Got FEMA?Got FEMA?
Got FEMA?Got FEMA?
Got FEMA?Got FEMA?
Got FEMA?Got FEMA?
Got FEMA?Got FEMA?
Got FEMA?Got FEMA?
Got FEMA?

What Dreams May Come

I had a dream last night. I was at my friend Mark's house and
I had to go to the bathroom. For some reason that only makes
sense in dreams, I felt that I had to sneak off to urinate. In the
dream house, the bathroom was right next to the laundry room.
Even though I wasn't prohibited from using the toilet, I went into
the laundry room to piss in a clothes basket. When I pulled out
my penis, it was covered with bread just like one of those hot dogs
baked inside a crescent roll. I had to break the bread off my
wiener because I could piss. This caused me some consternation
as it forced me to wait for relief.

The bread removed, I started going only to feel a bit of
splashback. I stopped, readjusted and took another stab at it.
Again I felt the splash and stopped. It wasn't until my third
attempt that I woke to find that I had pissed myself.
Just a little bit, mind you, but that doesn't make
it any better.

Chewing my tongue

Some of my Best Friends Self-Identify as White

If Iraqis don't start showing some gratitude soon ...

... things could get ugly over there.

The Unkindest Cut

It's funny. You know a guy for 25 years and you still occasionally
find one or two things you don't know about him and that he didn't
know about you. One of my filthy little secrets was the abuse I
took from our junior high school gym teacher, Mr. Zimmerman.

This perverted cocksucker showered with our class on at least one
occasion. That was not appropriate. But the abuse of which I still
occasional think was bit more of the "shove me up against a locker
and call me a greaser" variety. Rotten bastard. I'd like to get ahold
of him one of these days. Like I even knew what the hell that was
apart from The Outsiders. What really gets me is that I ever even
considered telling my parents about it because I knew they wouldn't
have done shit about it. And that's what really sucks.

It would have been totally worth having that bald fuck screw with me
if I could have counted on my parents tearing ass into that school to set
things to right. But I bet Zimmerman knew I was the kind of kid who
made a good victim. The fact he was right is the really shit sandwich.

Same thing happened when I was in grade school only I did tell my
mother that my gym teacher had hurt me. Two things were done
immediately: Jack and Shit. That was worse than having a grown
man pinch my cheeks until I started crying... right in front of teacher
who also didn't do a god damn thing about it.

And people wonder why I have issues with women. Here's the long
and short of it. Women are supposed to have this almost supernatural
ability and desire to protect children and yet on multiple occasions I
have found myself on the short end of that stick. This has led me to a
particularly dark place where my very basic worthiness as a human
being has been called into question. Why am I or was I not worthy of
the kind of compassion one might show a stranger? If I saw an adult
abusing a child and didn't even know who they were, I'd get involved.
If I knew the kid or if -- god forbid -- the kid was mine, I'd be incensed.

You can't make up for that kind of mind fucking.

Addendum to Previous Post

Of course, just because I am prone to self deprication in my personal
examination doesn't give anyone who knows me license to put the blame
squarely back on me. Just because I am self aware and critical doesn't
mean I'm at fault for other people's unwillingness to put forth any effort
with me, to look inside themselves, or the fact that they don't describe
what they find in there negatively.

I hate that. I found out the hard way that going to therapy makes all the
people in your life go, "see, I told you it was his fault, he's crazy."

It's true that some crazy people go to therapy. But the really fucked up
super bat shit crazy mugs NEVER go to therapy.

Life on the Border/Cutter's Way/Crazy Wets Its Pants

I recently discovered that I have a borderline personality. I discovered
this through the time honored approach of self-reflection and self-
diagnosis. I was talking to a high school counselor the other day (a very
interesting woman) about the kind of problems kids have today that
they've always had, but that were not recognized. One such problem is
called "cutting."

Cutting is done mostly by girls though a lot of boys do it too. I used to
do it when I was in high school and had to see a shrink about it. That
was in 84 and they just called it self mutilation, a failed suicide attempt
and said you had a personality disorder so let's move on. Today,
according to this counselor, most cutters are recognized as having
borderline personalities.

A borderline personality isn't neurotic or psychotic. The old psychiatric
maxim goes like this: Neurotics build castles in the sky, psychotics move
into them. Apparently, borderline personalities build castles in the sky
and then try to get other people to move into them.

People like this are always testing things, people, relationships, the nature
of reality, truth. They can't handle their emotions and cutting gives them
a sense of control. From my own experience, this is spot on and not just
theory. I would typically do it when I was despondent and after wards I
didn't just calm down, I felt in control. I attribute this to endorphins or
something primal in the act of drawing ones own blood. It says this is my
body and I control what happens to it. I can hurt myself more than anyone
else.

Case in point. I knew this crazy fucker in high school who wasn't tough,
but he discovered that if people thought he was crazy, they'd leave him
alone. Then he realized he could unnerve or bully people with his crazy
act. He'd tell people about how crazy he was and then when he wanted
to put the whammy on you, he'd stare at you. He made me squirm one
night with his bullshit after we had a falling out. We were working at this
hamburger joint called Sam's. He was working the grill and was doing fries.
We just had our little run in the night before. I was out of control, went
home and cut up my arm pretty good. The following night, we're working
together and this cat's eye fucking me for over an hour, giving me the crazy
vibe and I was made uncomfortable. By this time, I just wanted to be left
alone.

Now this is where "crazy" runs smack into CRAZY and then wets it's
fucking pants.

After about an hour of getting the evil eye. I put my fry basket down and
looked right back at the "crazy" fucker. Then I walked right up to him,
showed him my arm with the red, infected fresh scabs running up and
down it and said, "If I'd do this to myself, what do you think I'd do to you."

In the background, the sound of gently falling urine.

Not only did I not get eye fucked again that night, the kid didn't come
near me for years. We're actually kind of friends these days and every
once in a while, I'll bring this story up or I'll be asked to retell it much
to the amusement of all. Even "crazy" digs it.

But the whole testing thing is what really convinced me that this
borderline personality profile fits me to a tee. Whenever someone
describes a type of behavior that is totally me, it's like a moment of
clarity. I would not have ever described myself as testing anything,
but I really do. Friends, family, coworkers, strangers... and they all fail.

It's as true today as it was in 1980

Workin' haa-ard to get my fee-el,
evebody wants a three-el.
They ain't anything but roll the dice,
just one mo' time.
Journey, "Don't Stop Believin'"

Litte Ditty, 'bout Og and Ogella

I don't respect anyone who talks constantly without really
saying anything but I am particularly annoyed by the ceaseless
prattling of women whose jaws are like sharks. They seem to
think if they stop moving they will die. For Christ's sake, what
do they think is going to happen if they go for 30 seconds without
saying something inane and pointless. And if they aren't talking
they're popping their fucking gum, clicking their nails on a desktop
or inventing some other way of getting attention because GOD
FORBID anybody ignore their pointless bullshit.

It must be some fucked up evolutionary side effect. I imagine
that back in the caveman days, it was somehow beneficial for
women to make sure Og noticed them. That way, he'd fuck them,
knock them up and feel obligated to take care of them. At least
until he clubbed himself to death one night because Ogella wouldn't
stop going on about how her sister's boyfriend brought her this
deer skull was totally awesome and how she wished she had one.
Of course, by then it didn't matter because she would have been
entrenched in the family and could just as easily present to Og's
younger brother Ug who had been eying her since before he went
on his first hunt.

BLAH, BLAH, FUCKING BLAH!

Fartin' Blood: The Blazin' Wings Challenge

Last night I ate 12 blazin' hot chicken wings in three and a
half (3 1/2) minutes. These fuckers were indeed blazin', too.
There are probably hotter substances out there, but not
any that I'd ever be willing to try unless I was drunk or
getting paid for it.

These were just corporate hot wings, but they were still so
hot, my lips were burning for an hour after. And not to put too
fine a point on it, but my asshole burned until noon today.
Every time I farted it was like a scene from Alien.

Cheesy Chicken Peas and Rice

I came up with a new recipe last night. I had some leftover
fried chicken from Bag-n-Save and thought, wouldn't it be
some sort of hoot if I could make a chicken and rice dish with
this? Indeed.

So two cups of rice, four cups of water, half a stick of butter,
cubed chicken with coating, a couple cups of cheese and a half
bag of peas go into the pot. Heat to boiling uncovered, cover
and simmer for 20 minutes and hey presto, you got a meal fit
for a 1950s stay at home mom.

Think I might change up my cheese choice, maybe add some
onion and broccoli or use olive oil instead of butter. The choices
are endless. Rice and cheese though, who'd'a thunk it.

Memories are made of shit (plus the Chocolate Milk Break Story)

For reasons I'd rather not go into at the moment, I have been inspired to tell
a few stories about my high school days. And why not? Memory is fleeting and
those who drink and do more of other drugs than I are much more likely to
forget the little things.

The other side of the coin, of course, is confabulation. This is the spontaneous
ability some people have to completely dis-remember past events putting
themselves in the storyline of events they were otherwise completely not party
to.

My buddy Mark S does this so often and so thoroughly that I swear he must be
schizophrenic.

For example, For about 6 months in high school, I worked at Bishop's Buffet. It
was a pretty great place to work except for the asshole who ran the place, Mr.
Poulter, his gay sidekick, Joel, and Liz Rollins, front counter manager and mother
of the biggest jerk offs in my high school, the Rollins twins.

This place was like Elephants Graveyard for old people who would flock into this
place and pay way too much to stand in line and gather their own food onto a tray
cafeteria style because it reminded them of the old days for some odd reason. The
food was OK. As an employee, I ate for half price and if a buddy was behind the
counter I could get two Salisbury steaks covered in gravy so thick no one noticed
how much meat was hidden beneath its greasy depths.

Everyone but the managers were cool too. Occasionally, some lazy front counter
bitch would ask the dishwashers to get her some ice while we were still in the middle
of our rush. But that was easy enough to resolve. The busboys would complain
because the line was backed out the window when it was they were putting one
tray with one cup on the conveyor to begin with. Also easy to resolve.

Things got busy, especially on Sundays, but we were a happy crew of teens who
knew how to blow off steam. Dunking a dude in the pot tank was one. We had this
enormous jacuzzi bathtub for all the pots and pans to soak in. It was disgusting.

Stealing food was a good way to feel like you were on top as well. Trays and trays
of orange rolls, cookies and cakes would come back to us for disposal. We would bite
the orange glaze off a roll then throw it like a grenade at the guy on the other end
of the washing machine. Good times.

But the single best thing we did for release was the CMB, the Chocolate Milk Break.
We had a walk in fridge with two doors facing in two different directions. In the fridge
was all the stuff any restaurant fridge might have including case after case of
wholesome delicious half pints of chocolate milk.

It was our wont to steal chocolate milk by the armful and either drink it in the
fridge where we could theoretically be caught at any moment or hide away with
it in the men's locker room and pound down three or four in a row. When we
were done, the dead soldiers couldn't be tossed in the trash where they might
be discovered so we through them up in the ceiling tilings. It's the typical human
approach to waste disposal: convenience now so that future generations might
pay the price.

This was 1984 and the practice of stealing chocolate milk and ditching the evidence
like a dead hooker had been going on for years, maybe as many as 8 years.
Eventually those little bits of milk at the bottom of each carton began to add
up until the smell became noticeable, then annoying, then unbearable.

Poulter and Joel had no idea what the causing the stink. They repainted the men's
locker room, they had the sewer checked out. Then they suspected a rat ...
literally. They finally checked up in the ceiling tiles to see if something had
died up there. You can imagine what they saw.

Now the first thing any suspect knew that they dynamic duo was on to them
was when they began asking the men to one at a time go "check the rat traps"
up in the ceiling. It was amateur psychology at its lame-ass best. As each
employee would stick his head up into the ceiling, he was expected to see
the empty cartons. Poulter and Joel would watch his reaction to see if they
caught a tell-tale sign of guilt.

My friend Todd M was one of those charged with "checking the traps." He
managed to pass the test with a stunning performance, "Hey you know
there's a bunch of milk cartons up here?"

He later reported to me what he saw: "There were thousands of milk
cartons up there. It was a mountain of them. I can't believe they didn't
collapse the ceiling there so many of them."

Oh for fun.

Now Mark S was never there. He didn't work at Bishop's. I can't remember
him setting foot in there while I was there. I don't doubt he ate there at
some point, but I am pretty sure I never saw him there. That didn't stop
him from saying last week that he fully remembered going into the bathroom
at Bishop's and personally smelling this overpowering odor on the assumption
that the men's room I was talking about was the one the customers used.
It was not. In fact they were no where near each other. It is literally impossible
for him to know what I was talking about since I never even smelled that
horrid stench and used to stand right underneath it.

"I'm sure I smelled it," said Mark S.
"No you didn't," replied I. "You're fucking delusional, mate."

I'm writing as hard as I fucking can

With a grand total of about 2 minutes max between calls, I am
trying to get some writing done. Odd really because when I have
all the time in the world, I don't feel motivated. Take three days
off in a row and I'm not likely to even check my e-mail, man.
Give me 30 seconds free at work and I'm like James Joyce on
speed.

The problem is motivation on more than one level. A lot of time,
I don't feel like I have much to say. I've said a great deal since
1998 and I plan to continue writing. It's just that the world seems
like such a great big conflagration waiting to happen. I used to
think things were so beautiful that I just sit down and weep at
the magnificence of it all. Now ... and maybe this is the Zoloft
talking ... my sadness is just kind of generalized. I'mso depressed
about not being able to see the world or even a good portion of my
own country that it feels better just to withrdraw.

I've got to figure things out. Even if I only go up to Indian Country
for the weekend, wouldn't it be worth it? I could make it to Ames,
Minneapolis, Kansas City, Chicago, Denver, Boulder, St. Louis and
points in between quite easily on any given two-day period. I could
experience much, meet people and open doors and horizons. So why
don't I?

I'm tired and getting more so all the time.

So I'll just keep trying when and where I can for now.

Funny how often common sense is just plain wrong

I just love it when uneducated people complain about "book smart"
people not having common sense. This makes me laugh because this
bit of homespun bullshit wisdom is just something to make the unwashed
masses feel a little bit better about the fact that they are too stupid
to pick up a fuckin' book once in a while.

"Ooo, look at me! I'm reading a book. What this orange thing on the
stove. OW! That's hot. I wonder if it will burn me again. OUCH! Oh
damn my book smarts, if only I had common sense enough to keep
my hand out of fire."

The truth is, common sense and street smarts are not some benefit
of illiteracy. And common sense is not denied those who at some point
in their lives decided to what all that philosophy and science shit is all
about. My doctor is a pretty smart guy, but if he didn't have any common
sense, he wouldn't be much of a doctor, now would he?

Meanwhile, I've seen plenty of non Rhodes scholar types riding their
bikes around town shirtless wearing jeans to go buy some more beer
which is pretty much why they are stuck riding a bike down a busy
street in the middle of the day just to go buy more beer any way. Not
too bright. Perhaps a little Nietzsche would do them some good.