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Another late night session with the one-eyed monster... the monitor, I mean. Still have things on my mind from Wednesday. Like sixweasels(one of the witty and insightful reasons I'm stuck on this D-Land thang), the gulag at which I work is undergoing bullshit austerity measures. Printing companies go all aflutter whenever the first adversiter flinches when it gets kicked in the financial "ding-ding"... as soon as the fake-money stock exchange tanks. Though it's low on the list of crises, our company picnic (or should I say "nit Pick") dissolved into the suits charring burgers for our lunch break. No room for complaint, except for the thing that wound up in my stomach. An unmarked veggie burger. Stuck it to me, the assholes. I now know that I could never be a vegetarian, with this crap as an excuse for sustenance. I should have known from the first look that this was of satan. All tan-looking, with fakey char marks. With the first bite, comes the horror. Mealy starch something with onions everywhere and unidentified green flecks. Like the incubating belly-dweller from Alien, it laid in wait. Not to rupture through the chest, no. But to billow from the nether regions like a pyroclastic flow. I mean, enough to knock a buzzard off a shit wagon. I recall an ex-workmate whose digestive system was ravaged but trailerloads of narcotics. That funk could ascend a flight of stairs and waft thirty feet down a hallway to attack. No. Thank. You. Listening to James "Mr. Dynamite" Brown all evening has gotten me in rare form. Today, I found a replacement for the CrackHead, at the junkyard that I used to play in when a young ruffian. Almost came away with a 91 Audi for 750 bucks... so close. Absurdly enough, this seems to be one of those harmonic convergence spots for me... always leaving there in a better mood than when I came in. At the junkyard, mind you. After belting down a Belgian ale, much later, I got all Sumo with the chopper and the peppers... almost seven gallons ground up in the freezer. And Nature's not done yet. Think of all the pepper spray... from the hot sauce. I gotta quit this. On a more poignant note... With Butane James hitting notes that could break glass (riding on basslines that make the ground and booty shake), the sound was not going to be turned up on the TV this evening. But the visuals brought home an interesting revelation. That we (meaning those we live around) are obessed with crying. Rabidly. Every time the image would strobe into another, tears were streaming. Almost as if the networks are trying to make us crave sadness. Though they seldom come to me, unless of the jagged variey, I know that the release is positive. As long as you get on with it. Grandma used to say, "when you cry, it's because you're sorry for yourself." Probably. Just don't make it a source of entertainment, sucking off the emotions of others, TV executives. Though I'm sure they see big buck when they coerce the waterworks out of the gullible. There are better emotions to summon. No wonder I prefer soccer (Arsenal v. Sunderland FSW Sunday), and the Iron Chef. And sweet lovin', whevener than comes back around. |
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