This · is · supposed · to · be · torture, · not · therapy!

Man, where to begin on this one?
I’ve thought and thought about what to say in this blog, and, I’ve gotta be honest: I expected to have this posted last night, but that just didn’t happen. I had the idea, but didn’t really have the words together.
And, again, to be honest, I still don’t really have the words together, but I’m just gonna roll with the fucker, so, in the words of The Ramones, Hey, Ho, Let’s Go. (I know, there are way too many commas in that sentence. Sueth me.)
Well, today is the kick-off day for the company Biggest Loser program, and I’m stoked. I want to keep myself fairly contained right now, though I feel like a caged animal, ready to pace and prowl. But more on that in a mo…
I just want to get this off my chest. I’ve never in my life had anyone show enthusiastic support for an idea I’ve had, and I really don’t have a clue as to how to react to that. I’m deeply honored, and flattered that so many people are on the bandwagon for this thing.
Look, you guys have been here for me through this whole divorce idiocy. You’ve been my friends and my support through it all, and I can’t tell you what that means to me, because I don’t have that solid a command of the English language. So, at the risk of achieving Meatloaf-level sappiness, I gotta tell you I love you guys as though you were my own family, which, kinda-sorta, you all are, way more than some people in my real family are (or were). You’ve been my shelter through the storm, so to speak, so I’m doubly honored to see everyone taking a shine to this fitness program. Thank you.
Okay, maudlin moment over, let’s get back to this whole “caged animal” thingy.
I’m ready to get this thing started, maybe a little too ready, in the unfocused energy department. See, I was pondering things, as I like to do while I mow (and what better time to ponder, really, than while you’re mowing? You only have to stay inside the lines and not cut your toes off), and my mind turned to some of the philosophy touted in Fight Club (yes, I know what yer gonna say, Len, but bear with me here, I’m goin’ someplace with this). The whole “you have to give up”, the whole “hitting bottom” thing, it’s not about just throwing your hands up and walking away or crawling down into a bottle or shacking up with a different person every night, or the hundreds of other things a person can do to shut out life. It’s about letting go of the truly unimportant things in life, the things that make us complacent, the things that make us numb, and accepting life with all its speedbumps and pitfalls. It’s about getting rid of the illusions we build to make ourselves feel better about our lives, instead of doing what we need to be doing, which is living. Hitting bottom is realizing that illusion, the false belief that you need your TV, you need your cigarettes, you need your KFC, is just a smokescreen, and that your life is not fulfilled by any of this. Fuck everyone you want to; in the end, your life is still empty. Watch all the spirit-crushing, mind-numbing reality television you can pay for; your life is still not being written by you. Smoke all the cigarettes you want; when you’re coughing up pieces of your own tumor is too late to realize that you were running away. Get married to the first person you meet; thirty years, a divorce, and five children who despise you won’t ease the fact that you didn’t want to admit you couldn’t face up to being alone. Hitting bottom is the full realization that all you have is you, and you’d better goddamned well do something with what time you have. “You have to know, not think, KNOW, that someday you’re going to die. Until you know that, you are useless.” And giving up? Well, obviously, giving up means that you surrender all that you’ve been told you life would be and isn’t; it means that you stop relying on what other people think you should be doing; it means tearing down, brick by brick, the walls you built up around yourself so you wouldn’t have to see that you have no meaning or control, that what you call “living” is just passing time from the womb to the tomb.
And here’s the twist. When you give up, when you realize that you’re life is an illusion, and throw that to the side, what have you given up? Nothing! After, illusion is only a trick of the light, a willing bending of the neurons in your brain to make things easier and more palatable, a ghost, insubstantial and unreal. In a word, nothing. What you’ve given up is nothing. What you get back is up to you.
I need this Biggest Loser contest, not just to lose weight and get healthy. I need this so I can give up, so I can realize I don’t need cigarettes or Coke or Cheez-Its, I don’t need television or video games, I don’t need to be married or have a girlfriend to order me about because I can’t decide for myself. I don’t need these illusions I’ve been existing with for 37 years. I’m giving up.
I don’t care if I win; that’s not the issue. I need to do something for myself. I need to finish something I start, without someone telling me what to do and how to do it. I need to know for myself that I’m capable of doing something. I need to know for myself if I can live, and not just exist.
That said, good luck to everyone that takes part in this thing.





Peace up yours!
OUT!!!

So, as I write this, I’m coming up on hour 36 without a cigarette. Thank God for the Patch, eh?! So, even though I’m not really nicking per se, it’s still just the desire to have something to do with my hands that’s just going to drive me nuts, and, I suspect, there’s going to be a certain amount of anxiety and depression along with the whole deal. Add to that the reduction in caffeine intake that comes from phasing out Cokes, plus diet change and exercise additions, and my mood swings should hit Warp 9.99 in about three days. And to think, I wasn’t grinding my teeth ENOUGH… Still, though, once the Balance Board gets back and is working properly, I can start getting variable workout in motion. That should get the mood swings some outlet to use.
So, with that in mind, that might explain why lately (as in the last couple of days), I’ve found myself in a bit of a funk, wondering if I might not really be all to blame for the way things have gone down, that maybe I am a monster. Funny thing about that, though… I just don’t really FEEL like a monster. I mean, yeah, I did my share of things that ruined things, but, pound for pound, I don’t believe that I’m nearly the Anti-Christ. Maybe just a minor imp, or, at best, a lesser minion of evil, like Azrael or something.
Just me, I’m sure. Still, though, I finally found my inner voice. It’s really pissed off, and sounds a lot like Henry Rollins, which is ironic, because I was watching Rollins yesterday, but what it said to me made a lot of sense. This is my time of testing, And yeah, I’m losing a lot right now, but as long as I stay strong and learn to stand, what I gain will be so much more than what I’ve lost; when I look back in six months, I won’t even recognize myself as the same person.
So, I guess for now, at least, I need to find the proper outlet for the rage and aggression that takes hold at inopportune moments (like checking people into the hotel, church functions, or sex), cause anger is something I have to live with; suppressing it is a decision I made that isn’t working.
So, I guess that’s the end of the current round of introspective bullshit. Now, on to the entertainment portion of tonight’s program.

Following this blog, there will be a complete breakdown of the pending economic collapse, with a detailed layout, charts, graphs, and emergency exits which consist of a large pine box, a gun loaded with one bullet, and last rites administered by an official of the religion of your own choosing.

I’d like to bitch about the Muzak that plays in the hotel lobby. Seriously, I’d like to bitch about it, but the truth is it’s actually not too bad. There’s some good tunes in there, and, after hearing Nirvana’s Come as You Are as ACTUAL Muzak in Wal-Mart one night, what we have here ain’t too bad.

Come to think about, what’s the purpose of Muzak anyway? I always thought it was developed as a subliminal way to cut down on the urge to shoplift or cause general mayhem when one is in a public place. I think there should be a nice, loud, hard-to-miss announcement when one walks through the door: “Attention, potential shoplifters! Any illegal activities occurring within these walls will be dealt with by shooting you in the kneecaps, then leaving you for the Dobermans to work over! Thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart! And remember, only 283 shopping days until Christmas!”

Speaking of Xmas, it’s sad to envision a world made up of 365 days worth of Xmas sales, Xmas lights, Xmas trees, endless toy production to compete for kids’ attention at Xmas, and Xmas itself. But it’s coming. If the corporate vultures who took the meaning out of the holiday have their say, we’ll be hearing Jingle Bells until this time next year, when the Muzak flips to Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. Fuck Thanksgiving (although that one’s already plowed under by the commercialized Xmas frenzy), Fuck Halloween, Fuck the Fourth of July, just one big, year-round smorgasbord of Xmas cheer. And thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart.

Okay, I can own up. There’s a fairly hefty amount of vitriol going on behind blue eyes. I’ll put a little more thought into these rants next time ‘round, ‘kay?

More lame call-in excuses!

“There’s a tear in my beer, so I won’t be in today.”

“My drunken driving caused a fifteen go-kart pileup this morning. The cops are holding me until I sober up.”

“I’ve declared today a national holiday.”

“customers. to disturbing be may It today. backwards speaking I’m”

“I’m not really sure what gout is, but I think I have it. I’m just gonna take some Robitussin and hole up for the day.”

“The volatile political climate is stressing me out.”

“You know those commercials where they say ‘If an erection lasts more than four hours, call your doctor’? Yeah…”

“Burned a hooker with my crack pipe. Send bail.”

“The world shifts, man. That’s all I’m sayin’. The world shifts.”

“My friends and I have a bet how long the new 90210 will last, and I have to stay here to see who wins.”

If the elastic waistband doesn’t snap back wash after wash, you might wanna lose some weight.

Peace up yours!
OUT!!!

Okay, I need to vent this one.

So, I'm logging onto myspace, to see who owns who among my work homies at this point, and there's this huuuuge ad for High School Music 3: Senior Year at the top of the login page. I felt this rolling in my gut that has nothing whatsoever to do with the ulcer I've been promising myself for the last few years. Now, I've been a Disney hater for years, since my video store days, in fact. It started with the whole "sell a classic movie for a month, then sling it in the vault" shit. Now, I hate to get all maudlin here, but those movies were classic for A REASON: they were GOOD. The animation quality still holds up to anything Disney churns out today, the stories are better and more original than what they make today, and a hundred years from now, people will still remember Peter Pan and Snow White a hell of a lot more than Little Mermaid 2: Spit in the Ocean or Cinderella 3: Ugly Stepsisters Do Manhattan or what the hell ever. Walt Disney had meant for EVERYBODY to enjoy these movies, not for them to be used as a lame marketing ploy. And I always felt for the parents who would come into the store, begging me to sell them our copy of Sleeping Beauty (Cinderella, Snow White... insert title here) because their little girl just LUFFS that movie, and she's worn out her copy, but since it's now IN THE VAULT, they can't find her another one to replace it with. Obviously, I couldn't sell them our copy, because then WE wouldn't have it, and can't get another since it's IN THE VAULT, and by the time it's out of THE VAULT, the kid'll be too old to give a rat's ass about getting another copy of it. There was a time when it was all about the magic, the make-believe, when a kid would watch in wide-eyed wonder and BELIEVE these fairy tales. I always thought that Walt himself didn't give a fuck if he turned a dime on these movies; he made something special, regardless of cost or profit, for everyone to enjoy. Thank you, Disney execs, for ruining a man's vision and holding childrens' dreams hostage so you soulless fucks can line your pockets.

But that brings me up to the point of this rambling bit of monologue. The Disney channel has been inflicting a steady stream of brainless, soul-devouring schlock that has been eating the minds of our kids for the last few years. Anybody remember Lizzie McGuire? Thank you, Disney, for giving the world Hillary Duff. And lest we forget, Britney Spears was once a Mouseketeer. Sensing a pattern here, kids? And now we have a variety of intelligence-crushing "entertainment" to choose from: Witches of Waverly Place, The Suite Life of Paris and Nicole or what the fuck ever, High School Musicrap, and my favorite, Hannah Montana. Have any of you guys ever been subjected to this shit? It's more sinister than the Ludovico treatment; it doesn't just suck out the urge to violence, it deprives these poor, unsuspecting kids of brain cells on the most basic levels. I'm appalled by the continuing portrayal of adults in these shows as being either uptight rulemongers, or witless simpletons trying desperately to be cool, while the kids are all vapid cookiecutter characters of two dimensions or less, portrayed by pseudo-talented "actors" that are really nothing more than this year's fresh faces/next year's Playboy spreads and alcoholic never-wases. The writing is sub-par, at best, revolving around the same trite, hackneyed situations. And the most insipid part is the mass-marketing campaigns built around this shite. How much money has the Disney corporation generated from the Hannah Montana "phenom" alone? My older girls have Hannah Montana CD's, clothes, school supplies, movies, you fuckin' name it. (Not my doing, by the way.) I mean, I guess you can trace that crap all the way back to ThE Beatles, but at least the Fab Four could SING and PLAY THEIR OWN INSTRUMENTS. They had this little thing called TALENT; that's why they'll still be around loooong after Hannah Montana has flashed her cooch for the tabloid vultures during an all-night drug binge at Lindsey Lohan's place for the fiftieth time. And you know that's gonna be the end result of THAT trainwreck; Miley Cyrus cruising the Britney Spears Highway to personal meltdown. Once again, thank you, Disney execs, thank you for contributing to the dumbing down of American youth just so you fucks can score a quick couple dozen Benjamins.

I know, I know. If my kids ever read this, I'll never be able to rest, sine they know where I sleep. But, there's still some hope there for them. At least I can get them to listen to "Weird Al" and Siouxsie and the Banshees (but as long as Kaylee refers to Robert Smith's hair as "really weird", I guess The Cure is out), so I can hope for the best. I must introduce them to the Chaos...

Speaking of Chaos, I caught the theatrical trailer for Cthulhu the movie. Now, granted, whenever I see that unhallowed name, I get wood the likes of which Viagra can't touch, but let's face it: the track record for converting Lovecraft to film is abyssmal at best (even though Dagon was actually a fairly serviceable adaptation of Shadow Over Innsmouthe). There's a plethora of disturbing images in it, granted, but the worst one is Tori Spelling getting her funk on with the main character. Two things here: Tori Spelling has a nice rack and all, but she has a face that would stop a clock, not to mention all the talent of an aardvark. If we're going to tap the 90210 cast for our horror fix, at least throw some Gabrielle Carteris in there, she was the only one I could stroke my poker over. And two, why, dear God in Heaven, WHY, does any adaptation of Lovecraft have to have some blatant sexual element to it? Did Lovecraft have to resort to T&A to convey the cosmic horror? Fuck no! Why is no one capable of following his example? Dammit, that shit pisses me off. Call me a purist, but I like to keep my horror and my smut separate. And get someone more appropriate than Tori fucking Spelling!

Alciatrics- the newest branch of self-help. And I'm all for it, personally...

Why are we selling soccer balls in our gift shop? I could see Park Vista golf balls, given how many people come to the hotel and play golf while they're staying there, but... SOCCER BALLS?! The hell?!

More call-in excuses:

"I'm in the seventh hour of my Keanu Reeves moviethon. I'll have to rest after Point Break, but after that is Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey, and I can't afford to stop till after that."

"I haven't crawled out of the bottle yet."

"I can't bear to look at people without my gun today."

"I'm still holding out for Michelle Kwan to appear at the Olympics again."

"I'm studying for my random drug test."

"It's my manager's birthday, and I feel it would do her well to work in my place today." (Happy birthday, Joanne!)

"Klaatu Barada Nikto."

"My other personality is holding me hostage while we wait for the credit history of everyone in the country to get erased."

"I mistook the Super Glue for Preparation H in the dark. I might be in after I clear up this little problem..."

"My attitude needs adjusting."

Mystery Science Theater 3000 still delivers, even in the post-divorce world. Wish the guys were still in orbit, y'know?



Peace up yours!
OUT!!!

Sew, hen the day springs bright and sunny-side up over the hills and valleys and hills of the mountainsides, my mourning begins when my evening ends up here. I get Hungary, so I Czech my clapboards, for I desire a peanut buttock and jellyfinger sammitch. Butt, after consulting the cabinets and Congress, there be no jellyfinger for my general constellation. So, I must saddle for a jam and cheese session with not a bit of balogna to be seen under the houseplans. From there, I go here, and from here, it's work, work, work until the crows come home before I do.

Yeah, I know, I may need some deep, Adlerian therapy.

As my fearless coworkers know, the nights I have to take my daughter back to her mother's apartment are not happy occasions for me. I tend to leave there in a foul mood, and my evenings generally go straight to hell from there. So, I've discovered, it's not a particularly good idea for me to listen to this particular tune:



I love the song, but it's not conducive to my mood under those circumstances.

If you ever need a quick, harsh reminder that no matter what you think of yourself, you're not superior to anyone, just go do a load of laundry in a laundromat in a redneck town. I don't care what you think of yourself, it's a wakeup call for ya. You're not special, and you're not any better than anyone else in there. It's refreshing.

So, it looks like the Biggest Loser thing at work is a go. I dunno how to handle that; I've never had a good idea before. XD

I can't believe my dogs had the gall to look shocked when I gave them a bath last night. So what if it was ten at night? They ran off; they get hosed. How dare they try and guilt trip me over that? Who do they think they are?

I know this sounds bad, but I just can't get worked up over the Olympics anymore. They need to liven up the games; they're too passeé. They should take a page from American Gladiators, and come up with some really off-the-wall shit. Human Catapulting, steel cage free-for-alls, blindfolded vasectomies... The list could be infinite. Why should we settle for watching people flip around bars or pick up barbells, when we could be taking home the gold in bumfighting or nitpicking? Now, there's a sport for some people I know, nitpicking.

If a comet hit the Earth, we'd all die. If it passed close enough to scare the shit out of everyone, but not do any real damage, that would be a lot more entertaining to me. Could you imagine all the ass-kissing that would ensue once you realized that you were gonna live after all, and you really didn't need to push that kid down the stairs to try and save your own miserable life? That's what I wanna see; humanity slapped in the face with its own baser nature. That's where the honesty is.

I'm not cynical. I just hate people.



Peace up yours!
OUT!!!

Tired of Hollyweird thinking it's cool to put Paris Hilton in a non-sex-related motion picture? Sick and tired of watching the same old over-hyped schlockCloverfield, and not being able to do anything about it? Does your colon clinch whenever you discover that Kevin Costner still has a career?

Well, store your bile no more!

In what I hope will be a concerted effort to get off my lazy butt and get my house in shape, I've decided to throw down with a MSTing at my crib, and all my homies in the Newport/Sevier County/Morristown/Greeneville/Johnson City/Knoxvegas area are invited!

Now, my question to you guys is this:

I want to do a double feature, but haven't decided whether to do two episodes of MST3K, two movies to be lambasted, or the combo package of one episode and one movie to hurl your bile at. And this is where you guys come in!

Interested parties should lemme know you're interested (I'm looking at the first Monday of September), plus which combination of entertainment appeals to you most. It's BYOB, but I'll provide the eats, so let me know for sure if you're gonna be there, so I'll know how much bacon, string cheese and Hamdingers to stock up on. Sleeping space will be provided for those too drunk to operate, but no barfing on the dog. Directions will be provided as needed.

Okay, I just wanna start this one out by saying, YES, I was LATE to work. At some point in the wee small hours, my power flickered out, so my alarm clocks were flashing when the dog went through the room, barking his head off at something or other. The first thing that flashed through my head was "Murgleblargh," which is the first thing that usually goes through my head when I get up. Then I realized that it looked waaaay too bright to be five-thirty (but not too bright to be seven-fifteen, which is what time it actually was). So I call in and tell my manager Joanne what happened, and, instead of inventing one of my award-winning call-in excuses, I went lame and stuck with THE TRUTH. Now I'm takin' shit about my dog coming in and telling me what time it was. Thanks, Joanne. For the record, my dog was too busy solving quadratic equations and finishing up his thesis on quantum mechanics to bother with something so trivial as waking me up on time. Seriously, my dog takes out the trash, changes my oil, and splits atoms on the side. If I can get him to quit rolling in his own poop, I could make a fortune off this mutt...

The drawback to being a highly amusing motherfucker is that whenever I'm genuinely pouring out my heart and soul, people STILL think I'm just being funny. Thanks for being supportive, you pricks! XD

Profanity comes pretty fucking easy for me, goddammit. I need to toilet brush my potty mouth...

I've been watching Dark City like all week, and it sounds waaay sweet with the surround sound kickin'. I freaking love that movie, especially the fact that the background music is as constant as the pervasive darkness. That, and the fact that Richard O'Brien is creepy as hell, yes?

Call-in excuses for being late to work! *special edition*

"Happy Hour just ended. Surely you don't expect me to be in NOW, in THIS condition..."

"Well, there are really two seven o'clocks, and, in terms of seven p.m., I'll still be early."

"I'm paying respects to our honored dead with an hour of not working."

"I'll be in when I'm done blogging."

"I was watching Fight Club last night, and that Brad Pitt was just amazing. I'll be in when I decide if I'm just straight and impressed, or really in the closet."

"I'll be there as soon as I get my car keys away from the stripper."

"I'm trying to talk a friend out of getting married, but it's slow going. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"I'd be on time if this were Mountain Time."

"Being on time is against my agnosticism."

I have plans for my slowly growing collection of gold dollars. Evil, evil plans...

My friend Megan made the statement that the Jedi Council held as much power as the Catholic Church. Not that I like to combine things, you know, but... Howzabout St. Luke of the Bionic Hand? St. Anakin the Whiney? St. Yoda of the Divine Fortune Cookie? St. Mace Windu of the Badass Purple Lightsaber? (And be honest, wouldn't you just love to hear him say "I have had enough of these motherfuckin' Sith in this motherfuckin' Force!")

One of the huge plusses to this whole divorce thing? I can now listen to music in my car that doesn't suck...

Henry Rollins was right: "Solitude is a hard-won ally, faithful and patient."

Peace up yours!
OUT!!!

I suspect that massive work stress, combined with chronic sleep problems, piled onto divorce stress and separation from my daughter, may be starting to taking its toll. I just can't cope anymore, and I think the Strange Days have begun in truth...

I've been fussed at by several coworkers because I came into work the Saturday with a hangover.Actually, it wasn't the hangover that prompted it, but the fact that I'd been drinking alone, in a bad mood, after taking my daughter back to Knoxvegas. People, puh-lease, this is the second time I got drunk in four months. Lay off! I can't seem to unwind anymore; not even golf relaxes me.

I suspect that I'm still coming to terms with my status as ronin. I need to embrace my destiny. Or something...

Despite being a disciple of Disorder (and I realize I'll prolly have to turn in my badge and Little Orphan Annie decoder ring for saying this), I do not believe in perfect Chaos. Nor do I believe in perfect Order. Chaos will eventually burn its own energy out as Order is imposed on it by degrees; Order will always be undermined by disorder and Chaos. One cannot exist without the other. That being said, I'd still tap Kate Beckinsale's ass in a vat of Jell-O.

The other day, I saw a link called "5 Tips for Landing a Great Guy." I'm sure that somewhere in that link is another link for "Now You've Landed a Great Guy: 5 Tips to Crush His Spirit and Break His Heart." We live in a society where the nice guys are worth shit. Alice Cooper was right: "No More Mister Nice Guy."

After being infatuated with the idea of orthogynecology, I thought there should be more combined fields of medicine, such as:

Proctocraniology, for people who have their heads up their asses. (Our guests would be perfect for this one)

Psychogastrointerotomy, to help people deal emotionally with their flatulence.

Fashiocardiology (crossing medicine with fashion here), for people with their heart on their sleeve.

Veterinarydermelectrolosys, for removing those unsightly goat hairs from your moles.

I think hurricanes should have more butch-sounding names. I'd be way more terrified of Hurricane Bitchslap than I would be Hurricane Neil. Hurricane Crotchbinder, Hurricane Full Nelson, Hurricane Kidneycracker, Hurricane Splenectomy, Hurricane Jocklock (and if it pulls an Ivan and comes back for seconds, they can upgrade it to Hurricane Double Jocklock)... See how much more impact we give these things if we use our balls during the naming process?

Excuses to use when you're pulled over for speeding (in Pigeon Forge):

"I've got to get this thing up to 88 so the flux capacitor will work." (This one might actually work if you happen to drive a DeLorean.)

"I need a toilet like NOW, 'cause I'm prairie doggin' here."

"I'm from Jersey, where we don't have mountains. I don't deal well with it, so I'm getting a running start." *ducks the blunt object aimed at my head*

"I heard the Krispy Kreme was on fire."

"Wow! My horoscope said I'd meet a tall, handsome stranger in a uniform, but hey! You'll do."

"I heard the New Kids were touring again and I lost control in my excitement." *blocks the groin kick*

"CSI comes on in fifteen minutes, and I was hoping they had some tips on how to properly dispose of the body in my trunk."

"I was speeding so you wouldn't notice my tags were expired."

Until my handwriting improves, I'll continue to write with my own ass.

The moment you've all been waiting for, more call-in excuses:

"My caustic wit is interacting with my bile duct."

"I was so stoked to get to work that I got pulled over for speeding. Then it all went to hell."

"I'm making a beer run. In Canada. Everyone knows that's where the best beer is."

"Kate Beckinsale called me, and she has a vat of Jell-O."

"I'm having one of those days where I repeat myself."

"I'm having one of those days where I repeat myself."

"The shark still has my 'nads."

"I'm still touching my inner child."

I just wanna give a HUUUUGE shout out to LJ for the autosave feature, it's a boon when working on these shit work Dells.

Nothing in this world is free; the charges are just buried.

Peace up yours!
OUT!!!

Okay, before we slide into more random goodness, there's something I want to get off my chest, and I'm not talking about my shirt. I've been wrestling lately with the whole nagging suspicion that I am a loser.

I really have no idea if I have any concrete proof to back this suspicion up, other than the many years that that word has been used in conjunction with a basic description of my personality. And before anyone starts getting up in arms, I just wanna point out that the term has been bandied about long before I was ever married, so there is no direct dig towards my ex-wife. Am I a loser? Lessee...

If used in terms of my marriage, then yes, I am a loser. I couldn't keep my family together, and I pay for that every fucking night I don't get to tuck my daughter in to sleep, or rub my ex-wife's back until she falls asleep.

In terms of where my life has gone so far, yes, I am a loser. I work front desk at a hotel in a third-rate resort town, taking abuse on a daily basis from the lowest common denominator that we cater to. I've dropped college like a hot potato more times than I care to think about, because I have no set direction in life, and I pay for that every day I get out of bed with a feeling of dread and lost hope.

In terms of my own art and writing, then I'm a borderline loser. I really have not done anything with my talents in those areas that I can look back on with any real pride. Fortunately, I can remedy this situation, if I can harness my will and get my thumb out of my ass. So the verdict is still out on that one...

But, if used in terms of whether or not I've put a gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger, no, I am not a loser. It might make things easier for some people if I did, it would certainly make them considerably happier. But, hate to disappoint them, it ain't gonna happen. If for no better reason than I will not give them that pleasure, it ain't gonna happen. So, not a loser there.

Have I ever been openly malicious and done whatever I could to get what I want? No, I have not, so, not a loser there, either. Certainly, I'm guilty of making bad choices, but you show me someone this side of Jesus Christ who hasn't, and I'll show you the world's greatest liar. But I never, never set out to deliberately use and/or destroy someone just for the sheer hell of it. Not a loser there, either.

I dunno, maybe it's all the years of hearing that word tossed at me (usually by various significant others' parents, but that's by no means the entire list), maybe I've come to believe it myself. But, when my youngest daughter comes up to me and throws her arms around me and says "I love you" or "I miss you" with no prior urging to do so, it tells me there's still hope for me in there somewhere.

Anyways, on to the good stuff.

Sign outside a roadside house of ill repute:
"Brenda's In'N'Out Express Brothel: Over 25 Million came and went."

Have you ever noticed that no one ever goes to the dentist with a tongue ache?

So, my friend at work, John, repeated our manager, Joanne's, statement that she would rather go to a gynecologist than a dentist, then pondered the question of why should would want to see a lady doctor about her toothache. It seemed to me that that would make for an interesting field of medicine, orthogynecology. Granted, the pap smear would be considerably more uncomfortable, but it would add a whole new meaning to "root canal"...

How many people agree with me that "The Shining" should be required viewing if you have a job in the hotel business?

I can totally get behind the idea of virgin sacrifice. Who wants to keep women who don't put out around?

Cheez-Its are nummy. I know I've said that before, but it definitely bears repeating.

At some point in the future, I plan to look back on it all, and wonder where it all went wrong. Then I'll wash the blood off my hands, and get back to spreading the lime.

More call-in excuses:

"I won't be in today. I had no idea that they actually ENFORCE the sodomy laws..."

"The relationship of Venus with Scorpius tells me that if I come to work today, I'll be targeted by a serial tickler."

"My orthogynecologist needs to check my braces, but he's all out of K-Y jelly..."

"Michael Jackson touched me, and my parents are suing."

"Redrum! Redrum!!"

"Wendy. Darling. LIGHT of my LIFE. You didn't let me finish my sentence. I said I'm not gonna hurt ya. I'm just gonna bash your brains in." (Yes, "The Shining" again, but I just loves that line, and I can picture your boss's face when s/he hears it.)

"I have serious PMS, so I'm reviewing my Kotex stocks."

"I'm still figuring out the best wording for my bomb threat."

"I found Jesus. He's in my trunk, and we're currently fleeing the Feds."

"Mel Gibson found out I'm Jewish."

"My daughter was voted 'Most Likely to Conceive' by her classmates, so we're celebrating."

"The new 'X-Files' movie comes out in a couple of weeks, and I'm downloading Gillian Anderson pics to keep me company in the meantime."

"I am Kirok!" (Let your boss figure that one out.)

"My explosive flatulence is forcing me to stay in my room today."

I think I'm gonna start embedding a music video that goes along with some part or other of these verbal meanderings. Here's the one that goes along with this:



Henry Rollins has a scary neck. I worship him, because he would kill me with his neck tendons if I don't.

Too many people have died way too young. Too bad it wasn't anyone I've been romantically linked to.

Okay, that last one was just the bitterness talking, but sometimes it just needs to get out and go away. It might steal my Cheez-Its if it doesn't...

I think that should do it for now.

Peace up yours!
OUT!!!

Okay, before I launch into more brain droppings (thank you, George), I really need to get this one off my chest...

We have cheerleaders in house. Now, for some of you who've been there with me, you know the bile that rises on these occasions. However, for the uninitiated, I detest these gum-snapping little bimbos with a mortal passion. "But you hate people anyway, what's the difference?" I can hear you all saying. True, true, but there are certain groups of people that engender that special ire that I reserve for the truly worthless. Religious groups are some of my favorites, too, but that's a whole 'nother rant. But these cheerleaders are right up there with them. Now, not to get too stereotypical (there actually ARE intelligent cheerleaders in the world, I've been told), but generally speaking, these little nits fall into two categories: 1. Their mothers are fat, bitter, disgruntled bitches who are mad at the world because their lives didn't turn out the way they wanted them to, so they make their daughters pay for their bile. I don't blame the daughters in this instance, and can even forgive them their worthlessness (to a degree). You can even tell which kids these are, because they're rude and disrespectful, just like mommy. Not saying these are good qualities, you dig, but it makes a sad sort of sense. Look at the role models... And 2. The ones that are truly too stupid to make it in the outside world. "What's two plus two?" "Green?" Here's your pom-poms and miniskirt, get on the pyramid. These are the ones I truly despise, the ones who grow up and still paint their fingernails alternately black and red, with white polka dots. These are the prime example of worthless people. And their mothers and coaches are down here, defending cheerleading as a "sport." Folks, cheerleading, at best, is an after-school activity, at worst, a dumping ground for kids who make Forrest Gump look like Stephen Hawking. It's not a sport, it's an accessory. Get on the short bus with the rest of the laggards, and quit trying to make something out of nothing.

Anyways, on to the randomness...

If fate kicks me in the ass again someday, and I ever have another daughter, I'm gonna name her Helena. Middle name: Handbasket. If she asks me if she was planned, I'll tell to look closely at her name, and tell me the answer.

Pepto Bismol tablets make pretty good sidewalk chalk; they just don't last very long, and you definitely don't wanna swallow 'em after you're done.

More sick day excuses:

"My Brazilian waxing went horribly wrong."

"I'm lost in Paris Hilton. Send a search party."

"I'm in Conneticut, disposing of the body. I won't be back in time."

"I'm too busy smoking. I haven't got time to work."

"My Tourette's is acting up again ASSFACE! ASSFACE! I won't be an effective member of the hospitality industry in my current state BALL LICKER! I would only bring shame to the hotel today CUNT HAIR! AAAR! AAARR!!"

"Loss of self-esteem has crippled me, I won't be in today."

"I can't perform my job out of bed."

"I have a toothache!" *ducks behind a wall while manager throws sharp objects at me*

In our manager's defense, why do people give you ridiculously obvious advice when you're in distress? "I have a toothache." "You should go to a dentist." No shit, Sherlock! My response would be "I'd rather go to a proctologist, in case they have to go in through the rectum."

I have to admit, I've been working on this blog since like 9:30 this morning. It's hard to focus on these important things when being bombarded by something so trivial and annoying as customers.

That's it for now, kids. If I have time tonight, and the prostitutes finish their business quickly, I'll put up a bit more of teh random goodness.

Peace up yours!
OUT!!!

Some perfectly servicable excuses to use if you call in sick to work...

"I'm sorry, I can't be there today. My stigmata's acting up. I'm all eat up with the Holy Spirit."

"I lost my virginity somewhere, and I have to find it before I go to the gynecologist again."

"The voices tell me I may have done the Bad Thing again..."

"The police found my stash of kiddie porn, so I won't be in to work for five to ten years."

"Your wife won't let me leave."

"Mistress Raven had a coronary after she tied me up. I had to pick up the cell phone with my butt cheeks to call in, so right now, I'm talking out of my ass. Send help."

"My ennui and my occasional irregularity are both flaring up again. I have hung chow, but I just don't care, so I won't be in today."

"The Solarians left the anal probe in, and I just can't drive like this."

"If I come in today, I'll be bringing my l'il friend. Is that really what you want?"

I may have a bit too much free time on my hands after all.

I'm seeking the release that suicide and ice cream just can't provide.

Incidentally, now that the quotation marks have disappeared, that means the sick excuses are finished. Just wanted to keep some of you from getting confused. And yes, I made them all up, thank you very much, and I fully intend to use them all before the week is out.

Although that "suicide and ice cream" crack may make a good excuse after all...

From time to time, I'm filled with a rage that I can't bottle up, but I can't release, either. Do I feel guilty about that? Hell yes, it pisses me right off. It's one of those vicious circle things...

Is there such a thing as a Sid Vicious circle?

My circle of friends is made up of a bunch of squares.

I'm looking for the perfect hourglass figure, but I just don't think I have the bustline for it...

I suspect the friends I just called squares may be breaking out the torches and the noose now.

Yes, I'm practicing my one-liner skills.

The longer I write this rambling diatribe, the more I put off folding laundry and vacuuming. I'm getting something accomplished, dammit!

How's my quitting smoking going? Let's just say my nicotine patches are taking a smoke break, and leave it at that...

Yeah, in retrospect, I have an easier time painting while listening to Enya than I do writing this stupid bullshit while listening to Enya. I should be listening to Denis Leary and George Carlin right now, but that means I have to walk out to my car to get them, and I'm just too busy avoiding that housework bullet to make the extra effort.

How am I coping with my divorce? One Day At A Time. That Schneider was a funny motherfucker. Now, I have a shiny quarter here for anyone who reads that last sentence and completely understands what I just said, so I didn't just totally waste that joke.

Guy came up to the desk today, looked me straight in the face, and said "Dollywood." That was it, just "Dollywood." So I said "Dolly wouldn't." I just love that priceless look of blank incomprehension that answers like that generate. (That last one was just for my coworkers, who feel the depths of my hatred for the Dollywood tickets we've had inflicted on us.)

Bill Cosby once described one of his daughters as The Informant. I'd like to bestow that title on one of my daughters; however, they each do a pretty good job ratting the others out in their own way. I should probably discourage that, but I find that I enjoy the discontent among the ranks. If they keep it up, I should have a pretty clear picture of what each one's up to when they start dating in a few years.

Speaking of my daughters dating, someone once said they could see me as the dad who polishes the shotgun whenever the boyfriend comes over. I want to discourage that belief right now. I don't like guns, I don't trust guns, and I refuse to ever own a gun. Guns are for pussies. I'll be the machete-sharpening dad who's chock-full of ideas on how to dispose of the pieces.

Incidentally, I'm also pretty sure I'll be the first dad in the history of the world to tell the boyfriend that if my daughter's not home by ten, I've got a bag of lime with his name all over it.

I'm not a violent person. I just like to let the homicide out to play every now and then. It's good for it.

Peace up yours!
OUT!

There are times I want to place speakers in the kitchen at work, where no one will ever find them, and play a looped recording of cows being slaughtered at maximum volume. I believe in entertaining the guests while they wait on the elevators...

I never have two night stands, because I usually stub my toe on one in the dark. One night stands all I need. (If you have to ask what that's all about, obviously, I'm not going to waste time explaining the mechanics of a pun to you. I'll simply hit you with my stone arm and fire off a snappy one-liner as I light my cigar.)

When people check in, and they ask me what floor they're on, I usually draw blank stares when I tell them they're in the lobby...

People are fucking stupid. Don't believe me? Work my job for a day.

For some reason, whenever I check in people from Newport (where I live), I still look at their drivers license for the zip code. Der-hey...

I feel like a total hypocrit when I get on my kids to clean their room. I remember how my room used to look, and I feel I just can't say anything. At least I knew where everything was, though...

If check out is at 11:00, why is check in not until 4:00? Because no one has invented the self-cleaning room yet, you asshole.

I agree with my co-worker John. I feel sorry for Tiger Woods. I mean, his surgery recovery time is six months to a year, and even then, who knows if he'll play as well as he did pre-surgery? He has a family to support, for chrissakes! Let's start a collection for him.

At some point in the near future, I plan to make my manager snort while laughing in front of a guest. I need goals, easily-attainable goals.

That's all for now. Peace up yours!

Just some random thoughts before I fall over...

I hate surreal days. I know this sounds borderline-hypocritical from a disciple of Chaos, but it's true. It seems like whenever things around me become weird, they continue in that pattern until everything has been changed. The last time it happened to me, it started with my manager getting fired, and ended with my wife leaving me. This time 'round, my friend Allen got fired over not selling some damn Dollywood tickets to some laggard tourist. Plus, I currently have a severely pulled muscle in my side/back, so needless to say, my golf game is on hold, which is the ironic part, since it's a golf-related injury. (Funny, I always figured a really good golfing accident should end with a trip to the dentist, or a driver inserted into into some body cavity. A strained muscle or two seems like a pussy way out to me...). Now I fear where these strange days will end up. I will NOT be surprised if my car bursts into flames, my kids are abducted by aliens, and/or my dick rusts off from lack of use...

Wall-E was a totally excellent movie. Scary thing is, I can see myself as the loner who gets a little (a lot) eccentric in his extended isolation, then falls head over heels over the first little robot that lands in my sector to look for plant life.

Seeing Chris Barrie playing any character other than Arnold J. Rimmer hurts my brain.

I can make those around crack a smile, or even laugh; yet I lack the ability to make myself happy. I suspect my underwear might be a bit binding...

If the hotel where I work is supposed to be "full service," where the hell do I go to get a blowjob?

I love Isaac Asimov's writing style. Just "Here's your characters, get on the bus, let's go!" None of that tedious, plodding character overdevelopment like you find in the New Testament.

Have you ever thought you were making real progress getting over somebody, then you're talking to them and inadvertently make them laugh over something goofy you've said? Not a fake, forced laugh, but a real expression of amusement? And when you do that, does it all come crashing home how desperately you want to be back with that person? I suspect the strange days have just begun...

Strange Days is the name of a song by The Doors, as well as the album on which it appears. Strange Days is also the name of a cyberpunk movie that bombed horribly, and starred Ralph Fiennes. Ralph Fiennes plays Lord Voldemort in the Harry Potter movies, but before that, he played John Steed in the rather off-the-wall film version of The Avengers. The Avengers, likewise, didn't do very well in theaters. All this just goes to show that, no matter what, I'd still happily fuck Uma Thurman in a public bathhouse.

Random thoughts are fun to write down. Except when they suddenly dry up on you. I suspect I need to be watching a movie with Kate Beckinsale in it, so I'd have the double excuse to look away from the computer for ninety minutes, and flog my dong a couple of times.

Although it's currently 1:41 am, July 2nd, 2008, I can still hear the detonation of fireworks somewhere down the street. Every year, about the middle of June, tents are erected in the parking lots of every major shopping area around town for the sole purpose of selling fireworks; they then disappear like a fog in the sun the day after the 4th. I say this to lead up to the fact that fireworks are illegal in this county. I tried to think of a joke here, but it was still along the sexual lines, and I didn't want to set up too obvious a pattern, lest the Thought Police should show up at my door...

I have one cigarette left; then I'm back on the patch. Again. Bite me.

Well, I think that about sums it up. I need to sack out, because the girls are over. Enjoy the randomness.

Okay, I know I should've written this earlier, like Monday night, maybe, but it's been a pretty busy week, especially with kids over and all, but now I have a couple of minutes to type this out.

So, needless to say, the week started out rather fucked, what with getting to work and finding out that George Carlin had died the previous night. Notice I didn't say "passed away" or "expired." That's not what George would've wanted, now, is it? Still, there's another unconventionally sane voice in a world descending into perpetual stupidity gone. Needless to say, I was depressed. For a while, anyway, then it dawned on me how incredibly selfish I was being. If I was down about how the week was starting out, imagine how George must feel. So, I decided to perk up, and improve my outlook on things. I never heard him say anything about how to approach divorce, but I like to picture him saying something like: "Why the fuck be depressed about getting a divorce? Hell, that's the best time to ask for the most off the wall shit you can think of. The worst your ex can say is no, right? You've just become sexually deprived, there's no one who's gonna go down on you now, right? Demand that ex provides the funding for your hookers for a year."

I feel lots better now. :D

And, on the plus side, I finally got my surround sound back up and running. Hellboy never sounded better.

Well, admittedly, it has been a while since I really posted anything in here, so I guess it's past time I wrote something. Anything, I guess. There's no real purpose or direction to this entry; just a need to write, and get the cobwebs out

I was talking to one of my co-workers about the necessity of catharsis, that need to have something that jars loose the words, and gets the thoughts fluid, and I realize I've not really been using my time to my advantage. I've barely written anything since my ex-wife left. Not that I've just been sitting around the house, moping, or anything like that. No, indeed, I've been slowly realizing things that I've been missing out on for years. I'm slowly regaining a social life, as well as getting in touch with some old friends, something that surely never was allowed while under the yoke of holy matrimony. Oddly, I've discovered that a couple of my best friends had fallen out of contact because of my wife's presence; my best friend stopped calling because he got tired of trying to talk to me about anything, especially writing, and having the conversation dominated by by wife, to the effect that all he got to say to me was "Hi" and "bye." Another said he just got tired of coming over and having all the attention being drawn to her.

But no matter.

Well, all that is as may be; I need to get back in touch with the parts of myself that have been lost or taken over the years. My writing has suffered, as has my art, and that simply is not acceptable. I've finally finished this series of sonnets that I've been working on for over a year, inspired by a dream I had about her; they will be the last poems I'll write about her. I can't promise she won't appear in any stories I might write down the line; after all, heartbreak does need its outlets, doesn't it? But as for my poetry, or my art, she is no influence anymore.

As I write these lines, I realize there are people here on lj who may run and tell her all about them; run, I say. I never needed your so-called support, just as I never needed to be controlled by another person. Tell away, I say; these are my words, and I will silence them no longer. I am me; I have my faults, and I will accept the fair share of the blame for the collapse of my marriage.

BUT I WILL NOT SHOULDER THE BLAME IN TOTAL. And I will not let this stop me anymore. I am me, I am Rex Clark. I am a writer. I am a poet. I am an artist. And I will live in the shadows, behind the scenes, or in servitude NO MORE. Do you understand that? I will be no one's puppet anymore.

Now that's off my chest, I WILL say that I'm still having insomnia, rather badly. Ironically, the cause and the cure are one and the same: my daughter, Eowyn. I sleep like the dead when she's here with me. I can't sleep at all when she's not. I worry about her when she's away, and I'm feeling quite a bit like Sweeney Todd when he sings about not seeing his own daughter again. Not that I'm cutting throats, you dig, but like said, "The work waits." There is quite a bit on my plate, and that's fine with me. I'm hungry now, and can't wait to tuck in. My writing waits, as does my drawing and painting, and I will make them wait for me no longer.

Unless there's golf involved, that is. My game is slowly improving, so I DO have to sacrifice a bit of time to that. Otherwise... y'know.

Be expecting more from me in here. I'm coming back to life. And I have no sympathy for anyone stupid enough to stand in my way again.

So, the other night, I was privy to the single most surreal argument of my life as a dad.
As I've mentioned before, once or twice, I'm sure, I've got three girls: Kaylee (9), Carly (7), and Eowyn (4). So, the other night, after Kaylee and Carly got out of dance class, and I took them to the closest Mickey D's so they could run amuck on the playground for a while. They get done, and we're leaving, and there erupts a dispute on what everyone wants to listen to. Kaylee wants to hear "The Night Santa Went Crazy." Carly wants to hear "Amish Paradise." and Eowyn demands "Like A Surgeon." Now, for the uninitiated, all three of these songs are by "Weird Al" Yankovic. Remember, they're 9,7, and 4. And the real uproar came because Kaylee kept hitting rewind just as "Santa" comes to an end. I never thought I would ever have to divvy up "Weird Al" songs among my daughters. I could not be a prouder dad at this moment. :D
Then, before bedtime, they wanted to watch some "Weird Al" videos. So, I let 'em watch all their faves, and started getting them ready for bed. Eowyn, unbelievably, got her nightgown on, teeth brushed and all, before her big sisters did. She then proceeded to walk around the house demanding to watch Jackie Chan.

I love my kids. XD

Well, I played nine holes at the White Pine Golf Course this morning while the girls were in school, and I had the best game of my life! Of course, it was also my first game of golf, so, by default, it was my best game... My co-worker, Allen, got me to go shoot nine holes with him, and, I have to admit, it's a hell of a way to spend two and a half hours that doesn't involve controlled substances or watching women take their clothes off for money, and a good workout, to boot. I'm starting to feel the burn now through my shoulders and sides, which amazes me, since those damn golf clubs are NOT that heavy or anything. Allen has a set of clubs he's gonna sell me for forty bucks, and I think I'll take it up once a week, just to get out of the house. Now, I just need to get going on my Tae Bo, as well...
But, as always with me, my moment of joy was tempered with bullshit when I learned to my dismay that The Spot, the local coffee shop that had become my hangout, has closed its doors. I tried to call them before I hit the links to get my caffeine on, but no answer, so I waited until I was about to pick Eowyn up from school to swing by there. It was then that I noticed the "Business for sale" sign stuck to the front door. Fuckin' hell...
Well, the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. I'm just getting really, really, sick and fucking tired of being takethed away from. If He's not gonna just giveth and leaveth it the hell alone, then I say, "Don't giveth it at all."

This has been the most oddly surreal couple of weeks for me...
First, a little less than two weeks ago, my manager Autumn got fired, for reasons unknown to the rest of us drones.
Then, last Sunday, I get a flat on the way to work, which in and of itself isn't that surreal, but of course it would have to be 36 hours before I get new tires. Go fugure...
Then, I get some bumbling simpleton who manages to knock his Coke off the counter and onto my computer. Well, onto the key machine anyway, and on my pants.
Then, to top it all off, my wife left me Wednesday. I find that I'm dealing pretty well with that, actually, but what's affecting me the worst is that Eowyn isn't here anymore.
So, today is the first time I got to actually spend some play time with her, and it was the most wonderful thing to see her again. I didn't realize I was drowning until I caught my breath, but it kinda sucked, because I have to be a clockwatcher on it, since I had to have her back to her grandma's house by eight. Ah, well, if that's the price... Still, though, on the plus side, I've gotten to get in touch with some pals I haven't heard from in forever, but still... At least I now have the chance to start doing some things for myself, getting my shit together and whatnot. I am formulating a plan for the future, and I'm feeling good about it, actually. So, hope for the best.
Discovered a couple of things today. One is that I can, indeed, cry in front of my daughter. The other... well, I'll leave that veiled for now, yo.
So, what the hell, I'm gonna top off this whole emotional wrecking ball with a slice of David Lynch before I toddle off to bed. A severed ear should keep things in perspective for now.