice, I heard, “Thank you for your service.” What a disingenuous load. I’m getting close, the next person may walk away to relate a heartbreaking tale of what life is like, post bitchslap. I almost blurted out, “Thanks for making an otherwise pleasant conversation completely awkward and asinine, you parroting fuck.” You can’t cuss out people you want to buy things from until after the sale or refusal to buy is complete. It’s just not good etiquette.

The correct response is, for those who are obviously not up to the task of coming up with it on their own, anything but that. Say fuck you. Ask what I did or how long I was in, if you must. Don’t mention or highlight the fact in any way. Go into a Holy Spirit filled seizure. If you are uncontrollably compelled by P.C. Tourettes to act, give me some money.

Just don’t say that. Don’t say anything. If someone is truly thankful it will show. And pull those goddamn idiotic magnetic support ribbons down, too. They’re like merit badges for retards.

Posts about dogs or meals do not belong in a poker blog. Dugglebogey (who, by the way, writes a great poker blog) said something to that effect a ways back. It flashes through my head nearly every time I sit to do a post. He’s right.

Nevertheless, here I sit posting to a poker blog, talking about everything but. I just can’t help it.

In Wichita we had a narrow yard that wrapped around both sides and the back. Going out on the back deck only provided view of one side and the back portion. The other side was completely obscured.

It was only a short time after we got Stella (go ahead Streetcar fans, I’ll give you time to say it) that Rachel and I noticed the fact that her breath smelled like shit. All the time. Like real, actual shit. We couldn’t figure out why the breath of one Schnauzer would be okay while the other had oral odors reminiscent of a feed lot. Many Eucalyptus-infused dog biscuits over the course of too many weeks and still, her breath continued to smell like toxic butt-waste. We finally shrugged and gave up, choosing, like parents with a retarded (are we still allowed use that word?) child, to still love our little brown big stupid dog.

The yard at our house in Phoenix is quite different. By different, I mean I can see the entire yard. Not being familiar enough with Phoenix when we came, we are renting a place to give us plenty of time to find something that we’d like to buy (and, it seems, comfortably afford). This means no more smoking in the house, which is actually better because of the decrease in smoking and the increase in fresh house scent. The combination of these two things revealed something, well, two things, actually.

One. Our little stupid brown dog is a hybrid fecofeliac. She doesn’t give a shit about her own, but she definitely has a thing for the white dog’s brown product. What a horrifying site to see (for the first time) her prance after Simon, attempting a modified Hot Karl.

Two. We are really not very smart people sometimes. How did we not figure that out on our own?

The last four weeks have been a trying campaign. The War on Consuming Poop. An intervention for the ages. Constant surveillance, some yelling, and even the occasional handful of gravel has been chucked in her direction. Unlike the War on Drugs, Terrorism, Poverty, Poor Taste, and a litany of others, this war is thus far a success.

Tonight I had the thought that it would be funny to add a “One Month Sober” chip to Stella’s collar. Poop free for four weeks. That’s what I could say when people asked about it, which would only add to the fun.

Congrats, Stella. It must have been difficult to give up all of that delicious shit. We thank you.

Not putting titles on posts is fantastic. I had to do this one, but it may be the last for a while

I’m riding a huge wave of word tilt.

One of the toothpicks snapped today while under the ever-present barrage of crap news throughout the day. Here are today’s words that make me want to shoot myself (and/or maybe the jackass uttering the offensive stream of sound) in the face:

Adversity

Diversity

For fuckssake you stupid politicos, media pundits, and corporatica (making words up is fun) stop making me hate my language. I’m at a loss right now trying to think of –ersity words that are good. University? Bleh. Biodiversity. Putting “bio” in front of an awful word does not make it suck less. Bioadversity? Nope, still didn’t work. Now that I have tried twice, I declare the above assertion to be scientific fact. There is perversity (had to look that one up to be sure). I like this definition I found: .Marked by peevishness or petulance. Cranky.

My perversity knows no bounds.

I changed my mind. Not all –ersity words suck, just most of them. At least they’re than 3 syllables, I gotta give’em that. (I have to give them some credit because after all, words are diverse too, and we wouldn’t want such wondrous and snowflake-reminiscent differences to not be highlighted into the fucking ground.)

Now I’m going to try and convince that bastard Jack to give me something from his Box.

Hello, friends.

It’s been 13 days since my last post. How many Hail Iggy’s is that?

Lucky for me, I was never that attracted to the tenants of Catholicism. What does it mean, then, that I digs me some voodoo? Likely, it indicates nothing more an inner desire (known, acknowledged, or otherwise) to spit rum on a rooster and then kill it. And have a cigar afterwards. Well that doesn’t sound very good now either, does it? Maybe I just like the way voodoo sounds.

Dee Bones. Day nevah lie.

Work work work, blah blah blah, too tired too busy, I miss poker and can’t fucking wait for Vegas, smack my ass.

You’ve heard all this shit before. Except for maybe that last part. Not sure why I said that, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time (I know, both seconds ago). If you’re one of the folks that has heard that last one before, count yourself a lucky one. It’s a poor and misused existence to not have heard (or said, for that matter), “Smack my Ass!”

And then call me silly.

What’s silly is how fuckin’ long it takes for me to get 4.5 miles at 4PM. If I leave at 3:58, I’m cool. 4PM? It’s like a goddamn cartoon. In my mind it plays with the slightly worn look of an old Looney Toons short where, one moment you have empty street with character looking both ways to BAM! In the blink of an eye, packed. What the fuck just happened?

Ridiculous. (Stop smirking LA/NY people)

Also ridiculous is how long it’s been since I’ve played any poker. I don’t give a damn how tired I am. I give two shits how hard I’ve been going at work. Friday evening will find me sitting at a poker table, come hell or high water. (In the interest of full disclosure I should say here that if hell does actually come there won’t be any poker. High water will likely have the same effect, as insurance concerns will take priority plus the fact that if there is indeed high water in Phoenix will flabbergast me to the point of paralysis.)

It’s gonna take something pretty big to keep me away. I needs to get my gamble on. Gots to start the Vegas training, the weeks are flying by.

It dawned on me just now that I’m still entirely too juvenile. Man, I hope that never changes. The reason? I can’t watch a commercial about joint pain without giggling and laughing. I can’t help but laugh at the senior actors who almost convincingly convey their sadness at having to quit their favorite sport because, “I just can’t take the pounding.” Oh God, I’m laughing again.

I better add some Hail Mary’s to those Hail Iggy’s.

My dogs are ruing the day they got covered in fur. It’s not even truly hot yet and they plod around looking at us as if to say, “Why did you make us come here?” That could be a mistake, though. The look could very well mean, simply, “Why am I not eating something right now?”

It’s a tough life they have.

I’m so damn behind on the goings on within the sphere it’s just getting damn depressing. I got caught up on a few, but I’m really not even making a dent. I miss getting neck deep in one of Iggy’s uber-posts. A happy belated birthday to the almighty purveyor of oversized junk, The Heads wish you well as you go kicking and screaming into the more mature realms of old age. Speaking of 30, I’m only 6 weeks away from it myself.

Perhaps someone can explain to me just how that happened. Truly, the days pass slowly and the years pass quickly. It’s all making me feel quite behind, like I need to catch up to something. Am I a product of my own hectic pace? It would certainly explain the increase in OCD symptoms. I’m in a race with my own mortality. It’s a race I’m bound to lose, but I’m compelled to run as fast as I can anyway, which in the end means that mortality will win even sooner. Boy, my attitude is awesome today, a nice combination of the prospect of starting decade number three and having fucking news on one of the big monitors at work all day. All. Day. I don’t know how much longer I can listen to GW blurbs, Duke inanity, and updates on the latest incorrect Natalie Holloway suspect before I start deliberations on the best way to end it all in the workplace. I was thinking something along the lines of crucifying myself with gel pens, breaking one of the 19-inch flat panels over my head and leaving it there as a pseudo crown of thorns. Just think of the tizzy this would cause in various circles. Pure bedlam, wheeeeeee!

And Hannity and Colmes can go fuck themselves. Their brand of hard-hitting noise creates a din that is particularly annoying. For some reason they just tipped me over the edge today. The truth is that most news shows and organizations can go fuck themselves. Even truthier still, pretty much everyone can go get fucked. Right in their stupid asses. Except you guys, that is. You’re all some goddamn fine people.

Fuck you, fuck you, okay, you’re cool, fuck you……..

I'd also like to thank the Arizona Motor Vehicle Bureau for their contribution to my wonderful mood. It’s like they’re actively trying to prevent me from getting my vehicle registered in this state. I could sit across from a life insurance agent, chain smoke Pall Malls, eat Crisco from a serving spoon, have a scotch IV, and getting a policy would still be easier than getting plates for the car. Transitions are FUN.

I still love it here, though, regardless of what my nasty mood might tell you.

Sometimes ya get Hot. Sometimes ya get Bothered.

Sometimes ya get Hot and Bothered.

Lordy, Lordy, Look who’s forty! (and by forty, I mean “not posted for two weeks”)

Two weeks. Really? Stupid fookin’ time with all of its ostentatious flying. I have no idea how the hell that happened.

Yes I do. The real question is, do you want to hear about it? Are you sure? It’s pretty dry stuff, mostly work related and mostly that it’s hard and takes a lot of time. See? Dry.

I just had some more Jack in the Box. I unlocked the magic (yet again).

Awesome.

Now, on to some more pleasant ruminations, like, my glaucoma is being treated in a very thorough and genuinely fantastic manner. Side effects may include coughing, patchouli, and fits of silly blogging.

(There was a smoke break that took place in this space. I was thinking that it sure would be nice if I had a thinking-to-text piece of software. Dragon Naturally Thinking, NEW version 2.0 without the painful surgically implanted brain electrodes!)

This evening I was speaking to my brother, who told me that today, in Wichita, most of the city was pummeled by baseball-sized hail. I think it goes without saying that I shot yet another giant load into my pants at the thought of us finally being out of that city. I wonder how long it will be before the joyousness of being away from constant mini-tragedy (brought to you by the fine folks at Mother Nature’s Vicious Storms) wears off and I truly adjust? I hope it takes a while, it’s a good joyousness.

But lest you think it’s all Jack in the Box, butterscotch, and good times just let me say this: Fucking Pedestrians.

Instead of just driving, now I get to play a fun new game. It’s called, Try To Avoid Assisting the Crackhead in His/Her Suicide Attempt. People in this area seem to love walking. Or maybe they love crack and just have to walk. I mean, get their stroll on. Actually, it’s not even “stroll.” These fools get their amble on. It’s goddamn ridiculous. Don’t these people know I’m hopped up on processed sugar, low on patience, and long on OCD (I’m always in a hurry, gotta get it done, now. It’s annoying as hell and I’m shocked every day that Mrs. Head endures it)?

Perhaps I need to get my Buddha or my Zen on. The weather is good for it, at least right now. From what I hear though, we’ve been lucky in that respect, as well. It has barely broken 90 since we arrived, although I imagine it won’t be too much longer before the weather becomes less Zen and more Jihad. Whatever, I’ll take it. At least I won’t get hailed on.

I have to stop now as it’s taken me entirely too long to type this small amount. Stupid glaucoma meds, it’s like typing inside a glacier.

(I will try my damnedest not to be gone for another two weeks)

Happy Goo (no, not that)

What the fuck. I really want to write some good stuff, turn this mother out, but my brain is complete goo. Such are the trials and tribulations of coming into a new job and getting thrown into the deep end head first. Swim monkey, SWIM!

Sports? I got nuthin’. Well, there is UFC this weekend. I’ll be watching, but so far I haven’t had enough time to see who is on the card (other than Orlovski and Forrest, of course). Thank goodness Performify is a fan (who does fantastic UFC pre-fight write-ups).

Poker? Yeah, right. I wanted to be at the casino within a couple of days after we arrived in Phoenix. Ahhh, the best laid plans….perhaps a couple more weeks will find me at a table

That leaves work. Not the most exciting subject in the world, especially when nothing happens there but….work. The day begins at 7 AM, then its balls to the wall till 4 PM. It’s been a while since I’ve been in an environment where I’m so busy that I come to at random times and realize that if I don’t do something quickly, my forward-thinking bladder will cause an embarrassing scene. So busy I find myself wondering where I can cram in four minutes for a power smoke. You get the idea.

It won’t always be like this, I’ll get into a groove eventually. It can’t always be like this, I’ll start bleeding from the ears. By 3PM my brain turns mushy and begins to misfire a bit, but I will say that every day when I leave the building it is with the satisfied feeling that only comes from a day packed with intense work.

Rachel keeps asking, “Do you like it, or do you hate it?”

Both, really. I like it because my knowledge and skill increases a very large amount each day, not unlike the beginning poker player who strives to be “serious” about their game. Part of me hates it because I trend towards being a lazy fucker. Being lazy is fantastic. I love it when someone asks, “What did you do today?” I love the answer even more.

“I did NOTHING, and it was everything I thought it could be.”

Inherent laziness with competing OCD. My yin and yang are both fucked up. What the hell, though, I’m pretty happy.

I’ll be back later when I’m further congealed.

The Greatest Spiritual Experience of Your LIfe

I have over 1000 blog posts that I need to catch up on, and I actually seem to be losing ground instead of gaining. My new job seems to be intent on forcing me to actually work, which I have decided is completely lame. My time management strategy is going to have to be adjusted. How big of a nerd does that make me, the fact that I plan time management strategies for myself?

*********

So, it seems as though the Gestapo (err....Homeland Security) likes very young girls. Shocking. Next thing you know, they’ll be arresting people and holding them indefinitely without any evidence or formal charges. What? They do that, too? Oops. At least our Republican (substitute Democrat here if you like, it still works) leaders are still solid pillars of leadership. Beacons of light, they are. If you doubt it, just ask Homeland Security.

(Crappiest Segue EVER) Think that’s scary? Allow me to relate part of our momentous adventure to the west.

The first leg of the journey took us south to Oklahoma City. Not the most exciting drive, to be sure, but not terrible, either. Once there, we set out on the second and longest portion, Highway 40 South, all the way to Flagstaff. We would be traveling through the entire tip of Texas, hitting Amarillo on the way through. Staring at the map, I recalled the worst 4 ½ months of my life spent in Texas, more specifically, Shepherd AFB in Wichita Falls. My friend Dominic was very succinct:

“Texas is nothing but dirt and broken glass.”

Indeed.

The ensuing years have shown me that Texas does indeed have its redeeming qualities. Dallas and San Antonio are nice, and I’ve heard the same about Austin, although I’ve never been there. I have met some great Texans who I read on a daily basis. Nonetheless, for the most part, I still agree with Dominic. Driving through the tip of Texas made Kansas and Oklahoma seem positively exotic.

Let’s start with the weather. Steady and gusting crosswinds of 60 mph (or greater) buffeted us the entire time. Fun stuff. I also forgot what the color green looks like. Half of our trip, maybe a bit more, was spent in what I can only assume is a nice preview of hell. Dante himself would have had his resolve tested, and I have to wonder if, at some point, this portion of the country didn’t have some influence on early portions of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series. God’s disappointment made manifest in the land itself. Given its similarity to actual hell, it’s no surprise that residents look toward religion for some modicum hope in the wasteland. Persuasive as the roadside bilboards were, Rachel and I politely declined the option of aligning ourselves with The Tip’s version of The Almighty. Alas, travelling along doing 80 and remaining unconvinced, religion found us.

Welcome to Grooms, Texas.

You can’t see it in the picture, but not only is this Eden home to The Worlds Largest Cross, but actually stopping to take it all in will evidently be “The greatest spiritual experience of your life!”

“How big can this thing possibly be?” I wondered, while also trying to put a height or weight on just how spiritual I was truly going to feel. If by “spiritual” you mean “completely creeped out”, then the answer is “immeasurably.”

I considered actually stopping so I could try and snap a picture with The World’s Largest Cross on my back. If you look hard, you can see in the first cross picture the reason behind my decision not to. At the base of this monstrosity, a bit to the right, you should be able to make out three smaller crosses that aren’t power poles. This is the mini-Golgotha that was erected directly adjacent as (evidently) some sort of add-on bonus to those willing to experience "greatest spiritual." I chose not to stop because I didn’t want to be killed. I’m pretty sure that the mere sight of me would have whipped the Christian-Catholic Hybrid Cult members into a righteous frenzy.

Ripping my eyes away, and to top the entire experience off, I spotted the museum portion of this tourist destination which was still under construction and looked to be half complete. Thank the Almighty Christian-Catholic Hybrid Lord they had a giant “Gift Shop is Open” sign hanging on the front. I pictured Texas Chainsaw Massacre with Morals as I pressed a bit harder on the accelerator. I spent many miles weighing my urge to outrun the creepiness against the need to not get pulled over by a Sherriff of the region. The fear lingered as I tried to make my way around slow moving trucks plastered in Viva Bush! stickers.

For now, I’ll ignore the obvious questions. Questions like, “Who has enough money or time to do such a grandiose project that’s so out-of-bounds willy-inducing? Was it a person, or one of the towns using local taxpayer funds? Just how likely is it that I would have been killed by the ‘Children of the Corn Where There is no Corn’?”

I am Poker Champ.

That Guy

I’d like to take a moment to talk about bowel movements. Mine, specifically.

Fine, I’ll spare you. Suffice it to say, since our arrival I’ve become the poster boy for The Clean Getaway.

The stupid and disgusting can be worth talking about. Why, just today I caught my little dog Stella eating a turd as big as her head. This is no big secret or surprise concerning dogs, but the difference here is you could tell she was seriously enjoying it. Why the hell do I even buy dog treats? All I could do was sigh as I also thought of her penchant towards going for the French kiss whenever she decides Rachel or I need canine affection.

Delicious. (Dinner ended up being sans meat and may be for the next few days as I struggle to forget.

**********

I realized something today. It came to me that, right now and for the next couple of weeks, I’m going to be that guy. But which guy? There are a lot of those guys, ranging from “I’ve done whatever you’ve done, except that I’ve done it before you, it was cooler and I got it cheaper, oh, did I mention it was also bigger” Guy, to “I’m a slimy, creepy, up-and-coming sex offender but I can still have any woman I want, I’m THAT awesome” Guy. (It may seem too amazing, but these two guys can actually be the same guy on occasion.)

Which guy did I realize I am (albeit temporarily)?

I am now “I haven’t had a decent relationship or a relationship at all for a very long time but I just got this really great chick who I’m enamored with and given the dry spell I’m in I’m not sure how to handle it so I’m gonna talk about her constantly to all of my friends and, while they may still like me, are becoming very annoyed with me” Guy.

But with cities instead of chicks.

I just wanted to let everyone know that I know who I’m being as I force readers to listen to me be this guy for the next couple of weeks. You have my apologies for what will become, over time, a little more annoying each day it happens. Still, knowing this, I’m unable to stop myself.

Being out of the Midwest is fucking awesome.

Nuts.

On the high volume right now, this post is being brought to you by The White Stripes, Elephant. During the 17 hour trip here, I was able to spend a lot more time with their albums. Each time I give a listen, I gain a new appreciation of their depth. A tip of all my hats to you, Jack White, you are a rock god.

April Fools should come around more often; my fiction quite obviously needs the practice. I really did almost hit two separate and wandering crackheads, though. One was a seriously narrow miss. I thought the guy was timing it so I’d be past him by the time he got to my lane. This fucker speeds into my lane and then slows to a lethargic saunter. It was probably slower than that, but I find I’m unable to summon the proper words. Do they give crack at the hospitals here? Maybe that’s why the various (insert drug, malady, or condition here)-heads are collectively trying to get maimed—they can get effed up for free at a medical establishment. If that (or some form thereof) is the case, then damn, what a shitty state of affairs to be at that point. (It’s right here, in this spot, where I’m feeling the distinct urge to ramble about my theories concerning drugs and the “War” on them that has been so wholly ineffective for such a long time. However, I’m holding strong and cutting myself off. Shit, I’m rambling right now)

Before we left Wichita, Rachel and I had a quasi-estate-ish sale--way better than a garage sale, but not quite an estate sale. There was also the bonus that no one died, the ultimate prompter of the “estate” portion of the term. It was during those exhausting two days that I discovered a whole new class of crazy that I wish someone would have warned me about: The Estate Sale Traveling Early Sickfucks, or TESTES.

Good Lord, these people.

We planned on doing the sale on a Friday and Saturday, from 9 to 5, and stated as much on signs and in the paper. Thanks to an ever-burgeoning OCD, I had everything planned. We would rise at 6:30 or so and get everything set up and finish some pricing we still needed to do. Then came the TESTES, a miserable experience to be sure. Some of these fuckers began coming up and knocking at 6 AM and, well, let’s just say it was jarring and leave it at that. Rachel told them we weren’t opening until 9 and shooed the TESTES off of the porch. Since this gang of numbnuts obviously couldn’t decipher newspaper print (must’ve been too small, or I wasn’t using the King’s English, or something), we had to take drastic measures and make a warning sign with the hours posted in kindergarten-Big Chief script for any that happened to follow. Maybe TESTES can’t see paper. I don’t know, but these goddamn sunsubitches were still fucking knocking!

We just stopped answering the door.

Not to be deterred from junk, trinket, and tchotchke satiation, these vampires began circling the house and peeking in windows. Dawn of the Dead, but with TESTES (think zombies with small bills and a penchant for unreasonable and infinitely idiotic haggling. Will you take a dime for that?). After 45 minutes of this idiocy I had my gun in one hand and a broom in the other, ready to implement Survival Plan Alpha (not really sure what I hoped to accomplish with a broom, but there ya go. What can I say; I had reverted to a more primitive frame of mind). Once we finished all of the pricing and arranging, I peeked out of the window, making sure that I was far enough away to avoid whatever Mad Consumer disease these freaks may have had. I noted to myself that I needed to find all of the antiseptic stuff in the house and keep it nearby in case I was bitten. Hydrogen peroxide, iodine, whatever kills germs and kills them quickly. Tired of waiting, we finally acquiesced to the TESTES camped on our porch, yard, and curb. We unlocked the door.

I thought the parade of TESTES might never end. God help me, it was horrible.

We did, however, sell a bit over 2/3 of our stuff in about three hours, further lightening the load we would be traveling with. By the time the rush ended, my pockets were fat with wads of small bills, far outnumbering the more preferable large denominations. I stood there feeling like a crack dealer who is bad at math and just had a seriously unexpected run on product. For three solid hours it was like working drive-thru, but without the option of spitting in people’s food if they got out of line.

Meet Amateur Antique Dealer, a tall and pencil-thin mustachioed sort wearing stiff, super-blue denim with gleaming tennis shoes and an ancient IZOD polo that’s three sizes too small and tucked in with the braided leather belt that somehow managed to slip past cool police patrols so many years back. Rachel and I had a gorgeous (can I be completely gay and say “divine” or “stunning”? I won’t, but I’m thinking it.), antique dining room table with six chairs from the late 30’s-early 40’s, old modern style. We were selling it for 400 dollars (too cheap) because we needed to ensure the sale. There was just no way to bring it with us. This brain dead stick figure laps the table for 15 minutes solid, circling and circling, running his hands all over it and checking crevices. To be sure, if it continued any longer I would have begun to fear that something perverse might go down in my dining area, driving the other TESTES away. He finally wandered over all casual-like and offered me $250. I just laughed and he looked shocked. I asked him if he was kidding and then informed him that I would be selling it for $400 or would burn it. After an extended blank stare, he walked back to the table for some more laps. Amateur Antique Dealers must not get a decent morning constitutional very often, because he was lapping for another 15 minutes, this time on the phone, trying his best to speak in official and low conspiratorial tones. Figuring I had sufficiently gotten my point across, I smiled as he walked over for a second time. Show me the money. “Will you take $350?” Now I was mad. I stood there silently and the guy looked at me eagerly because he thought I was considering the offer. I wasn’t. I was simply trying my damndest to figure out where the ambiguousness resided in my first response to his amateur, wholly retarded, and useless haggling. He started to pull out his wallet. “$350?”

I replied, “Same price as 15 minutes ago. Same price for the foreseeable future.”

He walked away looking dismayed, but was gone only 5 minutes this time before coming back and ponying up the dough. Show me the money. Fucking TESTES.

Meet Bulbous Elbow Lady, named for the unfortunate and scary looking, bulbous (did I mention bulbous?), multiple growths protruding from the pointy parts of her arms. She has crazy, fraying hair in several decorator shades and a witch looking nose that looks as though it came right off of the pages of Hansel and Gretel. She shuffles to no particular destination in mind and enjoys scratching various inappropriate places on her body (TESTE with an infection, perhaps?). Making her way through the house one slow shuffle at a time, like a crusty beetle, Bulbous Elbow Lady likes to pick up every single item available for sale. Every. Single. One. If it requires electricity, it must be turned on and demonstrated, be it fan, lamp, or electronic device. Fifteen minutes or so made it crystal clear that she wouldn’t be purchasing anything. I don’t even think she knew what a lamp was. She did ask if I’d take a nickel for one of my 25 cent paperbacks, though. I told her no. Seriously, if you don’t think a book is worth a quarter, then I don’t want you in my house. Stop touching my stuff.

I love lamp.

All is well that ends well, though. We sold nearly everything we set out to sell, even if we had to put up with an inordinate amount of ridiculous and annoying TESTES along the way. If I see any in the future, it will be too soon.

Day Four. What Day?

I don’t know what the hell the guy was thinking. More than likely he just wasn’t. The state of mind that is “not thinking” is something that is common to all of us, even if it does happen to some more than others. One could certainly have asked the question of me 12 years ago when, as an 18-year old I decided that I could indeed break that cinderblock with a forceful twin dragon fist strike and no practice beforehand. It seemed like a good ending for my routine in the breaking contest at the time. Exclusively breaking boards would have been so very ordinary. What was I thinking? The question ran through my head on repeat as I stared at the open fracture on my hand. This was quickly followed by the thought, “Goddamn, it’s really starting to hurt. Am I still standing or am I passed out?”

What was I thinking? In hindsight, the answer is obvious. I wasn’t.

Now, in the wake of what is probably going to be a giant lawsuit and a huge insurance mess, all I can do is wonder what the guy was thinking. I didn’t mean to clip him, but I seriously didn’t think he would actually walk in front of my car as it bore down on him at almost 50 mph. As I reached the point where it was too late to do anything I could finally see that his head was turned in the opposite direction, just staring the wrong way (obviously) down the street as he jaywalked across four lanes of traffic + middle turn lane.

The brain is wildly amazing in its ability to actually think whole thoughts in fractions of a second. Now that I’m sitting at home awaiting multiple unpleasant phone calls from various entities I never wanted to speak with, I’ve been able to pick apart and illuminate what I thought in that split second before the fender made contact with his right side.

Didn’t his mother teach him to look both ways? I guess the answer seems obvious, but that would be shifting blame. His mother may have made monumental efforts to teach the basic lessons of modern life, but perhaps her son-now-crackhead-bum was just a retard off whom all lessons ricocheted in search of more receptive ears. One could ostensibly blame the crack, but I’m also uncomfortable with blaming that which is inanimate by nature. Perhaps he just woke up on the wrong side of the overpass and was too late camping out at the prime panhandling location near the Circle K gas pumps.

Seriously, who the fuck decides to take a leisurely, eyes-closed stroll across five lanes of traffic? Ummmm, crackheads, duh. (I really have to quit this terrible habit of asking the most obvious of questions.)

Here are some odd tidbits about the incident—It was surprising to me that he wasn’t screaming. He just sort of lay on the ground twitching and moaning, eyes all a flutter. Kneeling over him trying to wrack my brain and help while calling 911, I was taken aback by flood of intense and conflicting emotions. I felt horrible and sad because the guy was obviously in terrific pain. His leg was completely askew, and it looked as though he had lost part of his buttcheek. The reason for that, as it turns out, is that his hip was crushed and dislocated. The leg isn’t even worth talking about, and even if I were so inclined I don’t think that I could since the thought of it re-inspires a surge of intense nausea. I was also angry, to the point I wanted to kick him repeatedly for throwing a severe dampener on my recently acquired, new-and-oh-so-cool, location-based joy. As people gathered, some very close and others hanging back, a rush of embarrassment and the need to defend myself also rose up. It wasn’t vehicular assault with malice, it was unintentional vehicular assault with incredulousness.

That THE FUCK was he thinking.

Before? Who knows. After? Something along the lines of “Ouch”, no doubt, but more the extreme version, sponsored by Mountain Dew and shit.

It should all wash out in the end. The cops actually seemed sympathetic to my unfortunate position, and the insurance company hasn’t said “You’re fucked.” Not yet, anyway, and that’s really what is worrying me right now. I can just see myself obsessing about this, finally beginning to get over it after a couple of weeks, and then getting the “You’re fucked” phone call. D.A. takes humanitarian pity on homeless crack addict and decides to press charges on unrepentant guy with home. (I’m already whipping myself into an ulcer-ific frenzy)

My fourth day in the big city and I almost kill a crackhead. I’m all for excitement and high notes, but this is ridiculous.

The Heads Have Landed

The changes over the last month have been so drastic, where should I begin? There’s always the option of a chronological tale, but that’s often much less fun so I’ll regale you with the things that seem most important.

First up….we’re in Phoenix and it is awesome.

We knew it would be fantastic, but now that we are physically present in our new home things are really starting to sink in. It’s like being a kid set loose inside an infinitely wonderful candy store. Guess what I ate last night and the night before? I’ll give you a minute….Done guessing?

Jack in the Box. Wonder of Fast Food Wonders, oh how I missed thee.

While stranded in the Midwest for the last three and a half years there has been nary a whiff of Jack’s over-the-top caloric goodness and now it’s at my fingertips once again—all you can eat, baby. I’m seriously considering filling up one of the bathtubs with Ultimate Double Cheeseburgers and bacon and then commencing to jump in and not surface until I am thoroughly sated (and at least 300 lbs.). I rediscovered old and venerable Jack in the Box wisdom called “Unlocking the Magic” which brought a measure of joy not unlike that which comes with rediscovering a cherished piece of one’s past.

For those not schooled in advanced fast food tactics, I’ll explain.

Although it could conceivably be applied to many different sandwiches, “Unlocking the Magic” is primarily for the Ultimate Cheeseburger or Ultimate Double Cheeseburger aficionado. When you get this beef and cheese delight to your preferred consumption destination, the true fast food warrior does not immediately begin eating; to do so would be heresy in the extreme. This fat ass ambrosia is lovingly crafted and one should take the time to carefully unwrap and admire the thing beforehand. Now, take the beef and cheese loveliness into the palm of your dominant hand, placing the off hand on the top bun. The fingertips of each hand should be pointing toward the opposite elbow. If they aren’t then you need to adjust. Once properly positioned, press down on the top bun with your palm (not too much, you mustn’t damage it!) and rotate in a clockwise motion and back again. Repeat as necessary until the bun is smoothly rotating and all topping are spread evenly. Once complete, enjoy the new addition to your artery blockage.

There is one optional addition to this. After unlocking, I enjoy peeling away the top bun and hitting it up with a bit of sweet-n-sour sauce, it goes well with the copious mayo. Any other additions are at your own risk.

**********

It’s funny, we’ve gone from a population of 325K to a population of several million and my stress level has never been lower, even while still in the middle of moving and unpacking. At first I didn’t understand, but credit goes to the aforementioned Jack-delicacies for the brain fortification that helped illuminate the reasoning behind this state of affairs.

I finally live somewhere that I don’t have to qualify. I can tell someone where I’m from and not get that bewildered, forehead-crinkle stare that I’ve had to deal with my entire life. The look that says, “I want to ask you where or what the fuck that is, but I’m trying to be polite right now.” Oh God, I’ve always hated that look. No more trying to minimize the shitiness, stupidity, or general backasswardness of my location.

I’m here, I’m gloriously happy, and I’m not going anywhere. Not for a very long time if I can at all help it. Prepare yourself for a newly optimistic and jovial outpouring of stupidity, bitches.

I am so fucking back.

Almost there

Hello boys and girls, ladies and gents, Herr’s und Frau’s. Greeting and warm salutations.

Finally posting again is making me nervous, like when you’ve been out of touch with that sort-of-friend for a while. You finally decide to call (or write, as the case may be) before the already tenuous link decides to break completely. Using a technique gleaned from “polite” society the only thing I know to do is forge ahead as though I haven’t been away for two weeks and pray that you join me in my charade.

So what have the last two weeks been like? Unabated craziness, but the good kind. My Bloglines are black as night with unread posts, which is really a good thing since it will be a few days before our stuff catches up with us. I foresee plenty of time to play catch-up during the later stages of next week.

Once again, I must express my thanks and appreciation for all of the concern regarding my mum. At this time, the doctors (in all of their doctorly wisdom) are completely baffled. Turns out she doesn’t have Wegener’s, even though she has every single symptom. Since no one even has a hypothesis at this point, they are simply treating her symptoms and keeping a close eye on things (with the oh-so gentle prodding of my parents’ figurative whip). I find myself lately wishing for the Wegener’s because not knowing anything definitive is unnerving. However, the treatment that she is receiving seems to be providing some relief, so I would say that, at least for now, we are out of the imminent doom zone.

There was a bright spot amidst all of the stress. Maudie came and visited! We had a wonderful evening eating and hanging out, and even got to bother some folks via the tried and true dial-a-shot. Apologies to those recipients of dial-a-shot voicemail, the details of said voicemails are a bit hazy as I was ridiculously altered.

You should see my little black book. It’s full of notes and goings on for the last two weeks to the point of bursting. Two days ago, I finished the last of my schoolwork and now can lay claim to being one of those that possesses a “higher” education. Yipee, now I can take a break before jumping onto the next hamster wheel.

Expect an outpouring when we land in Phoenix on the 29th or 30th. I envision posts rife with grandiose idiocy to the point you’ll be begging me to go on hiatus again because you can hear your brain liquefying :)