Limited Cheese Supply

While it is true that I do in fact have what could be termed a Limited Cheese Supply, this is not so daunting in itself as the fact that it's shitty and rainy outside. Well then again raininess is not necessarily synonomous(or even analagous)to shittiness. To some, it may be a gloriously rainy day. They may in fact be out soaking in it. But to me, it's a shittyass rainy day. And I have very little cheese left.
So I'm down to my last 2 slices of American. One thing I like to fix for myself of a morning is a bacon n cheese sandwich, and given the current situation I'm set for just two more "full" sandwiches.
Guess I'll have to go out and get more cheese after that. Or settle for a less-than-completely-fulfilling experience.

Girls Gone Ballistic

It was just idle curiosity. A magazine in our break room at work had that article about the teenage girls from Lakeland Florida. Right, the ones who decided to retaliate for some derogatory comments about them on a MySpace page by inviting the page's author to a house where they beat the shit out of her- and filmed it!

Idle and maybe morbid curiosity, like the car wreck we turn away from but can't help viewing. By the time I got to YouTube, it'd been squashed. Morbid curiosity turned back to idle- maybe curiosity of the sort I remember on a neighbor's face as he raked his leaves while watching two dogs fucking on the sidewalk.

Okay, girl fight. I was already there, so why not watch something? Well I watched 'em for awhile, mainly crude grappling little affairs with lots of wrestling. Boring, really. But harmless. And then things turned morbid again.

It was a backyard party, with a volleyball net and drinks out on a table, people laughing and having a good time. One girl drags another by her shirt out the back door into the yard and then wrestles her to the ground. From there she never quite lets her get up, just hands flying- pushing and punching, and of course yelling the whole time(you fuckin' whore, etc..).

Fortunately for the victim, her attacker didn't really know how to throw punches, so there didn't seem to be much real physical damage done. Still it'd shake the hell out of you having someone just go off on you like this, hurling fists and feet and epithets. The face of the victim was like Shelley Duvall's best one in The Shining-just sheer terror. It haunted me about as much.

So this drama goes on for maybe 20 seconds, and two of the guys there look at each other and nod, as if to say, "we're stopping this shit". And they separate the two girls, and she's still trying to hit her, reaching around and swatting. Several other guys step in to block all this, each taking a wide stance for the victim to crawl under. She makes her way under the volleyball net and from there heads back through the house-as you can imagine, at a pretty good clip.

Well it was probably one of the attacker's buddies who filmed all this. Who knows what the motive was for the attack, probably some guy they were both seeing. I don't know who's sicker: them for filming it or me for watching it.

I have been that angry at various folks to the point where I'd imagined doing that kind of damage to them(though hopefully I'd throw better punches). I understand that kind of venom. But to actually act it out(much less film it, for Christ's sake!)just fans the flames. You should be putting them out. That I don't understand.

You see, it's not the hitting that freaks me out. Boxers Arturo Gatti and "Irish" Mickey Ward, for example, had three brutal fights where they beat the living shit out of each other. No animosity, just the intensity of the game. Outside the ring, they're good friends, who hang out and play golf and so forth together. That I can understand. Actually I think that's cool.

What I don't understand, what haunts my ass, is not even the venomous anger--that I've felt myself--but more the cruelty of the situation, and how it's not only condoned but glorified. If I were the person who dragged that poor bitch out and slapped the shit out of her like that, I'd feel ashamed seeing a video of it. I'd be hangin' my stoopid head. But I'd bet dollars to donuts her feeling watching it is more like righteous indignation. Oy vey..

Well the only one in this fucked-up world I can fix is me. With some work of course. I just try not to have hatreds like that, or at least keep them in perspective. Thus I'm happy to say my 'destruction fantasies' toward a couple locals who'd irked me have gotten milder over the years. I still knock the wind out of both of them, but feel remorse afterward, and end up buying their drinks for the rest of the night.

Dream Slice

My mind is still swimming a bit from a dream I had, one of those late-in-the-game, REM cycle dramas. Frank Zappa had something to do in there, maybe I was going to see him perform. It was a small building, kinda like a college campus's rec room. Walking around outside I met this girl, looked a bit like one I know in real life- on the physical plane, as it were. A casual friendly acquaintance, but one I always considered attractive. Worth at least investigating taking things to that 'next level'..
Anwyay, so I meet this 'dream girl'. Her name is Esme. We talk a bit, and a vibe seems to pass over us. A nice one. So she agrees to go out with me, and then a friend passes by on something in between a car and- well it has a chassis at any rate- looking fairly clownish, as if he were heading somewhere to be a clown for money.
Some other things happened, but they've all but faded. Mainly I remember meeting this Esme chick. I do remember in the dream trying to expound on what had happened between me and her to her, and that kind of going nowhere. Not negative results, necessarily, just a kind of blank no-reaction. Which is I guess the point: when you try to grasp it, it just melts in your hands. Not in your mouth..

The only Esme I ever heard of was from a JD Salinger story called "To Esme, with Love and Squalor", from Salinger's Nine Stories. For what it's worth, Salinger's Esme was a young blonde schoolgirl of 12 or 13; mine a brunette of I hope legal age *. But that's my one point of reference as far as the name Esme.

So, a nibble on the Astral Plane. An Astral phone number, as it were. This happens in life, where I'll get a nibble in the form of a phone number. Doesn't always pan out(nor should it I suppose), quite often I'll get the interview but not the job. Sometimes they are the ones who get the interview from me but not an actual offer of employment. Just like in life, I got the interview. Maybe I'll run into her again, on one plane or another





* I'm making no inference here that the Esme in Salinger's story was any kind of Lolita, just a tacky joke on my part.It was there, what can I say?

Time for Slarvak

Well it's the shank of the evening. My two pets are on the floor and in the chair respectively, hovering around me in that it's-almost-time-for-bed mode. A bath is being drawn(not that I wouldn't recognize one if I saw it--okay, sorry for that one!), and preparations are being made for the end of another day.

Whew, once again! A beautiful sunny day, but a balls-to-the-wall working day. Feelin' it about now. As well as the 7.5 hours of work I put in, a day of grappling with 'the elements', technologically speaking. Namely, my cel phone, email and printer.

Somehow, through a Senior Moment or just life blindsighting me, I lost my cel phone over the weekend- transferred from a pants pocket to shirt pocket and then the ground someplace. Or someone else's pocket. At any rate, nowhere to be found. So I head out to the cel phone center(Verizon)just right after work, through nasty traffic(well, for a small city such as the one I live in) expecting a huge line of people like last time. No line, but I ended up paying more than I'd figured on, and the phone doesn't plug into the charger. Which involves another fucking trip out there tomorrow. This phone does take pictures, which should be fun--so long as we get the charger to work!

I have a new service provider for my Internet service(Comcast), who now have me switched over but my address book is all still in the old place. Minor hassle but still another one.

Along with my trip to the cel phone center tonight, I did get a long-procrastinated trip out of the way. Picked up a new printer/scanner tonight at Wal-Mart, just 2 seconds away from the cel phone place. But with the phone and email frustrations, I didn't even want to fuck with it. Just couldn't seem to hit that magic number 3. Shit hitting the fan in one's life, on whatever scale, seems to happen in threes. Karmic triumvirate. So the printer/scanner is still in the box, to be attended to later.

I kept thinking of that old Twilight Zone episode "A Thing About Machines", where the guy's appliances all turn against him: the TV radio and typewriter all say "get out of here, Finchley!" and everything else(including his electric shaver)attacks him as well. But then, unlike the protagonist here, I'm not a technophobe. Really, more of a technophile. So any attack here is really undeserved.

Well, just a part of life, these hassles and frustrations. All the same, it's preferable when things are working. At least it was a beautiful day in which to take one's lumps.

The bath is pouring. Soon it'll be time to pack it in for another day. One thing I remember from the old Saturday Night Live episodes of the Coneheads was their night-time rituals(among others)and their word for sleep. Slarvak.

Time for slarvak.

Resuming Transmission

A bit late in the evening, but shit happens when it happens. If it happens. Should it happen.

More bloggage to follow. Feels about like time(make that tiime as originallly typed--actually there is a Kiick Street, though I don't remember the town).

So much for surrealistic spelling. Or Aaron Spelling for that matter. My brother and I once figured up a Processed Food/Processed TV Show Producer analogy, and for Aaron Spelling we figured Banquet Fried Chicken. For Jack Webb, Macaroni n' Cheese. I don't remember what if anything we had for Sherwood Schwartz, but he'd definitely be included.

Maybe these blogs work better(for me at any rate)on more of an extemporaneous, stream-of-unconsciousness basis. Rather than trying to drum up any particular theme as such. Let the theme happen, if you're going to get one.

So I guess if there is any theme to all this, it's just this: I'm back.

Roger U Roundly is resuming transmission. And on its- shall we say- unique- wavelength. You have to turn your computer(as well as your psyche)in a certain way to pick it up.

More to follow.

Senator in the Stall

Okay this may be in the worst taste, but that's never stopped me before. Idea for a video game: Senator in the Stall. A series of bathroom stalls, your job is to figure out which one contains the Senator. Or(idea B)you and the Senator are both moving figures and the object of the game is not to get caught by the Senator, especially in the stall.

The Magic Door revisitied

Well I must admit I do like the fringey characters, at least most of the time. Those who live on the psychic "outskirts" of town. There was one I knew in College, a friend of a friend, who definitely had a connection with some other dimension.

Not sure what he was studying there as far as a major, but he was apparently writing a book on "alternative lifestyles". As to what sort of "lifestyles" were referred to here(political, social, sexual, all of the above)I never found out. But he was an author pretending to be a student. Or maybe a student pretending to be an author. Never found that out either as far as which was which...

But an interesting character, whatever his pretensions. Had a poster in his room that said, in huge letters: FUCK authority. And then these two little characters at the bottom: "All authority?" "Yep, all authority". Okay this was the 70's(the decade that spawned the word lifestyle as well, for that matter), and the poster has since been watered-down to say Question authority(wimpywimpywimpy, but that's another blog!). He was real big on personal freedoms, which is- well, probably cool.

One of his two salient characteristics was that he was a nicknamer. Had a nickname for just about everyone, and they were all pretty- well, tart maybe. The friend I knew him through was The Educated Goldfish, due to thick glasses and thick lips. I was Tobacco-Pouch Beard(or, for convenience: TPB. "I was talking with TPB today", he'd say to my friend). Then there was this little Chinese girl, Squeaky Teapot, and her stocky Romanian boyfriend, Beef Stroganoff. And a guy he called Slamdoorface since he looked like he'd had a door slammed in his face. " But Ma." "Shuddup, boy!!"(slam!!).

Well okay, being a nicknamer in itself isn't that big a deal. I mean, it is cool, but there are a few folks out there who are skilled in the fine art of sobriquet. Among them is a musician friend of mine who once gave this name to a guy who useta help as a roadie: 10-watt. (For, of course, having 10 watts of brain power, strangely enough about half the capacity of the normal human brain!) . Whew!

Besides the nickname thing(and this is the other salient characteristic), he invented a baseball game played with cards. And he would hold the games I guess in his dorm room but they'd take place in Pearly Gates Memorial Stadium. And the players were--well, us! Tobacco-Pouch Beard, The Educated Goldfish, Squeaky Teapot, Beef Stroganoff. Maybe even Slamdoorface, for that matter("but Ma"..)..Never witnessed one of these games and don't know the mechanics of the game as far as what card means what(or doesn't mean what), and don't know anyone who did. But all the same he would regale us with the goings-on at the games, and how we performed.

He definitely had his own domain, probably pretty close in with the guy who thought he was in The Flock(see The Magic Door a bit further down), and probably just needs a thumbprint to get through his own Magic Door...

What the hell. He wasn't hurting anyone, and it made him happy. At least I think it did. And it was pretty entertaining to those of us he'd nicknamed and appointed positions on his team. I just wish Tobacco-Pouch Beard could've had a better RBI that season..

Ground Level Zero

This is my third consecutive day away from the rigors of daygig. Well, okay, Saturday is a given, but I've still had two whole days of peace and quiet going on three. Two beers and working on that third. I once proposed marriage on two beers/working on a third. But that's another blog.

Yes there are more stressful places than the one I work in. The ER is more stressful. The County Jail or State Prison would be more stressful. (Well, those are bigger boo boo's..)But I do work in a fairly charged atmosphere. An often stressful atmosphere, relatively speaking. So it's always a good idea to try and leave all that at the office when you're away.

And I've noticed that the longer I'm away, the more tension is lifted- tensions I didn't think I had. You don't realize how much tension is in your body until you start to get rid of it..My alcohol consumption dwindles to one or no beers in a day, and I sleep like a log. Woke up this morning from a perfect night's sleep feeling completely relaxed and peaceful.

Sometimes it takes a good 48 hours just to do the basic 'airing out'. After week upon week upon week of work, your psyche gets like that pair of leather shoes that hafta just sit on the back porch for a spell. And then you're okay.

So I guess I feel like I hit a Ground Level Zero point this morning. Like the little sound your computer makes when it's cleaned out all the nasty infected files. That's the mark of a good vacation, to me. 4 more days to enjoy.

The Magic Door

Every social setting has one. Hell, I might be one on someone else's list. Somebody you knew, usually from High School days, the mere utterance of whose name could(in certain circles at any rate)inspire 5 minutes of laughter and an hour of stories.

I went to High School from 1968 to 1972. Was a fledgling guitarist then, as were several of my classmates, including the 5-minutes-of-laughter-an-hour-of-stories guy, listening to Clapton and Hendrix and the other heroes of the day. And of course we had our little High School assemblages, our bands. Our friend was a part of all that.

There was also a very popular band at that time, based out of Chicago, called The Flock. They played down here on occasion, usually with The Grass Roots or another band from that period.. We dreamed, in our little basement band practices, of playing with a band like The Flock. Our friend took it a step further. He played in The Flock.

That's right. He actually played with The Flock. At any rate, that's what he told us, in all seriousness. Three things puzzle me here: first, he was a mediocre guitarist to begin with; second, he never seemed to appear on any of their recordings; and third, we saw him every day!! When did he have time to play, and tour with them??

I think it's like the clerk in One Hour Photo who tells the lie so long("yeah, that's my little nephew Jake")that he starts to believe it himself. He's worn the sheep's clothes so long he doesn't remember not wearing them. But he did swear up and down that he played in The Flock. I remember being somewhere and talking to someone who was kind of putting them down. He was within earshot, and starting to get irritated and I had to explain to them, "listen, be careful with the remarks. He thinks he's in The Flock".

Yes, a very weird thing to have to explain to someone. But they seemed to understand the pathology at hand, and moved on. My friend called me one night to tell me that Jerry Goodman(of The Flock)was in town and would I like to meet him. Sure, I said, knowing damn well this was another load of malarkey. But not having any plans for the evening, figured on some kind of entertainment.

We were supposed to meet him at what was then The Harness House- a nightclub featuring some pretty good road bands(Jazz, R & B, etc), and sat around for a good 3 hours waiting. All this time my friend regales me with stories about what cool people The Flock are and how they have intellectual discussions about the color of laughter and other abstruse concepts. And about what REAL people they are too, about how Jerry Goodman would think nothing of dropping his clothes and dancing naked on one of the tables in front of all these phonies.

Finally I'd had enough. "Listen, man", I said. "Nobody believes all this shit about you playing in the Flock and knowing all these characters. Hell, you don't even believe it yourself. So what's the point?"

"Well", he shrugs, "who listens anyway?"

Huh. Okay...

"But I have these friends in Bloomington who are really cool, and.." He's off and running on another tangent. If I were a cartoon character, I'd be saying "Oy vey!" and fainting, feet first.

That was over 30 years ago, and I haven't seen him since. Hope he's well. Hope his delusions(whatever they'd be in 2007)don't get him into trouble. Five minutes of laughter, and at least an hour of stories, but certainly no ill will.

How do people get all fucked up like that? Well, reality often stinks like shit, so it's understandable to want to at least deodorize yours if not replace it entirely with another, less odoriferous model. Every age is tough, and High School certainly has its rough spots with all of us trying to somehow "fit in". I didn't do much better than he in that regard, so I can understand.

I guess the worse your reality the greater your need for an alternate one. So he just created another, kinder world where he played in The Flock(and girls were probably nicer to him). Which answers one of my logistical questions about how he managed to make their rehearsals and gigs while living here and going to High School.

Easy. He just went through the Magic Door...

Happy Birthday to ME(and a few other folks)

Well once again, it's my natal anniversary. Technically, I should wait until 8:57 this evening to begin writing this(yes, I was born at night, but not last night!), but I figure anytime within the basic temporal boundaries of 12am last night and 12am tonight will cover it.

So, yeah, it's my birthday once again. Every August 10, I seem to turn a year older. And I'm thinking of the other August 10 people I know or know of, who are either celebrating or quietly saying to themselves, 'oh God, another one': Rosanna Arquette, Antonio Banderas, Jimmy Dean, Eddie Fisher, Claude Thornhill, Rhonda Fleming, Dixie Hinton & Terry Covington(same year as well), and jazz pianist Michael Stryker.

I also have two crazy old Aunts who share this day with me, though we don't seem to share much else besides DNA. Well actually only one is crazy, and even then more neurotic than anything(hmm, maybe we do have something in common!). The other is just terribly self-centered, to the point of being hard to be around, the one no one ends up liking.

Well I wish all my fellow August 10 denizens, regardless of race, creed, neurosis or other personality flaws,a most enjoyable birthday, however you choose to spend it. Of the two aforementioned individuals who also share my birthyear, I knew Dixie through a friend or two back in '86-88, and wanted to have some sort of celebration on December 10, 1987 since we would both be 33 1/3 years old!

Alas, one of those funny ideas(well I thought it was funny anyway!)that never moves out of the idea stage. By December 10th, I'd forgotten all about it, and if I was celebrating something on that day, it wasn't being 33 1/3. Well the next LP speed I could celebrate if I'm still here(and with my two fellow 54'ers if they're still here)is 78...

As for this particular August 10th, it looks to be nice and low-key. I'm on the second day of what I'd call a 6-day weekend. Well, Thursday & Friday and Monday & Tuesday, which of course straddle the weekend. However you slice it, 6 days off in a row.

I wouldn't call it celebrating, but August 10 is once again noted. Another year, which I hope I've made some strides in. And a year ahead to continue to try to get it right.. Well, happy August 10th to all who share it with me.