I might go to the Great Notch Inn tonight and clear my head. I need to get away from the Wayne bars, the guidos and frat boys and women.... and specifically one. There are always places like that where I can retreat, hang out with a tougher crowd that is not concerned with appearences and the like.
The Great Notch is the size of a bathroom, but it has a porch on the outside where you can sit on warm spring nights. The inside is low and made of wood, and a huge man with long hair who looks like he's on queludes towers over the bar. We told him he looked like the Hulk once, and he smiled and flexed. There wasn't much to flex, because he wasn't muscular... just looked like the type that could throw you through a window if he really wanted too.
Somehow they set up a band in there, and they take up half of the floor space with their instruments. The parking lot is lined with Harleys, and the guys who sit there and drink are the kind that just don't fucking like to be bothered. And that's fine with me, cause today just ain't my day.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Flood
I'm on a major highway, and I can see the waters rising on the sides of the road. The eastbound lane has already been closed down, the river is a day and half from cresting, and parking lots of businesses are flooding as geese are swimming next to cars that someone should have moved. The National Guard has been deployed, and there are cops everywhere. It's 9 AM, and I have no idea if I will be able to get home tonight. The rain continues on, and somewhere, "Gimme Shelter" is playing on a radio.
You think you control your life?
Don't feel bad; that's a human thing. We all think that we can run our lives, and everything we do is a product of the choices we make (sounding kind of Republican-ish, huh?). It's a nice thought, that we are responsible for what we make of ourselves, and the like Emerson said, we should always land on our feet, no matter what (I once tried to argue with a professor about this, and I asked her how much hardship Emerson ever really saw. She dodge me... liberal cunt.) But yes, we should always prevail! This world is ours, it's yours, we can take it!
Whatever, We're all fucking wrong.
Sure, we control a little bit. But if you thought that you really controlled your life, or, really, that humans really control anything (as a group), then you are mistaken. If you don't believe me, then you should have seen the traffic on this highway the last couple days, people huddled and massed on roadways that were built arrow straight just in case the Russians attacked and we needed to use them as airstrips. You can see for miles, and it is car after car after car, sitting, waiting. Eventually, when it gets bad enough, people start riding the shoulder, and the highway turns into a three lane road, and the cops can't do anything. You'd think a damn tsunami was coming.
And what if one did? Where would we go? People would pack themselves onto the highways in a scene right out of White Noise (the book, not the goofy movie), trying to avoid the great cloud/wave/fire/aliens. Whatever. Does it matter?
But no, humans control it.
Sure.
You think global warming is a joke? Have fun with that. When that tsunami hit on December 26th, it destroyed everything on a cataclysmic scale, and nearly swept away civilization. That supervolcano in Yellowstone is still due to erupt, and one day, a meteor will hit us. A black hole could pop up next to Earth, suck the Van Allen Belt away, and leave the sun to scorch the Earth with it's solar winds. If the Earth got sucked into it, it would rip the molecules that make you up apart, because even gravity doesn't know how to deal with a black hole.
And so, to deal with this, we race around in our cars and pretend that it really matters whether you punch in at 1:02 or 8:48. We pretend that these things only happen in Bruce Willis movies, and that we will never be caught in a flood or an earthquake or get hit by a meteor. We act like that ten bucks you saved on groceries is going to save you. I pretend that by weightlifting, I can beat the odds no matter what happens because I'm strong, and that's what the guys are in the movies who survive.
The flood waters began to recede yesterday, and all that is left are branches and garbage from an angry, overflowing River. We've destroyed it with pollution, and once in a while it rises up and hurls our plastic bags and body parts and used condoms onto the roads and into our backyards, and tells us that we can go fuck ourselves.... because when it comes down to it, the River runs the show.
If you ever thought any differently, then you were a damn fool.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Kiss Me, I'm Shitfaced
It's a mediocre day, the first one in a long while that isn't fucking freezing. The place isn't roaring, but busy enough that I get to stay outside all day and help customers. I'm leaning against the new forklift which has become my ride of choice (it is by far the sexiest piece of machinery I have ever seen) killing time before I get to go home. My Army friend is telling me about how he has developed a terrible addiction to lying to women.
"I was drinking at this bar a while ago, and there was this girl that was pretty hot. I mean, she was decent. So, she starts asking me what I do for a living and shit. At the time I was delivering pizza, and that's a really fucking embarrassing thing to tell a girl. "Yea, I'm a pizza delivery boy." I don't think so.
"I hear that. That's shitty"
"Yea. So I told her I was an investment banker."
I just took a drag from a cigarette and am now half choking on the smoke becuase I'm laughing too hard.
"A fucking investment banker? Are you kidding?"
"Nah. I know they make money, so that's what I told her."
"Dude, I don't think there's many investment bankers that look like you."
"Don't think so?"
He smiles and blows smoke out of his mouth. He's wearing a Red Sox T-shirt, and has fiery red hair that screams, "Irish" like nothing else can. There's tattoos on both forearms, one of which says, "Death Before Dishonor", and above it is a huge scar from a cut he gave himself (that needed eighteen stitches to close) with a box cutter while drunk one night. His pinkie finger on his right hand is probably broken, and there's a huge scab on it from when he punched a brick wall the other night (also drunk, of course.)
An investment banker. Sure.
"Well, anyway, I tell her that, and everything is going smooth. I'm hooking up with her and shit, and she's liking me."
"Right."
"Then she drops the bomb, and starts asking me about my "job". She goes, "So, what do you do as an investment banker?" And I go, "Well.... I, uh, invest. In banks." And then she looked at me and says, "What did you say?" So I said it again. She looks at me and goes, "That's not what an investment banker does."
"Christ."
"Yea. So she says, "What do you really do?" And so I tell her, "I'm in the Army." And what fucking response do I get? "So, uh, you really don't make much money, huh?"
"Hahaha. Good to see she really liked you."
"I told her, "No, I make shit money, and whatever is left I spend on tattoos and beer." She stayed another ten minutes then took off. Fuckin bitch."
"Classy lady. You find the good ones."
"Of course."
"I was drinking at this bar a while ago, and there was this girl that was pretty hot. I mean, she was decent. So, she starts asking me what I do for a living and shit. At the time I was delivering pizza, and that's a really fucking embarrassing thing to tell a girl. "Yea, I'm a pizza delivery boy." I don't think so.
"I hear that. That's shitty"
"Yea. So I told her I was an investment banker."
I just took a drag from a cigarette and am now half choking on the smoke becuase I'm laughing too hard.
"A fucking investment banker? Are you kidding?"
"Nah. I know they make money, so that's what I told her."
"Dude, I don't think there's many investment bankers that look like you."
"Don't think so?"
He smiles and blows smoke out of his mouth. He's wearing a Red Sox T-shirt, and has fiery red hair that screams, "Irish" like nothing else can. There's tattoos on both forearms, one of which says, "Death Before Dishonor", and above it is a huge scar from a cut he gave himself (that needed eighteen stitches to close) with a box cutter while drunk one night. His pinkie finger on his right hand is probably broken, and there's a huge scab on it from when he punched a brick wall the other night (also drunk, of course.)
An investment banker. Sure.
"Well, anyway, I tell her that, and everything is going smooth. I'm hooking up with her and shit, and she's liking me."
"Right."
"Then she drops the bomb, and starts asking me about my "job". She goes, "So, what do you do as an investment banker?" And I go, "Well.... I, uh, invest. In banks." And then she looked at me and says, "What did you say?" So I said it again. She looks at me and goes, "That's not what an investment banker does."
"Christ."
"Yea. So she says, "What do you really do?" And so I tell her, "I'm in the Army." And what fucking response do I get? "So, uh, you really don't make much money, huh?"
"Hahaha. Good to see she really liked you."
"I told her, "No, I make shit money, and whatever is left I spend on tattoos and beer." She stayed another ten minutes then took off. Fuckin bitch."
"Classy lady. You find the good ones."
"Of course."
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Horror Movies
If you get scared by slasher movies, you'd better be a woman or a fag. Yes, I fucking said it.
Seem like a random thought? Maybe, but I've been formulating this theory for a long time, and the last commercial I saw just reinforced it (obviously, one for slasher movie).
Same old story: broken down motorists find refuge in old motel, and end up getting killed or maimed by some asshole with a knife or people that like killing. If this was a bus full of cheerleaders that broke down, then I could see this being horrific. If it was the tour bus for the "Queer Eye" guys, then yes, I could see them fighting back with pillows and tears. But no, this looked like a straight, reasonably regular looking guy.
Honestly, if you're a guy, how exactly does this have you petrified?
It is the same thing that I recall asking everyone when all of the Scream movies came out: how can any man be scared of this? Men are supposed to be tough and gritty, the ones who fight and kill and drag the food back to the cave. If some jerkoff tries to take your cave, you do what you have to do. Whatever happened to keeping a stiff upper lip, closing off your emotions, and doing what needs to be done? What happened to that spirit, that, "We shall not flag nor fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France and on the seas and oceans; we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air. We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be; we shall fight on beaches, landing grounds, in fields, in streets and on the hills. We shall never surrender"?
It's no wonder the World War II generation fell out of touch so quickly with today's society, or that of the Sixties. You know what they would have done if some fruitcake sociopath in a Halloween costume was following them? They'd have shot the cocksucker. Or hit him with a shovel. Or stabbed him. One way or another, the murderer would have ended up dead, and the man would have moved on with his life.
These men fought in steaming jungles on Iwo Jima, Okinawa, and Guadalcanal, they fought on the murderous beaches of Normandy and in the deeps snows of the figid Ardennes Forest where blood froze before it leaked out of the man. They faced man, missile, and tank, and watched their brothers get blowtorched and blown apart... and then put their heads down and kept moving forward. When they were surrounded, they said things like, "Good, now the bastards can't get away", or, "We ain't retreating, we're just attacking in another direction."
When the Germans gave them terms of facing surrender or anihilation, they sent back single word answers worthy of a Spartan voice, and then sat and fought for 72 days against a force ten times their number. They downed colonels through scopes from fifteen hundred yards between hedgerows, and then switched targets. They were the destoyers of cities, the firebombers of Hamburg, the nukers of Nagasaki. They killed because they knew they had to, or else the other guy would kill them first. They felt bad about it, sure; yet, there was a duty, a job, to be done, and they would not see their children being handed a folded American flag.
Of course, while they were fighting the good fight in the green fields of France, the women were sacrificing milk for their children, stockings for their legs, and copper for their coins, all the while working in factories putting together the killing machines that drove the war against the greatest evil that the world has ever faced, the gravest danger to freedom and liberty that has ever been encountered.
All of that... so we pussy children of the 90's could huddle in a closet wound in desperate fear of some pussy with a blade who's mother never hugged him enough? To quote Eddie Murphy, "Really man? Really?"
By far the worst is when you can see the hero get worried. You can see the fear in his eyes, you can see the panic fighting in his eyes when the camera pans around him. I'm not saying the poor bastard shouldn't be scared... I'm just saying that he should know what has to be done, and not be all weepy eyed about it. You think Arnold was scared in Predator? You bet your ass he was. However, he knew what had to be done after he watched his comrades die; next thing you know, he's in a tree covered in mud with arrows built from branches that explode on impact and a Ka-Bar tied to the end of a tree trunk, muttering the famous line, "If it bleeds, I can kill it." And I'm no even going to go in to how Danny Glover killed a predator in hand to hand combat with it's own weapon.
Now, I've never killed anyone before, so maybe I'm speaking out of turn. Do I think I could? Yea. In fact, I know I could, if I knew that he was trying to kill me or someone I loved. I can only imagine someone who seriously threatened the life of a wife or child of mine... I know me, and I'd turn the knife while I watched the motherfucker die. I'm not saying I ever want to be put in that position, because I hope to God that I never am. But I know me.
I may just be overly cynical about this, because the soldiers in Iraq or Afghanistan right now are some tough bastards, and heroism and bravery are not traits unique to one generation or another. But the average man has gone downhill in word and deed.
A friend of mine said it best: "Our generation's greatest curse and greatest blessing is that there has never been a war to fight." He is right on many levels.
Seem like a random thought? Maybe, but I've been formulating this theory for a long time, and the last commercial I saw just reinforced it (obviously, one for slasher movie).
Same old story: broken down motorists find refuge in old motel, and end up getting killed or maimed by some asshole with a knife or people that like killing. If this was a bus full of cheerleaders that broke down, then I could see this being horrific. If it was the tour bus for the "Queer Eye" guys, then yes, I could see them fighting back with pillows and tears. But no, this looked like a straight, reasonably regular looking guy.
Honestly, if you're a guy, how exactly does this have you petrified?
It is the same thing that I recall asking everyone when all of the Scream movies came out: how can any man be scared of this? Men are supposed to be tough and gritty, the ones who fight and kill and drag the food back to the cave. If some jerkoff tries to take your cave, you do what you have to do. Whatever happened to keeping a stiff upper lip, closing off your emotions, and doing what needs to be done? What happened to that spirit, that, "We shall not flag nor fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France and on the seas and oceans; we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air. We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be; we shall fight on beaches, landing grounds, in fields, in streets and on the hills. We shall never surrender"?
It's no wonder the World War II generation fell out of touch so quickly with today's society, or that of the Sixties. You know what they would have done if some fruitcake sociopath in a Halloween costume was following them? They'd have shot the cocksucker. Or hit him with a shovel. Or stabbed him. One way or another, the murderer would have ended up dead, and the man would have moved on with his life.
These men fought in steaming jungles on Iwo Jima, Okinawa, and Guadalcanal, they fought on the murderous beaches of Normandy and in the deeps snows of the figid Ardennes Forest where blood froze before it leaked out of the man. They faced man, missile, and tank, and watched their brothers get blowtorched and blown apart... and then put their heads down and kept moving forward. When they were surrounded, they said things like, "Good, now the bastards can't get away", or, "We ain't retreating, we're just attacking in another direction."
When the Germans gave them terms of facing surrender or anihilation, they sent back single word answers worthy of a Spartan voice, and then sat and fought for 72 days against a force ten times their number. They downed colonels through scopes from fifteen hundred yards between hedgerows, and then switched targets. They were the destoyers of cities, the firebombers of Hamburg, the nukers of Nagasaki. They killed because they knew they had to, or else the other guy would kill them first. They felt bad about it, sure; yet, there was a duty, a job, to be done, and they would not see their children being handed a folded American flag.
Of course, while they were fighting the good fight in the green fields of France, the women were sacrificing milk for their children, stockings for their legs, and copper for their coins, all the while working in factories putting together the killing machines that drove the war against the greatest evil that the world has ever faced, the gravest danger to freedom and liberty that has ever been encountered.
All of that... so we pussy children of the 90's could huddle in a closet wound in desperate fear of some pussy with a blade who's mother never hugged him enough? To quote Eddie Murphy, "Really man? Really?"
By far the worst is when you can see the hero get worried. You can see the fear in his eyes, you can see the panic fighting in his eyes when the camera pans around him. I'm not saying the poor bastard shouldn't be scared... I'm just saying that he should know what has to be done, and not be all weepy eyed about it. You think Arnold was scared in Predator? You bet your ass he was. However, he knew what had to be done after he watched his comrades die; next thing you know, he's in a tree covered in mud with arrows built from branches that explode on impact and a Ka-Bar tied to the end of a tree trunk, muttering the famous line, "If it bleeds, I can kill it." And I'm no even going to go in to how Danny Glover killed a predator in hand to hand combat with it's own weapon.
Now, I've never killed anyone before, so maybe I'm speaking out of turn. Do I think I could? Yea. In fact, I know I could, if I knew that he was trying to kill me or someone I loved. I can only imagine someone who seriously threatened the life of a wife or child of mine... I know me, and I'd turn the knife while I watched the motherfucker die. I'm not saying I ever want to be put in that position, because I hope to God that I never am. But I know me.
I may just be overly cynical about this, because the soldiers in Iraq or Afghanistan right now are some tough bastards, and heroism and bravery are not traits unique to one generation or another. But the average man has gone downhill in word and deed.
A friend of mine said it best: "Our generation's greatest curse and greatest blessing is that there has never been a war to fight." He is right on many levels.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Tired
I read an excellent post on The Doorman's blog about his job. Evidently, even though he hates working as a bouncer at a club in the city, he believes that it's a positive place because the people there are striving to better themselves, grinding it out during long nights in the most competitive and intense place in the world- NYC. They don't have much... except for hope.
Now, my job, it ain't like that. If his club is "Livin On A Prayer", than my job is "God's Gonna Cut You Down." It seems like the place is the last stopping over point for those that are about to either end up dead or in jail. On the application for the place, it doesn't even have that box that says, "Have you ever been convicted of a felony?" Why? Because they don't give a fuck. They take any and all.
I guess it's a vicious cycle. Most of the fucks who go through there aren't great people, so the bosses don't have a reason to pay all that well. Consequentially, the low pay and shitty hours draw only those desperate enough to work for $8 an hour on Easter Sunday. That's pretty fucking desperate.
It's funny, because even the high schoolers that get jobs there are dumb bastards. They are the troublemakers and the auto shoppers, the burnouts and tough guys. I don't like all of them, partly because it's nearly impossible for me to relate to seventeen year old know it alls anymore... I realize how I was at that age, and realize now that I didn't know shit (When I'm 30 I'll look at this and laugh, and say again, "Man, I didn't know shit back then").
One of the guys who just came back for the spring looked at me today and said, "Man, I don't even know why I came back. This place makes me miserable." The wharehouse is drab and smells like old fertilizer, and the cobwebs stack up in the rafters so thick that I wonder if I might be able to hang from them myself. The mood depends entirely on the weather, and when the bosses are angry because it's rain is thrashing the leaking roof, there's nowhere to hide.
Things are the same year after year after year. Guys I haven't seen in years come back to visit, and say, "So what's new here?" My answer is always the same, no matter how long they've been away, "Nothin'. Nothin' at all." The same stuff is moved around each year, the same rocks sit in the same places, the same spray painted graffiti on the same cinder block walls from 1978. Just in case you were wondering, "Joey Dee was here" at some point that year. Fuckin tool.
On top of this, the people who shop at garden centers nationwide with a religious fervor are always the old ones. If the place doesn't make you miserable, the old people will. It is a constant reminder to my fragile psyche all the time: "Weightlift all you want. Eventually, you'll be just like me, arms folded behind your back, hunched over, shuffling in, haggling over a nickel and tipping the workers quarters. Have fun with those deadlifts. You WILL DIE ANYWAY, son." They are walking death, deaf and lost in their own fog, hitting inanimate objects with the dented bumpers of their Grand Marquis or Crown Victorias, taking an hour to back up the car. These are the men who saved the world in 1945, who cannot save themselves in 2007. My last hope is that God takes me before I get like this.
I'm 22. I'm not staying there. Somewhere, something better awaits me. God bless the poor souls that can't say that. They're the reasons God invented alcohol and Democrats.
Now, my job, it ain't like that. If his club is "Livin On A Prayer", than my job is "God's Gonna Cut You Down." It seems like the place is the last stopping over point for those that are about to either end up dead or in jail. On the application for the place, it doesn't even have that box that says, "Have you ever been convicted of a felony?" Why? Because they don't give a fuck. They take any and all.
I guess it's a vicious cycle. Most of the fucks who go through there aren't great people, so the bosses don't have a reason to pay all that well. Consequentially, the low pay and shitty hours draw only those desperate enough to work for $8 an hour on Easter Sunday. That's pretty fucking desperate.
It's funny, because even the high schoolers that get jobs there are dumb bastards. They are the troublemakers and the auto shoppers, the burnouts and tough guys. I don't like all of them, partly because it's nearly impossible for me to relate to seventeen year old know it alls anymore... I realize how I was at that age, and realize now that I didn't know shit (When I'm 30 I'll look at this and laugh, and say again, "Man, I didn't know shit back then").
One of the guys who just came back for the spring looked at me today and said, "Man, I don't even know why I came back. This place makes me miserable." The wharehouse is drab and smells like old fertilizer, and the cobwebs stack up in the rafters so thick that I wonder if I might be able to hang from them myself. The mood depends entirely on the weather, and when the bosses are angry because it's rain is thrashing the leaking roof, there's nowhere to hide.
Things are the same year after year after year. Guys I haven't seen in years come back to visit, and say, "So what's new here?" My answer is always the same, no matter how long they've been away, "Nothin'. Nothin' at all." The same stuff is moved around each year, the same rocks sit in the same places, the same spray painted graffiti on the same cinder block walls from 1978. Just in case you were wondering, "Joey Dee was here" at some point that year. Fuckin tool.
On top of this, the people who shop at garden centers nationwide with a religious fervor are always the old ones. If the place doesn't make you miserable, the old people will. It is a constant reminder to my fragile psyche all the time: "Weightlift all you want. Eventually, you'll be just like me, arms folded behind your back, hunched over, shuffling in, haggling over a nickel and tipping the workers quarters. Have fun with those deadlifts. You WILL DIE ANYWAY, son." They are walking death, deaf and lost in their own fog, hitting inanimate objects with the dented bumpers of their Grand Marquis or Crown Victorias, taking an hour to back up the car. These are the men who saved the world in 1945, who cannot save themselves in 2007. My last hope is that God takes me before I get like this.
I'm 22. I'm not staying there. Somewhere, something better awaits me. God bless the poor souls that can't say that. They're the reasons God invented alcohol and Democrats.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
Work.
"Hey, this woman needs help over by the rock. Can you help her out?"
"Yea, sure."
Spring is here. I'm getting busy again with stone and rock. Now, however, I am not happy about it.
"So, I'm looking to build a pond... and they tell me, uh, that I should put stone around it. What kind of stone do I, ahh, use, to put around... it."
"Most folks use fieldstone."
"Which one is that? Is that, like, this stuff?"
She's pointing to moss rock, which is dense, dark stone that would make up God's fists if he had them. I don't want her to use moss rock for this pond, mostly because I have no desire to break my back picking it up out of the ragged wooden bin it lays in.
"No. That's moss rock. Fieldstone is over here."
She's gazing back at the moss rock, but I'm trying to move her towards the flatter, lighter rock. I notice she's also kind of cross-eyed, and it freaks me out because that's the second one I've had in three days like that. Never think that people in retail have your best interests at heart- unless you are a genuinely nice guy or a very hot woman, we will not go out of our way... or at least I won't.
As I'm talking and giving my whole bullshit thing about rocks and stones that I've perfected over the years, I suddenly get very depressed. I hate retail, and I'm tired of dealing with people and pretending like I care. What do I want to tell them? Something similar to....
- Do you realize how fucking smart I am? Do you understand that I have a motherwhoring college degree, and yet I am still inexplicably stuck at this shithole job working with a bunch of drunks, felons, and drug addicts? I can quote Shakespeare, Tennyson, T.S. Eliot, or Coledridge off the top of my head. Can you do that? Can you recite the fucking, "Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, then is heard no more" speech without thinking about it? Can you?
I'm tired of dealing with dumb dagos that I have to humor into thinking that they have half a fucking brain. I'm tired of telling jerkoffs how to lay a patio so they can ask me the same fucking question ten minutes later, or go to someone else and ask the same question and try to get a discount on some rocks.
Why the fuck am I still here? Why? Lady, I don't give two flying fucks what stone you want to use, and I don't care what the fuck happens to this pond. I've helped out a million shits with ponds, and all it's done is torn my fucking hands up and made crappy money. You think you're any different? You think I should go out of my way for you, so I can load up eight hundred pounds of stone and you can not tip me and I can hope you hit a fuckin telephone pole in some kind of karmic retribution? Not fucking likely.
"Yea. Use these rocks. They're flat and look natural.
"How much is a pallet?"
"Around $220."
"Oh, OK. I'll be back for them another time."
"Great."
I'll be waiting. With fucking bells on.
"Yea, sure."
Spring is here. I'm getting busy again with stone and rock. Now, however, I am not happy about it.
"So, I'm looking to build a pond... and they tell me, uh, that I should put stone around it. What kind of stone do I, ahh, use, to put around... it."
"Most folks use fieldstone."
"Which one is that? Is that, like, this stuff?"
She's pointing to moss rock, which is dense, dark stone that would make up God's fists if he had them. I don't want her to use moss rock for this pond, mostly because I have no desire to break my back picking it up out of the ragged wooden bin it lays in.
"No. That's moss rock. Fieldstone is over here."
She's gazing back at the moss rock, but I'm trying to move her towards the flatter, lighter rock. I notice she's also kind of cross-eyed, and it freaks me out because that's the second one I've had in three days like that. Never think that people in retail have your best interests at heart- unless you are a genuinely nice guy or a very hot woman, we will not go out of our way... or at least I won't.
As I'm talking and giving my whole bullshit thing about rocks and stones that I've perfected over the years, I suddenly get very depressed. I hate retail, and I'm tired of dealing with people and pretending like I care. What do I want to tell them? Something similar to....
- Do you realize how fucking smart I am? Do you understand that I have a motherwhoring college degree, and yet I am still inexplicably stuck at this shithole job working with a bunch of drunks, felons, and drug addicts? I can quote Shakespeare, Tennyson, T.S. Eliot, or Coledridge off the top of my head. Can you do that? Can you recite the fucking, "Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, then is heard no more" speech without thinking about it? Can you?
I'm tired of dealing with dumb dagos that I have to humor into thinking that they have half a fucking brain. I'm tired of telling jerkoffs how to lay a patio so they can ask me the same fucking question ten minutes later, or go to someone else and ask the same question and try to get a discount on some rocks.
Why the fuck am I still here? Why? Lady, I don't give two flying fucks what stone you want to use, and I don't care what the fuck happens to this pond. I've helped out a million shits with ponds, and all it's done is torn my fucking hands up and made crappy money. You think you're any different? You think I should go out of my way for you, so I can load up eight hundred pounds of stone and you can not tip me and I can hope you hit a fuckin telephone pole in some kind of karmic retribution? Not fucking likely.
"Yea. Use these rocks. They're flat and look natural.
"How much is a pallet?"
"Around $220."
"Oh, OK. I'll be back for them another time."
"Great."
I'll be waiting. With fucking bells on.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Lessons from St. Patrick's Day
1. If you drink enough, seeing who can take the hardest shot to the face may sound like a good idea. It is not.
2. If you drink enough, putting a cigarette out on your knuckle may make sense. It does not.
3. As Brendan Behan said, Guiness does indeed make you drunk.
4. If you drink enough, it may seem like a good idea to call the bouncer, "A fucking doucebag." It is not.
5. The day after St. Patrick's needs to be a national holiday, or at least a paid day off for any of those 1/8 Irish or more. Fuck healthcare, you politicians- work on this! You will have my vote.
6. I should be banned from all things having wheels. Even tricycles are dangerous to me.
7. There are many beautiful women in New York City. None of them want to talk to me.
8. Never ask one of your best friends why he caught the shallow end of the gene pool because you think all his cousins are hot and... well, look at him.
2. If you drink enough, putting a cigarette out on your knuckle may make sense. It does not.
3. As Brendan Behan said, Guiness does indeed make you drunk.
4. If you drink enough, it may seem like a good idea to call the bouncer, "A fucking doucebag." It is not.
5. The day after St. Patrick's needs to be a national holiday, or at least a paid day off for any of those 1/8 Irish or more. Fuck healthcare, you politicians- work on this! You will have my vote.
6. I should be banned from all things having wheels. Even tricycles are dangerous to me.
7. There are many beautiful women in New York City. None of them want to talk to me.
8. Never ask one of your best friends why he caught the shallow end of the gene pool because you think all his cousins are hot and... well, look at him.
Friday, March 16, 2007
St. Patrick's Eve
Tonight is the most holyiest of nights, the eve before St. Patrick's Day.
Tomorrow is one the only day of the year that I will try to get past my Catholic grudges and try to go to Church. It is the day that I will walk into St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City to a backdrop of wailing bagpipes, and light two candles for two dead men at the first statue to the right; one for my grandfather, and the other for my best friend. I will go to numerous pubs, and drink until I can't see straight anymore. It will start off in a good natured, fun way... and after many hours and many Harps, it will turn into sadness, as it has always done with me after I've drank for too long.... Why, you ask?
Because as anyone who is Irish in their soul could tell you... "To be Irish is to know that the world will break your heart."
And so we drink.
Happy St. Pat's, and "Up the Republic" for every tough bastard who gave his life for the old Emerald Isle, our home across the ocean that our families fled from so long ago.
Riamh Nar Dhruid O Spairn Iann
Tomorrow is one the only day of the year that I will try to get past my Catholic grudges and try to go to Church. It is the day that I will walk into St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City to a backdrop of wailing bagpipes, and light two candles for two dead men at the first statue to the right; one for my grandfather, and the other for my best friend. I will go to numerous pubs, and drink until I can't see straight anymore. It will start off in a good natured, fun way... and after many hours and many Harps, it will turn into sadness, as it has always done with me after I've drank for too long.... Why, you ask?
Because as anyone who is Irish in their soul could tell you... "To be Irish is to know that the world will break your heart."
And so we drink.
Happy St. Pat's, and "Up the Republic" for every tough bastard who gave his life for the old Emerald Isle, our home across the ocean that our families fled from so long ago.
Riamh Nar Dhruid O Spairn Iann
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Veterans
Guys who work outside are like modern day Thoreau's. We are more observant of the weather than any meterologist, and we see the change of the seasons before the rest of the people. When you're outside for 50 something hours a week for years, you become like ole' Henry, listening intently to the sounds of the woods, waiting to hear the cracking of the ice on Walden Pond that tells us that the long winter is ending.
With that, of course, comes new jerkoffs. They stream in from all over as soon as the add is placed in the paper, that fateful, "Help Wanted, Yardman" that gets plastered all over Northern New Jersey at this time of year. They are looking for jobs doing anything, working anywhere, and very often the garden center is in their list of shit jobs that they'd love to do.
There are two types of people that are employed at garden centers: the full timers that have led a fucked up life and ended up needing to pay the bills by any means, and the part timers who do it either for extra money or just because they're bored. Me, I'm the second type, who works there mostly because I've been doing it for so long that one more year won't kill me; I've got a degree, and will eventually move on (although whether that is sooner or later remains to be seen.) The characters I meet through that shithole are ones that one of a kind, though, and their fucked up lives are more interesting than anything I could pull out of my own head.
-----
He walked up to me the other day as I was driving the forklift, locked in a wrestling match with frozen pallets of topsoil. He has flaming red hair, pale skin, and a forearm decorated with a black celtic cross; when he came here the first time four years ago, he was a dumb, scrawny 18-year-old who called himself white trash, and had a taste for illegal drugs. He would pull up in a beat up old Saturn with a half wrecked bumper, blaring Kid Rock from the windows and smoking Newports. I had liked him immediately.
He worked for a long while, and was good at the bullshit that the job entails. When I think back to when he was there, I have to climb a ladder of faces as to who was there at the time, what they looked like, where they were in relation to others who worked there... it's likely climbing a mental ladder backwards in time to figure out who he knew and who he didn't.
After a spell, he'd decided to go into the Army. I think I tried to talk him out of it, as I always do with dumb kids who want to sign up, but it didn't work (as it never does with dumb kids itching to sign up). He had seemed kind of directionless in his life anyway, so I most likely thought that the Army might be good for him and give him somewhere to go, maybe a career or something.
"You guys hiring?" he asked.
"Yea man. We're picking up some now and they haven't got anybody here besides me... you looking for a job?"
"Yea."
"How was the Army? You done already?"
"It was alright. I was in there three years, that's all I signed up for, so I'm done."
He's thicker than he used to be, no longer the boney kid that left here. He's a little more composed, a little less goofy. Age and the Army work wonders for some.
"I'm surprised they let you out... they're in a bad way for guys, aren't they?"
"Yea. They threw all kinds of shit at me, offered me 30 grand to take another tour. I told them, "Fuck that." I was in Afghanistan... I wanted out."
He's younger than me by a couple years, but it struck me as I looked at him that this fucker is a "veteran" already. When I hear the word "veteran", I think of the eighty-year-olds with withered forearms who wear blue hats with a picture of a battleship on them and ask you to hump a bag of 5-10-5 out to their cars for them... I don't think of this guy. I don't look at any of my buddies who are getting back from Iraq or Afghanistan as "war veterans". It is strange for me to realize how much they've been through already compared to me, even though some of them are younger. The term "veteran" is something that I'm going to have get used to as my generation gets older. It is funny how things change when you get older.
It occured to me, also, that he had not heard about Ryer. This was one of the guys that said that me and Ryer were like older brothers to him, and yet I never had a chance to tell him about what had happened. There's no need to quote what I said here- it's the same fucking thing I've had to tell everyone for the last two years. He blinked and looked down, surprised.
Seeing this guy brought back a flood of memories about the way things used to be- reminiscient of a time and place in my life that I will never get back. But in the last few months I've been taking the advice of Ryer's old girl, and trying to let go... and when that coincides with other decent things happening, the days have brightened a bit. It is ironic that this fella comes back at this time. I am looking forward to hearing the things he has to say now... both of our lives are far different than they were the last time we met, and there are many days that lie ahead of backbreaking work under the sun.
With that, of course, comes new jerkoffs. They stream in from all over as soon as the add is placed in the paper, that fateful, "Help Wanted, Yardman" that gets plastered all over Northern New Jersey at this time of year. They are looking for jobs doing anything, working anywhere, and very often the garden center is in their list of shit jobs that they'd love to do.
There are two types of people that are employed at garden centers: the full timers that have led a fucked up life and ended up needing to pay the bills by any means, and the part timers who do it either for extra money or just because they're bored. Me, I'm the second type, who works there mostly because I've been doing it for so long that one more year won't kill me; I've got a degree, and will eventually move on (although whether that is sooner or later remains to be seen.) The characters I meet through that shithole are ones that one of a kind, though, and their fucked up lives are more interesting than anything I could pull out of my own head.
-----
He walked up to me the other day as I was driving the forklift, locked in a wrestling match with frozen pallets of topsoil. He has flaming red hair, pale skin, and a forearm decorated with a black celtic cross; when he came here the first time four years ago, he was a dumb, scrawny 18-year-old who called himself white trash, and had a taste for illegal drugs. He would pull up in a beat up old Saturn with a half wrecked bumper, blaring Kid Rock from the windows and smoking Newports. I had liked him immediately.
He worked for a long while, and was good at the bullshit that the job entails. When I think back to when he was there, I have to climb a ladder of faces as to who was there at the time, what they looked like, where they were in relation to others who worked there... it's likely climbing a mental ladder backwards in time to figure out who he knew and who he didn't.
After a spell, he'd decided to go into the Army. I think I tried to talk him out of it, as I always do with dumb kids who want to sign up, but it didn't work (as it never does with dumb kids itching to sign up). He had seemed kind of directionless in his life anyway, so I most likely thought that the Army might be good for him and give him somewhere to go, maybe a career or something.
"You guys hiring?" he asked.
"Yea man. We're picking up some now and they haven't got anybody here besides me... you looking for a job?"
"Yea."
"How was the Army? You done already?"
"It was alright. I was in there three years, that's all I signed up for, so I'm done."
He's thicker than he used to be, no longer the boney kid that left here. He's a little more composed, a little less goofy. Age and the Army work wonders for some.
"I'm surprised they let you out... they're in a bad way for guys, aren't they?"
"Yea. They threw all kinds of shit at me, offered me 30 grand to take another tour. I told them, "Fuck that." I was in Afghanistan... I wanted out."
He's younger than me by a couple years, but it struck me as I looked at him that this fucker is a "veteran" already. When I hear the word "veteran", I think of the eighty-year-olds with withered forearms who wear blue hats with a picture of a battleship on them and ask you to hump a bag of 5-10-5 out to their cars for them... I don't think of this guy. I don't look at any of my buddies who are getting back from Iraq or Afghanistan as "war veterans". It is strange for me to realize how much they've been through already compared to me, even though some of them are younger. The term "veteran" is something that I'm going to have get used to as my generation gets older. It is funny how things change when you get older.
It occured to me, also, that he had not heard about Ryer. This was one of the guys that said that me and Ryer were like older brothers to him, and yet I never had a chance to tell him about what had happened. There's no need to quote what I said here- it's the same fucking thing I've had to tell everyone for the last two years. He blinked and looked down, surprised.
Seeing this guy brought back a flood of memories about the way things used to be- reminiscient of a time and place in my life that I will never get back. But in the last few months I've been taking the advice of Ryer's old girl, and trying to let go... and when that coincides with other decent things happening, the days have brightened a bit. It is ironic that this fella comes back at this time. I am looking forward to hearing the things he has to say now... both of our lives are far different than they were the last time we met, and there are many days that lie ahead of backbreaking work under the sun.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Musical Brawls
Q104.3 plays a lunch block of Mellencamp songs yesterday while I'm working with another guy.
"Mellencamp kicks ass."
"Yea he does. But I think Bon Jovi would kick hiss ass."
"Bon Jovi? Are you kidding?"
"No, man. C'mon, it's Bon Jovi... he'd be goin' all "dead or alive" on him."
"You're full of shit on so many fucking levels. C'mon man. We all know I like Bon Jovi; that's a given. But he's a pretty boy. Fancy girly hair, leather pants and all that shit... he's not tough at all. Mellencamp was the one with the jeans and the t-shirt, working on a farm and all, gettin' in trouble all of the time. He's one of those tough hillbillies... those guys are nuts. "Little Pink Houses" was even a tough song, and it's got the word "pink" in it. "Paper in fire", "Authority Song".... all about getting in trouble. Just tough songs. Bon Jovi? "Bed of Roses"? "Have a Nice Day?" I think not."
"Fine. What about the Boss? He'd beat Mellencamp's ass."
"Sorry man. Don't believe that either. Bruce was always the skinny beat poet guy until "Born In the USA." After the Born in the USA days, Bruce would put up a fight; he bulked up a lot. But before that, Mellecamp was like the Hell's Angels to Bruce's hippie poets. The Boss was riding the rails, and Mellencamp would have been the bull, you know? Now it'd be an even fight though, cause Mellencamp smokes like five packs a day and has had a handful of heart attacks... but he also has a tattoo on his forearm... still a tough hillbilly. Now it'd be a tough call."
"Yea... Bruce did have a lot of soft songs. A lot of melancholy ones."
"Exactly... but then you know who would kick all of their asses."
"Oh yea. Lemmy. Probably all at the same time."
"Fuckin a' right, man."
"Mellencamp kicks ass."
"Yea he does. But I think Bon Jovi would kick hiss ass."
"Bon Jovi? Are you kidding?"
"No, man. C'mon, it's Bon Jovi... he'd be goin' all "dead or alive" on him."
"You're full of shit on so many fucking levels. C'mon man. We all know I like Bon Jovi; that's a given. But he's a pretty boy. Fancy girly hair, leather pants and all that shit... he's not tough at all. Mellencamp was the one with the jeans and the t-shirt, working on a farm and all, gettin' in trouble all of the time. He's one of those tough hillbillies... those guys are nuts. "Little Pink Houses" was even a tough song, and it's got the word "pink" in it. "Paper in fire", "Authority Song".... all about getting in trouble. Just tough songs. Bon Jovi? "Bed of Roses"? "Have a Nice Day?" I think not."
"Fine. What about the Boss? He'd beat Mellencamp's ass."
"Sorry man. Don't believe that either. Bruce was always the skinny beat poet guy until "Born In the USA." After the Born in the USA days, Bruce would put up a fight; he bulked up a lot. But before that, Mellecamp was like the Hell's Angels to Bruce's hippie poets. The Boss was riding the rails, and Mellencamp would have been the bull, you know? Now it'd be an even fight though, cause Mellencamp smokes like five packs a day and has had a handful of heart attacks... but he also has a tattoo on his forearm... still a tough hillbilly. Now it'd be a tough call."
"Yea... Bruce did have a lot of soft songs. A lot of melancholy ones."
"Exactly... but then you know who would kick all of their asses."
"Oh yea. Lemmy. Probably all at the same time."
"Fuckin a' right, man."
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Spring
it is days like this, when we are so close to the breaking of the long cold time, that i long the most for hot nights in backyards overlooking the faded lights of Pompton Lakes, drunk, wandering around talking to women who are beautiful but would never look at me. They are hazy nights where the pool lights waver as the water dances and jives with joyous movement, and young people with nothing to lose drive under streetlights that have seen all of this before.
It is the summer, with lightning storms and thunder and fire that makes you think for a second that we never quite stop breathing, that our spirits never die, and that there is more for us in this world besides the sometimes passionate, sometimes mundane, always doomed life that ends looking at the cream colored underside of a coffin lid until the world explodes or burns or fades. No warm floodwaters hurt me as much as the stacked snow during a blizzard; if summer be a shortness of breath, than winter is the gallows.
Summer is the green field where death is powerless, and nature wars to make us believe.
Believe what? That doesn't matter. As long as you believe.
It is the summer, with lightning storms and thunder and fire that makes you think for a second that we never quite stop breathing, that our spirits never die, and that there is more for us in this world besides the sometimes passionate, sometimes mundane, always doomed life that ends looking at the cream colored underside of a coffin lid until the world explodes or burns or fades. No warm floodwaters hurt me as much as the stacked snow during a blizzard; if summer be a shortness of breath, than winter is the gallows.
Summer is the green field where death is powerless, and nature wars to make us believe.
Believe what? That doesn't matter. As long as you believe.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Politics
I don't talk much about politics these days. I've had it out with every asshole in the world about politics, and I've basically given in to the fact that Americans are much dumber than I thought and the world is doomed to destroy itself in some orgasmic religion driven fury that I will have no part of. However, I will say a few things in the light of this coming election that has the Democrats wondering what soldier to send to war against the Republican political machine.
Yesterday I watched Barack Obama give a speech to a room full of black leaders and preachers on the anniversary of the Selma Riots, and it was then that I realized one thing: this man is the last great hope for our democracy.
He speaks with the eloquence of a Clinton mixed with the honesty of a Lincoln, and when he talks, men listen. The Democratic Party line is one that is among the most noble in the history of men- that no man should starve, and all should have a floor that no one can fall below. It is not a Communist line, as the Karl Rove's of the world would love you to believe; simply a humane one. When that is mixed with the message that every man can be whatever he wants, and can pull himself out of the gutter and climb to the peak, as Obama himself has done, it can be a beautiful thing. When combined further with the fury and passion of a man who can talk with the fire of a black Southern preacher....it can be unbeatable.
And then what have we on the other side but the frothing cunt of a woman named Hillary Clinton, who, as an underhanded, lying, scheming politician, lies in the high grass like a snake, waiting for her chance. She bounds from up from Arkansas so she can pretend to be from New York to get elected, pulling bullshit lines from her carpetbag of tricks, about how "We the people of New York" blah blah blah. She represents the American monarchy, the ideal that one family can be in power for possibly 16 years, and that two families could be for 27. She is the politician who starts including God in her speaches after she realizes that America is still blinded by religion, who will con and connive her way into the Oval Office in whatever manner she can. I liked Bill Clinton, even though looking back, I would not trust him all that much. I still liked him, though, and that was his great power. A charming leader is a good thing, especially in politics. Everyone needs to remember that this cold hearted bitch is not him, and do not let her fool you into thinking she is.
If Obama gets the nod, I will support him as much as my measley abilities allow me. If Clinton gets it... then this year, I will vote Republican, and abandon the Democrats, possibly forever.
Why? Cause fuck them, and fuck her.
Yesterday I watched Barack Obama give a speech to a room full of black leaders and preachers on the anniversary of the Selma Riots, and it was then that I realized one thing: this man is the last great hope for our democracy.
He speaks with the eloquence of a Clinton mixed with the honesty of a Lincoln, and when he talks, men listen. The Democratic Party line is one that is among the most noble in the history of men- that no man should starve, and all should have a floor that no one can fall below. It is not a Communist line, as the Karl Rove's of the world would love you to believe; simply a humane one. When that is mixed with the message that every man can be whatever he wants, and can pull himself out of the gutter and climb to the peak, as Obama himself has done, it can be a beautiful thing. When combined further with the fury and passion of a man who can talk with the fire of a black Southern preacher....it can be unbeatable.
And then what have we on the other side but the frothing cunt of a woman named Hillary Clinton, who, as an underhanded, lying, scheming politician, lies in the high grass like a snake, waiting for her chance. She bounds from up from Arkansas so she can pretend to be from New York to get elected, pulling bullshit lines from her carpetbag of tricks, about how "We the people of New York" blah blah blah. She represents the American monarchy, the ideal that one family can be in power for possibly 16 years, and that two families could be for 27. She is the politician who starts including God in her speaches after she realizes that America is still blinded by religion, who will con and connive her way into the Oval Office in whatever manner she can. I liked Bill Clinton, even though looking back, I would not trust him all that much. I still liked him, though, and that was his great power. A charming leader is a good thing, especially in politics. Everyone needs to remember that this cold hearted bitch is not him, and do not let her fool you into thinking she is.
If Obama gets the nod, I will support him as much as my measley abilities allow me. If Clinton gets it... then this year, I will vote Republican, and abandon the Democrats, possibly forever.
Why? Cause fuck them, and fuck her.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good; that honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil; and I want you to remember this, that love... true love never dies. You remember that, boy. You remember that. Doesn't matter if it's true or not. You see, a man should believe in those things, because those are the things worth believing in.
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