22 November, 2005
balloon man blew up in my face

it's a bad sign about the creative process when you have to log in to your journal because you haven't a bloody clue what the hell you were on about, the last time words popped out.

it's not as if the world has stopped rotating and there's been nothing to observe and stress over and find cause for comment.

rather, the state of my mind has been ri-goddamned-diculous (thanks for the great phrase, Andria)... not terribly unlike those lottery ball dispensers: this swirly box of turbulence with thoughts, ideas and reactions colliding until, finally, one little ball exits the chute to see light of day.
i see it all as a part of the regaining of my footing. somberly stumbling wounded like a RogerCorman zombie lost it's charm within the first few hours. that was the first phase.
phase two: unable to sit still, concentrate, create, read a blog or even watch a feature-length film to conclusion.

all of this came to a jarring halt when i thought i was going to be suspended, without pay, from my job.

i'm sure everybody in an office situation has to deal with this type: the I.T. guy. not as in "It", like Clara Bow, but "information and Technology"... which roughly translates as "imperious asshole".

Let's call him "Earl", since that's his name (if there was any innocence to protect, i could give a shit, now). in my decades-long status as MigrantWorker, i spent a little more than a year paying rent at his townhouse in Stepford for a weekly two-night stayover on the floor in a sleeping bag, instead of driving eighty-four miles home, every night. huge townhouse, festooned with cat hair, turds, and expensive, rarely used camera equipment. and his Reiki room, where he supposedly was going to teach classes in not-quite-touching NewAge-y bullshit... with scorch marks on the walls where the arranged sconces burnt down to the nubs, no doubt in some tawdry session.

i didn't ask. i didn't want to know. i got the fuck out.

fast forward to last Wednesday. an afternoon press observation with customers gravely concerned with trivial matters, resulting in much hair-pulling by the Boss. after all was safely buttoned up, he motioned me over to check out that Fruit-of-the-Loom fake new-country ad.

up behind us sneaks Earl, hands on hips, simpering, "well! i hope you're not streaming that! it slows down the network!"

two minutes of video clip. yeah, right.

as usual, my central Virginia DNA got the better of me, and before i had the chance to think better of it, i said... "Jesus, Earl, why don't you get that stick out of your ass!"

he immediately ejaculated, "You're not showing me proper respect! i'm writing a formal complaint about that remark!"

i should have told him to remove the stick before proceeding.

all said-and-done, i'm still working. no formal reprimands, or any mention of the incident, for that matter. but the drama got me back on track.

all of that sturm-und-drang, for an underwear video.

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