Your Next Blog Post Sucks!

A lot of people have been asking me when my next blog post is going up. When I say a lot of people, I really mean all the voices in my head, of which there are quite a few including a condescending bastard who tells me at every turn how crappy a writer I am. I do my best not to listen to that piece of shit, but unfortunately he’s got the loudest voice and at times seems to be the most influential with the other voices; sometimes pulling a few of them to his side. I imagine he goes behind my back, or in this case into the depths of the back of my mind, to meet up with his little alliance to plot out my destruction. Me, I sit here in my consciousness unknowing, wondering when the strike will come. The 4 year old in me is like a little tattle tale and will crawl up and whisper in my ear, “they’re meeting now, the next attack is soon.” Does he work for them, or does he love me enough to stick by my side?

For me, writing is already a fight. I do my best writing at the office, and the battle with outside influences ranges from secretaries calling because the latest picture of their cat is too blurry to stretch on their wall paper and could I come over and do that “tile thingy”; to having to talk to the annoying lady with the voice that could make the deaf rejoice in their misfortune. I get calls from attorneys who still don’t know what “right click” means and who think burning a CD involves flames and a protective mask. I work within an IT group centralized in Chicago with 17 bosses and 2 people who actually have the password to login to all servers, and they still can’t pronounce my name let alone point to San Francisco on a map. They also think I’m lying when I say I take the cable car to work everyday. It could be because I tell them that it actually doesn’t stop and we have to jump off while its still moving and roll if necessary. “Knee and elbow pads,” I say “they are the best investment I’ve made so far.”

Writing at home could be just as bad, if not worse for me. Is it my fault that the residents of Cyrodiil call on me to save their lands from the darkness that has been unleashed upon them by the hidden evil of Oblivion? I can’t help it if while I am fighting this evil I end up taking on a quest to find a hidden treasure in a dungeon with a small army inside protecting their booty from me and my superior fighting skills. In the middle of all this I get a call from Mario asking me to assist in rescuing Princess Peach once again from the evil Bowser and his Goomba minions. “Mario, Goomba is not the preferred nomenclature.” And then of course there was that time my girlfriend walked in while I was naked playing Guitar Hero 3, which I guess does bring a whole new meaning to “Rock out with my cock out.” I know, its all very disgusting to think about. What can I say? I was hot and I wanted to rock.

It sucks when each sentence becomes a struggle between the voices cheering me on and those who have decided to start a their own protest down the avenue separating the two sides of my brain. “Your next blog post sucks, we don’t give a fuck!” chants resonate around my head. I can’t help but think that if they are voices in my head they could’ve at least been more creative with their half-assed chants. Sometimes it helps to close my eyes and let things play out in my mind. My conscious thought throws the first blow by tossing a Molotov cocktail into the front line of protesters, igniting a few of them and scattering the rest. I know it sounds a bit heavy handed, but I’ve been here before, and better me throw the first blow than have my favorite voices get taken out by a sniper camped out in the bell-towered church of my childhood. The thirty or so scattered by the flaming bottle, quickly whip out side arms and start plugging holes into my voices that had let out a large cheer when the first group went up in flames. The faces of encouragement on the sidelines turn to anger while the four year old stands close by not yet ready to reveal which side he is fighting for.

It's like the brutal fight scene in Anchorman, tridents flying through the air, personalities with swords on horseback, flaming arrows being launched from the hidden cover of my past lives, a banshee screams off in the distance, and Iron Maiden songs play simultaneously in all my voices heads. In the chaos I stand surveying the horrific slaughter, as voice after voice is silenced. The four year old remains ever so neutral, frolicking around the battle zone tossing banana peels in the air for the unsuspecting to slip on. He dances to his own tune, innocent to the carnage that surrounds him.

In the distance I see myself looking back at me. It's him. The discouraging voice, the leader of this army of dissenters. It's always him, each time I’m poised to burst out onto the page, he pulls the reigns of my waking thought into the realms of negativity. This doppelganger, this piece of me, now stands eye to eye with my minds eye. The flurry of screaming death stops around us and all join in watching as we stand face to face. Amidst my voices stand Mario, Luigi, Bowser, Samus, Sonic the Hedgehog, Link and Zelda. I stand in a ring within in a stadium full of characters I’ve grown up with. Ash from Evil Dead, Dalton from Road House, and Jack Burton fresh off the pork chop express are the trainers in my corner, while Sho Nuff, Cobra Commander, and that punk ass who stole my bike when I was 10 stand in his. Bobby Flay screams from his ringside seats, “Are you ready for a throw down?” The four year old kicks him in the shin and Yan Can Cook smacks him across the face with his Wok of Fury.

In the middle of the ring we are shoulder to shoulder, moving round and round like the Michael Jackson Beat It video. He’s got that red glow surrounding him burning into me as his arm touches mine. The punches come quickly, it is the assault of someone who is out of their mind. Each blow blocked brings confidence. This bully, this thing inside me that doesn’t want me to succeed, sees that I am not shaken by his flurry of fists. He is not the master, he knows it and so do I. With that thought, I take my turn and double fist him in the chest Neo style. On the ground he spits up negative statements like blood. He’s up and charging at me. I’m done with him, and with that I unleash an “Aruken” on his ass that would make Ken and Ryu proud. The fight is over. The four year old jumps in the ring, and in his best Smokey impersonation yells, “You got knocked the fuck out!”

Back at my computer, my eyes focus, it's time to write. Cheers can still be heard fresh from my victory. The victory is sweet, but the fight will find my doorstep another day. It always does. His voice is still in my ear, alone now, “Your next blog post sucks.” To that I say to him, “Honestly bro, I don’t give a fuck.” And, I really don’t, I just can’t wait to write it.

Closer

At night I use to lay in bed
Next to you
thinking
Wondering
Wishing
there was a way to get closer to you.
We tangle our legs
Use our toes like fingers
Clasping at feet
double wrap my arms around you
bury my face
in your streams of hair
I breathe you in
With all that I have
and I still wish to be closer

I awoke one morning
With the answer at hand
And while you were away
Off in dreamland
I snatched your undies
And one of your t-shirts
Squeezed into that top
Discovered thongs fucking hurt
Got myself dressed
And went off for the day
Wiggled and wormed my way
Through the morning
Picked and pulled
Through most of lunch
Finally relaxing
At a quarter past 2
And for a moment
I was right there with you
But I still wanted to be closer.

The very next day
I sprung into action
With you in the shower
Your gym clothes freshly used
I squeezed out the sweat
In your leftover tea from the night prior
With a few strands of your hair
Held together like wire
I stirred the contents up
Backwash and all
Sprinkled in some eye dust
Some lashes
And a clipped nail I found
Raised the cup up to God
And took the shot down!
Now, it wasn’t quite a tequila face I made
It wasn’t warm to core
It didn’t high five my heritage
I did not yearn for more
But
I felt something
And for a moment, I thought I was there,
But I still wanted to be closer.

Late that night while you were in your slumber
I shrank myself down to the size of a thought
Pranced around your pillow and
Dove in your ear.
I banged on the drum,
Shouted sweet nothings
until a secret door appeared
I ventured in
to a city of quick moving lights
there were large pools of memory
For my swimming delight
I bathed in both lakes of past
And the present
Rode down the slide
To the back of your mind
Planted some seeds
In Brain Stem Garden
Caught a double feature on the avenue of dreams
won an argument with the little voice in your head.
And danced the night away
To that song you kept singing
The very next day
And I have to say
I had a ball
But I still wanted to be closer.

Over the next week
I did some amazing things
Played hopscotch with your shadow
Colored pictures with your inner child
Buried myself in a grave of your socks
Went domino motherfucker all over your soul
Smoked weed with your conscience
Did stand up comedy at your funny bone
Played hide and seek with your natural scent
Put the smack down on your inner demons
Told ghost stores with your past lives
Performed card tricks for your third eye
sang 80s music atop your breasts
I wrote a complete unabridged dictionary based entirely upon you
and still I want to be closer.

At long last it hit me
There was nothing more I could do
You so wonderful
Amazing
I’m lucky to be this close to you
And so I laid down my head
I needed some well deserved rest
Removed your thong
And t-shirt
Snuggled up next to you
Pulled your arm over my chest
You woke up
Smiled
Kissed my cheek
I was so content
Fading
Vision hazy
Driting away
Until
I heard your voice calling
“Are you awake?”
Discombobulated but aware,
I slowly rolled over
And then you said
“Baby
Do you ever wish we could be closer?”

-(C) 2006

Tiny Gems in a Dirty Stinky World

Sometimes I wish I was the type of person who looked at each and everyday in life as a treasure hunt in the depths of the ocean of life. You read all the time about these people who say things like, “Treat everyday like its your last” or “Look at everyday as a clean slate where the sky is the limit.” I hear these things and I think to myself, man wouldn’t this be great?

Then my alarm goes off at 6:20 in the morning which prompts my right arm to seek out the damn wailing blackberry and snooze it 3 or 4 times before actually pulling my ass out of bed. The idea of waking up and treating a normal Wednesday like its an oyster with an undiscovered pearl flies out the door as I scratch my ass on my way to the bathroom, burn a few layers of skin off in the shower and search for clean underwear while watching Mornings on 2. Anyone who can find the pearl in riding on an overcrowded bus with at least 10 people in front of the yellow line has got to be considered for some type of new prize. Fuck Nobel, you try standing up close and personal with everyday work folk; legs, crotches and asses rubbing together while fresh armpits are exposed for all to pick out whether its Axe, Right Guard, or Secret pushing itself up their nostrils. God forbid someone let one rip while barreling down Union St, or even worse, while traveling up Union at the end of the day, when those same deodorants are fighting for first place in the long lasting category. Twelve hours of protection my ass, they’re all liars if you ask me. Take the 45 in San Francisco, and you become a connoisseur of scents while the normal 20 minute bus ride expands to about 40 minutes of “sorry if my bits are so close to your face every page you turn in that book you’re reading brings me closer to climax.”

I’ve searched every cube and office on our 2 and a quarter floors for that damn pearl as well. As the IT guy it gives me the perfect cover to say that I need to install some new software on a user’s computer or crawl under their desk to check wiring. I can be certain without a doubt that there are no pearls there either. There are other things though, like crumbs from lunches in keyboard cracks, finger lickin’ good grease on every key except maybe the Z, make-up buildup and earwax on phone earpieces, dried and flaked off skin scattered across the desk, popped zit stains and various smears all over monitors. Under desks I’ve seen car grease, mud, kitty liter, dog shit, spilled wine, clipped nails and beer stains. This elusive gem is not in the bathroom either, although the guy I seem to shit next to everyday probably isn’t convinced. The best thing about our shitting buddy relationship is that we both know the other washes their hands after doing our deeds, which is more than can be said for this nasty bunch of “professionals” I work with. Everyday can’t be a clean slate if you know that the guy whose computer you are working on doesn’t wash his hands after going poo.

Its hard to find that pearl in the mundane reality of the Monday thru Friday grind we all go through just to survive in this world. Is it really going to be in that copy job you did that took over an hour because for some reason the machine didn’t collate? Can you find it amongst the chicken scratch writing of the attorney you work for who needs to you type it out and file it in the next ten minutes? How many value meals does someone have sell in order to realize that streamers are not going to fall from the ceiling and Ronald McDeez is not going to come out and give you a 10 thousand dollar bonus just because you’re so keen at super sizing the meals for your clientele?

Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place. Maybe its not in the things you do on the daily, but rather in the things that get you through the day. Maybe it’s The Avalanches Since I Left You album playing on my way to work. Maybe its my morning latte, or the bowl of Life cereal I take for granted until I run out and have to buy more. Maybe its an email from my girlfriend telling me she misses me. Maybe its getting the chance to quote Ron Burgundy, Monty Python or the movie Clue during a work time conversation.

Its never just lemons you are handed, its stuffy disgusting bus rides, crusty keyboards, botched copy jobs, and unsanitary co-workers. Trying to make lemonade out of that is like shoving a bottle of rum and mint plant up my ass and hoping my breath smells like a mojito. Why search for just a pearl when there are so many other shiny gems to be had out there daily. That first sip from a can of Coke. Eating a warm krispy crème donut. Seeing someone get hit in the nuts on YouTube. Listening to a song over and over again because its that good. Right now mine is Reptilia. People limit themselves by searching for that one thing that makes them happy, when they should be enjoying all the other things that simply make them smile. I don’t think a clean slate or living each day like its your last has anything to do with it at all.

Mundane reality will always creep in to try and suck you down into a pit of misery, even if in the grand scheme of things your reality is not that bad. At least you’ve got a job to go to; and that bus ride, no matter how shitty, gets you there so you can survive another day. A friend told me a long time ago, “Don’t sweat the petty stuff, instead pet the sweaty stuff.” Now doesn’t that sound better than cleaning your slate or re-living your last day on earth or even searching for some tiny pearl in a bucket full of slimy oysters? Sure many times the petty crap in life gets on my nerves, but I’ll take the sweaty any day of the week.

I Got Wet Sock On The Way To Work

Coming into the office on a day like today really bums me out. Right now in San Francisco the rain is coming down so hard the streets are beginning to cry foul. Trees have decided today is the day to get back at all those cars who have smashed into their brothers and sisters along side freeways around America. The cross walk lights have decided to get a little extra time in the don’t walk position. My bus driver just laughed at me while I waited on the corner, soaked from head to toe, while he proceeded to play that game of, “door is opening, nope the door is closed.” I hate that game. Its like when you were a kid and your brother was old enough to drive and they would say, “go ahead, get in the car” and then move it just as you reach for the door handle. Fucking asshole.

Working on the 31st floor of a building that is made to withstand a large earthquake is both comforting and terrifying. This building creeks…A Lot. Stand next to the windows and you get the full effect of a building that is “supposed” to sway. Look outside at the not yet finished building across the way and you start to think life is beginning to treat you like a character in a Final Destination movie. A strap breaks, a cart moves towards the edge of the building and you think there is no way this will be good, but at least I am safe on the 31st floor of this marvel of engineering. And then the large crane along side the building shifts more than it normally does, definitely more than it has been since you’ve been keeping an eye on it. The crane is at least 10 floors higher than you are and it no longer looks too sturdy. So I’m sitting there troubleshooting an issue on a user’s machine, while watching the crane move around like a wibble wobbling but not falling down. I’m safe as I leave the office, except then the window washing gear was not fully secured atop the building and as I’m getting my morning bagel in the break room, sipping on a hot cup of joe, the contraption slides off the roof and crashes into the windows. I dive to save a lady from certain death, because that’s just me and I can react that fast to dangerous situations. She’s safe and everyone is running out of the room with their food, cause who really passes up free bagels and Peet’s coffee on Friday? I’m the last out and I’m thinking I’m gonna be alright, escaping death, but then a gust of wind blows the equipment back into the window, and a short bit of rope wraps around my ankle, as if possessed by the soul of the snake my brother, cousins, and I tormented with rocks 15 years ago. I get pulled out the window and dangled from 31 floors up before the un-natural wrap that seemed so tight on my ankle now loosens up and I fall to a very sad demise, most likely hitting metal beam after metal beam on the way down.

That would really suck and its unlikely to happen, but at least I wouldn’t have to suffer through a full day of wet sock like I am now. Wet sock is what I truly hate about rainy days. Its bad enough when it happens at home while doing the dishes, but when you’ve got to suffer through it for a whole day, its like the gods have decided its fuck with ME day. Its like each of them takes turns coming up with new ways to make a shitty day turn into a one of those ones you will remember for like at least 30 or 31 years. You tell your grandkids “Back when I was 32 and working in this huge steel marvel of a building, it rained so hard downtown San Francisco was under 3 feet of water, and I got wet sock trying to get to work. Wet sock was followed by wet pants and then wet boxers, until I was just soaked like a drippy dog thrown into a swimming pool.” And then the grandchild will look at his mother and say something like “Grandpa smells like old people and Scotch mommy.” So what’s really worse in that scenario, your 5 year old grandchild knowing what Scotch smells like, or knowing you have finally hit the stage where you are infected with that old person smell you use to hate when you were a kid? Well neither feeling is worse than your thick sopping sock clinging around your foot like a condom re-enforced with glue and a rubber band at the top.

Whatever happened to rainy day schedule? On the west coast its the closest we ever got to snow days. Recesses were cut, and lunch was shorter, but at least we got to go home early and change out of our little pants and shirts and, thank any of the gods to the high heavens, our disgusting socks. Why is it that as you get older all the good rules that seemed to make sense when you are kid suddenly have no meaning in your adult years? Its colder and wetter than an Orca in the Arctic and guess what you’ve got to work today. Your kids get out early and have to somehow get home in winds that blow harder than, well something that blows really hard with no sexual connotation whatsoever. But, you my friend are stuck in the office, building shaking, with a broken umbrella, two soaked feet wrapped in a thin layer of cotton or wool, trying to figure out “what the fuck am I going to get for lunch, and should I swim or wait for a canoe”, awaiting the 5 o’clock hour so you can start your longer than average commute in the ever so safe dark, cold, wet and windy night. I love work, don’t you?

Yes, today has become a day of sadness and regret. I’m sad because my socks are wet and even if they do dry, I’m going to have to at some point stick my feet back into shoes that have absorbed so much water, I could add soap and wash dishes with them. I’m also full of regret because a few years ago when living with my old roommate I thought it would be funny to spray the carpet outside his door with water and then call him out to the living room in the morning just so he’d get wet sock first thing after he’d gotten showered and dressed and ready for work. Dude, I’m sorry, that was a fucked up thing to do. Worse than when I’d put the song Barbie Girl on so loud you could hear it when you got out of the shower and I’d already left with my computer locked and the song playing on repeat. The gods have finally received your tributes and have taken their revenge seven fold. Please tell them to stop.