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Another November night in Georgia We had visited the home of Phil, owner of a computer service business in the same building as our own office. He had been waiting for us, looking out his garage window as we pulled into the driveway. He made us cheeseburgers, one at a time, on his George Foreman Grill, and he ate the first three himself. He showed us his $3500 paintball gun. His unused backyard Jacuzzi. His universal remote. His dogs, which he said he would choose over his wife any day, if ever she wanted them gone. His wife came home, along with their almost genius 6-year-old daughter, Emma. We insisted we should be leaving. Phil insisted we watch The Crow. I sat on the loveseat as the lights were dimmed and his wife followed, but Phil remembered he had not yet shown us the patio. I stayed, finishing my cheeseburger, and I gave a half-assed attempt at starting a conversation with the woman as we were then the only two in a room full of couches and chairs. She was awkward. My cheeseburger wasn't. "So you work for the newspaper, too?" "Yep," I said with my mouth full. A single Duraflame log was burning in the fireplace. Later, during the movie, Emma said of the main character, "He can't die again unless the crow is killed. Then he'll go to heaven." I found it an appropriate time to relieve my bladder, as I had been drinking since before we walked in the door. I hesitated using the bathroom that Phil had earlier designated as Emma's own, but I didn't want to look for another. I would wipe off the rim when I was done, I decided and entered to use Emma's toilet. After the movie, Phil's wife said she had an announcement to make, but no one was listening. She shouted at her husband to shut up and told us we should all give blood next week. "I'm leaving on Tuesday," I told her. She said she would pick me up on Monday. "Okay," I said and decided I would have to bolt the extra lock. One of my comrades hit Emma with a pillow, and the dogs began to bark wildly and for a moment we all thought he was going to be mauled. Phil said he'd be entering the state paintball tournament and we should all come along. I stood to leave. Emma followed us to door, pretending to shoot us with her dad's gun. "Mom and Dad have two real ones in their bedroom," she told us, and Phil kindly informed her we had already seen them, which we had. On the ride home, my other associate, the driver, remarked, "Phil's a pretty cool guy," and I couldn't understand why he was lying so blatantly. Maybe Phil was a cool guy, but this kid definitely didn't think so, no matter what bullshit was coming out of his mouth. I said nothing. They dropped me off at my apartment and for the first time since I had met these people on the night I crashed my car four months earlier, I admitted my contempt for them. Not necessarily Phil. Not Emma or her mother. Certainly not their dogs. But the people I had been around the most, the people I had hesitated to call my friends ... these were the people that--under whatever strange light had somehow suddenly been cast on them--I then realized were complete and total assholes.  What's your greatest accomplishment? Where do you want to be in five years? What's the best compliment someone ever gave you? How well do you work under pressure? What do you do when you have writer's block? Why do you think you're out of work? Would you be relocating or commuting? What's the greatest challenge you've faced at work? Tell me about yourself, bitch! Three interviews, a 48-hour marketing project, and a 4-hour copy editing test later, and I'm still out of job, still sitting on the floor as I write this, waiting. Waiting for answers. Waiting for my interviewers to receive their cute little thank you notes. Waiting for these people to make up their damn minds so I have at least some idea of what I'm going to do with my life. But no, the wait is extended even longer. After pumping out resumes for half of November and all of December, barely receiving a response, I've suddenly been bombarded with calls since last week--just as I had decided it was time to stop applying temporarily and prepare for my move to Wisconsin (which was supposed to be this weekend.) But no. As much as I am happy to receive second interviews, the first of which is scheduled for Feb. 4, and as much as I'd gladly work for any of these bastards, I'd much rather they give me their decisions at the end of this week as originally promised, rather than stringing me along, setting me up for what will probably be complete disappointment. But at least I still have my Garfield and Odie ruler.  Circa 1978!  Lately when I've had trouble falling asleep, I've found that it helps to picture myself engraving the alphabet around the circumference of R2D2's head, by hand. I'm not exactly sure why I started picturing this, but it seems to work every time. Each letter must be very precise, so I barely ever reach Z before falling alseep. Good stuff.A first. The other day, as I was brushing my teeth, my toothbrush broke in half. What does it all meeeeeean?!? A realization: The more dependent on computers I become, the more I loathe them when they don't work. -------------- For the past few months I have become fascinated by theories of probability when I see commercials that simulate millions of people on screen. There have been a few such commercials on television recently. In each there are (what's supposed to be) millions of people standing together, either protesting or simply standing around. BUT ... just think ... if there really were that many people standing together like that, even if for just a minute, how many of those people, for example, would be shitting their pants right then and there. You have to figure that, out of, say, a million people, there is going to be a fairly significant percentage of people that, at that very moment, have uncontrollable bowel movements. Statistically, it just has to happen. Come on, you say, we are civilized beings; we can control such things for a little bit. But no. Take one million random people. In that one instant, how many of those people will already be at the point where they are just ready to explode? They can barely hold it any longer, but they will. They are the percentage of people that WILL be able to hold it in. But then there is the group that just can't hold it. They are the percentage of people who already passed the point of holding it in and are shitting their pants right at that moment, and I'm sure there are a quite a few of those people. -------------- Speaking of shitting pants and commercials ... do you ever wonder (and I'm sure you do) about the child actors who admit in commercials that they have problems wetting their beds every night? Whether they are real actors or not, these kids have to go to school and face other students who will have surely seen the commercial and will believe they wet their pants. That's a shame. -------------- Lessons of the day: Don't use computers. Don't put a million people together for one minute because some of those people need to go the bathroom really bad. Don't be a child actor. A Haiku Rain, Rain, Rain, Rain, Rain, The waste of a gray winter. Bitch, where my snow at? 
(Some other time)  There was a handle missing on the foosball table, but it didn't matter because I was holding a beer. The shutout was effortless. Someone put an arm around me and said it was time to go see the other band across the street. The Pixies. I had almost forgotten. "Hey, you have a camera," someone else said before we reached the stairs and pointed me in the direction of a girl wearing earmuffs. "Take her picture and we'll send it to Vice magazine." I handed him the camera, and he looked at it dumbly, turning it upside-down. "I don't know how to work this," he said and my eyes rolled as I grabbed it back. She wasn't hard to find. I walked to the other end of the bar and watched her eyes as she realized I was coming toward her, her partner unaware of my presence until after I had lifted the camera to my head and shouted over the jazz blaring from the speakers: "Say cheese!" Their smiles lasted only for the flash, and I walked away. Downstairs we pushed into the street and it was like New Year's Eve, only in November and everyone was wearing shorts. A police officer chased a naked man. A girl threw up along the curb. The Pixies weren't playing, someone said when we got there and I wondered why I had ever thought they would be. But it didn't matter. The guitar riffs were somehow confusing, but they were violent and they buzzed and they painted the venue black. |
Late night snacks. Bite-sized ramblings. Old-fashioned eats, served fresh daily. Open 24-7.  Other blogs Fireballs and Tsunami JeffreyDavis.net Mismatched Parentheses NimbleSixpence One Tortured Soul Palpably Inadequate Picnic, Lightning Pony Legs, Temporarily Supernouveau Wander Lust In my DVD player Archives June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 Other stuff Homestarrunner One Slime DeepDiscountDVD Olde English Sketch Comedy Live Music Archive Copy Army Copywriting Service Love & Radio This One Time Email me mmjunior / at / hotmail   
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