When the Sun Comes.

It's hot in my room right now, though it's almost seven o'clock. The sun bears down through the windows, and I sip a Utica Club and think about finding shelter in the living room. The lights aren't even on in the living room.

Truman keeps climbing up from the bed to my chair to be pet, so I indulge.

It's a bit warm in here, like I said, so I think I'm going to head out. Good talking to you.

Lastly, another day, another hundred words.

Remembering.

My college thesis dealt in large part with memorials. Specifically, I addressed the crossroads between history and memory, and where these two concepts intersect, argue, and attempt to resolve their differences. Ultimately, I'm not sure that they ever really do. Seven years out of college, I'm even less inclined to debate the issue.

I've maintained a bit of an interest in memorials. The statue above is one of E.M. Viquensney's "The Spirit of the American Doughboy," one of the most popular of World War I monuments. There are hundreds of these around the US. For those with an interest in this kind of thing, this site gives an interesting overview of both this statue and its artist. World War I memorials are fascinating. The scale of the war created the need for a touchstone, and towns could shop for models through catalogues. Some were unintentionally comical, while others, like "Doughboy," had a certain sense of dignity about them.

My town's doughboy had been missing his rifle for as long as I could remember. This irritated the hell out of me, yet I never put pen to paper (or even fingers to keyboard) to try to see what could be done about it. I contented myself to just bitch a lot at the bar behind the statue and to the right, adjacent to the train tracks. Fortunately, a less apathetic group of folks started a campaign and got our doughboy a new hand and rifle. For good measure, they got him refurbished. With the spirit of improvement in their hearts, the even re-landscaped the park itself. There was a big ceremony at the unveiling, complete with an appearance by former U.S. Senator Fred Thompson (perhaps best known in his role as air traffic controller Trudeau in Die Hard 2, Die Harder). It was a pretty big deal. Just as most people don't think about their health until they are ill, fixed up, the "Doughboy" became just another statue.

So, today, I want to call attention to our "The Spirit on of the American Doughboy," but more specifically, to that which it represents. I am profoundly grateful to the men and women who have fought bravely and proudly for our country and way of life. God bless you, all. Memory doesn't live as a day on the calendar or in a statue or plaque, but these things serve to remind us of those who have sacrificed much on our behalf. I've kind of come to view these things as sharing a similarity to bells rung by monks during meditation; they refocus the wandering mind on that which is important.

Around the ATM, the World Gathers.

As I was feeling particularly Capitalistic this evening, I drove down to the bank to yank a twenty from my bank's drive-through ATM. I figured I might want to feed the Industrialist pigs in a non-plastic manner.

As I pulled around, I saw a group of three people standing in front of the ATM, an old woman and a younger couple. I could have plowed them down with the Saturn, but decided to maintain a safe distance and wait my turn, instead.

There's something a bit unsettling about people doing something on foot meant to be done from a car. I've been refused on-foot service from a Taco Bell drive through in my time, so I have an ingrained sense of Right and Wrong in these instances. The actions of these folks sharpened my discomfort. It appeared that they were trying to make a deposit, and things just weren't working out for them. As they attempted to get the machine to eat their envelope, they made motions akin to a bowler trying to will his ball out of the gutter. This never works, and it didn't work for them, either.

And, then! A car pulled up beside me, and inside was the woman who used to cut my hair before I started to save some cash by going to Great Clips instead. My betrayal put a bit of bad blood between us, so I was surprised when she opened her window and told me to come by and say hi sometime.

The ATM, man. A show, some conversation, and twenty bucks, all in one convenient location.

Happy Sunday.

Another day, another shot at 100 Words. It's not much, but I still don't feel 100% awake.

I fell asleep on the couch last night while watching Galaxy Quest. Beat. I can't quite shake this stupid cold. Hopefully a nice day of nothing much at all will cure what ails me.

The Sickness, it's in my Head.

My chest cold moved upwards yesterday, filling every nook and cranny with phlegm. I blew my nose raw. I finally gave up last night and took Nyquil at 7:00, and I was asleep in my clothes at 7:30. Teeth went unbrushed. I woke up with a torn-apart throat. In general, I just feel bad. But, I can see and hear and walk, so I've got that going for me.

So, it's been an early-morning rise. There's nothing on TV. I've been watching an infomercial on Proactiv. Did you know that P. Diddy and Jessica Simpson suffer from acne and use Proactiv? They do. Sure, one might argue that their use of Proactiv means that they are not keeping it real, but these are personal choices, dig? Get off their backs.

I've gotten some things done, though.

I wrote my piece for 100 Words, so feel free to check out my bit.

I also made some Throat Coat tea, which is helping a bit. Thank you, Throat Coat!

Alright- back to the couch. I want to see who else in Hollywood suffers from Adult Acne. Edward James Olmos, I'm looking in your direction.

It Doesn't Matter if I Try to Make it Wrong or Right.

I was in a car accident tonight, I had a massive argument with my best friend, and the thought of going into work tomorrow makes me sick to my stomach. It's been a long day, and it will be a short night.

But, there are always subtle things that make the largest hunk of nonsense go down a little bit smoother. The iPod's on shuffle, and it just turned up "The Telephone Tree" by the Young Fresh Fellows. That cures what ails you. There's always been, and hopefully always will be, something about an angry snotty song that can bring you out from yourself. Especially when that song is as tuneful as this one is.

So, I say: Long Live Young Fresh Fellows.

And now, Radiohead's "Idioteque," live, just came up. Somewhere, someone's looking out for me. Even though I know a lot of it is me and my impeccable taste in music, I still pause, place my fingertips to my forehead, and say, "thank you."

We're not scare mongering; this is really happening.

The 411 on Hot Sauce.

I have just been informed that consumption of hot sauce, once rumored to speed metabolism, actually really doesn't to any appreciable degree. In order to have any impact on one's metabolism, one would have to drink bottles of hot sauce, which for most people is not a possibility. Your burrito would be wet with hot sauce, and you might well have a difficult time keeping it from slipping from your fingers.

That is all.

The Word on the Street.

It's quiet here at the ranch. I split work a bit early yesterday to take AMF to Midway, so now it's just me and the cat. He seems to appreciate me, at least for the time being. AMF and I spent most of the weekend at my folks' house watching the dogs, so Truman was on his own. My three day absence (chill- I came home to feed him, etc.) seems to have reminded him that an owner is a privilege, and not a right, and he's been acting accordingly since my return.

Tonight was a bit busy, with me heading over to see my mom for a spell and then carting over some stuff to my brother's place. We tossed a beer back together and watched a bit of Clone Wars and had a pretty nice time, at that. But, home called, so I'm back, doing laundry and installing Sim City 4 on my computer. That should make for a nice diversion over the next week.

I guess there's really nothing to report. I'm adjusting to being on my own again, a task for which I do not much care. I loved having AMF here, and every I miss every stupid little thing we did over the last week. But, so it goes, so it goes. I'll be out DC way in a couple of weeks, and we'll continue the fun.

A Whole Lot of Nothing.

The thing is, I don't care.

At all.

Here we see a man who butchered thousands waltzing around in his underpants. Undignified? Screw off. Were the Geneva Conventions violated? Who knows. Go ahead and investigate. Once I see a photo of Saddam being decapitated with a machete, then I'll start to worry that things have gone a bit too far. Until then, I will remain your faithful non-caring host.

Outrage is a funny thing. The Red Cross and other international groups express "outrage" upon seeing a picture of a monster in his underpants. When it comes to thugs detonating bombs that kill civilians, we hear nothing unless said casualties can be seen as the result of the Bush administration's "unjust" war. When it comes to peacekeepers being executed in the name of a bastardized version of Islam, these folks are "shocked and saddened," but never quite outraged. That's reserved for the actions of the United States and its allies.

I've been on the receiving end of many unflattering pictures in my time. I always woke up the next morning.

To the "insurgents" who long for Saddam's Iraq, check it: Your emperor has no clothes.

We Take That Which is in Our Way and We Turn it into Mulch.

And this mulch, my friends, we spread across our yards as a warning to all future obstacles.

We'll be laying mulch at my folks' place this weekend, AMF and I. I have this crazy idea, though, that starts with me going to the gas station after work and telling the attendant on duty to load me up with 40 bags of their finest mulch and ends with me laying it all down tonight. Night landscaping, it's in the blood of my people. We know not sleep, we know only toil.

I want to free up the weekend and have time for STUPID, ridiculous AMF time. A walk by the Riverwalk (that's what it's there for, afterall), ice cream outside in the sun with the bugs and the breeze and the sounds of suburbia, mayhaps drinking beer while I futz with the guitar again.

I talked briefly with my dear friend Ryan today, and he mentioned a shot he's got to play a show at a bar by his place in Brooklyn. I'm excited for him and living vicariously through this bit of good fortune. More than anything, it seems Right and Appropriate that he cover Dion's "The Wanderer." However, and I've tried to state this to him as clearly as possible, it must be performed with Attitude, with venom, violence, and vim. Should he leave out a single element-- and God forbid it be the vim-- he could have a living breathing train crash on his hands. This would be his Tet. The fire and resultant fury would leave him burned, charred, and ultimately incapacitated. Could he recover? Certainly, and he would. Ryan's one of the toughest fellows I've had the privilege to meet, a bare-knuckle boxer who's had to fight to eat in the past. He's got a gaze that I've seen scare subway rats, rats that grow to the size of cats, rats with a single purpose- to hunt and to kill. That said, and back onto my point: This is not an injury Ryan needs to bring upon himself right now. And, if he listens to me, he'll come out smelling like a rose. The crowd will walk out unable to make eye contact with one another. The men will have been virtually castrated, and the women will know, both in their hearts and in their loins that the man on stage is the only man who will ever be able to truly satisfy them.

God speed, friend.

Sleepy Day.

I worked from home today. While I worked, AMF and Truman slept.

These are the End Times, or Yes, Dammit, I'm Excited About Star Wars.

Believe it or not, I find this to be a sure sign that things are going pretty alright in my life:

I found a Clone Commander on my way home from work today. I'm not a collector by any stretch, but I have a healthy sense of what is Cool, and Cool this is. I'm a 28 year old guy. I do not live in my parents' basement, and I have a good job. Hell, I even have a girlfriend (and she's hot, by gum). And yet, hot damn, finding this Clone Commander got my blood going.

You can say whatever the hell you want about George Lucas, and people have. Folks harp on the Special Editions and crap all over the prequels with cries of "he ruined my childhood!" or the incessant "Greedo shot first!" Some of Lucas' decisions upset me a bit, too, but, you know, ultimately he gave us freaking STAR WARS. Editorial quibbles are just that, quibbles. You've still got your old VHS tapes of the original trilogy. When you're done crying, pull them out.

I was born in '76, and my dad took me to the theater for each of the original films, in some cases, several times. For "Jedi," we were on our way to a Tiger Cubs meeting, and my dad gave me the choice, go to Tiger Cubs, or quit that weak shit and go see "Jedi" instead. The decision was clear, and I've been a bit socially inept ever since. It's a nice little bond I have with my dad. Birthdays and holidays were always about Star Wars toys. Saving proofs of purchase sometimes meant receiving cool toys and accessories in the mail and the anticipation that came from waiting for the mailman to show up each day.

The excitement I had for the Special Editions and prequels wasn't just about the movies. It was about being able to experience the excitement of a 10 year old boy again in the midst of the nonsense of an adult life. It was a bridge back to a time when little things would make you realize just how great the world could be. I've got a bit of that now, and it feels pretty nice. Tonight, I found a Clone Commander, and stuff feels good.

What happens after I've seen Episode III? Lots of people talk about having a sort of bittersweet feeling as the movies are all done. I don't really see it like that. Star Wars changed the world a bit. The genie's out of the bottle, so to speak, and I don't thing we'll ever be through with it. There will always be something new, be it a Darth Vader Slurpee, the new TV series, or just some really cool toys. If at any point I find myself bitching about bills, I'm pretty certain there will be something there to elicit a little bit of wonder and joy.

When Your Life Looks Like a Book You Wouldn't Read.

I'm leaving work shortly for a team outing. We're going bowling. I am, apparently, a team leader. I have a team of bowlers under me. I was supposed to contact my team and coordinate matching Chicago sports team outfits. I did not do this. I would not do this. This just isn't me.

It's half a day off from work, but at what cost? Will I have to engage in "goofy" bowling activities? Will I have to bowl while holding the hand of a teammate? What does one's soul cost, friend?

Sometimes, you wake up in the morning and evaluate the choices you've made in life. Oftentimes, you end up sighing and shaking your head.

And kid, I'm a mess, if it looked good, you're seeing things, I guess.

So, I'm listening to Jets to Brazil and just kind of contemplating.

Before I go- a week ago, I mentioned that the sounds of sex coming from the apartment above would be preferable to the sounds of television. Last night I woke at midnight in a literal cold sweat hearing said sex sounds from the upstairs apartment. It chilled me to the core. That kid should not be engaged in any activity from which the squeaky sounds of bedsprings are produced. I hope, nay, pray, and am close to convincing myself that the source of the sound was him jumping on the bed in a tizzy over having secured Star Wars tickets. Probably, though, he was nailing a block of microwaved cheese.

Boy Done Been Shopping.

A quick break before jumping back into a couple of projects on which I'm working:

With antsiness getting the better of me yesterday, AMF and I went and ran some errands. I have this condition that makes me hate walking around the apartment without slippers, and my favorite Costco slippers had officially hit the point where they scraps rather than footwear. The right one, anyways. However, AMF pretty much insisted that they both had to go. So, I went to Walmart. I have no idea why I decided on Walmart. Hate the place. It's filthy. It's venal, even, but I figured I could get a cheap pair of slippers to tide me over until Costco unveiled its fall line. I got some five dollar slippers in a moccasin design, ideal for playing cowboys and Indians. For those interested in this kind of thing, I also got mustard and paper towels. Now- here's the thing: I decided to go to the self checkout line. In front of me were a pair of Mexican dudes buying Mexican things with the scanner set to Espanol. They left, and the scanner was all screwed up. And, screwed up in Spanish, which is a kind of screw up I'm not very good at addressing. Mi Espanol es muy mal. After an employee came and kicked the thing a few times, I was able to proceed. I put in my cash and then went to get my change, and, wouldn't you know it: The misunderstanding the dudes in front of me went all the way through to the getting change part of the transaction, so, in essence, I got my paper towels and mustard for free. Point: Adam.

We hit a couple of other stores, neither of which was very eventful.

Then, however, we hit the goldmine: Bobak's, a Polish grocery/sausage emporium. We loaded up on baked good, including a danish that was bigger than AMF's head (her head is petite). I loved the store, and I especially liked checking out an assortment of candy and other products that just don't really exist in the US. However, I had kind of an eerie vibe as I went to check out. My ears pricked, and my prick eared, and I realized that the theme from Twin Peaks was playing through the Muzak.

That's just- weird.

Sometimes Stances Happen.

In a delightful turn of events, after I talked to AMF yesterday, my mom ended up buying her a ticket to come up for the week to take care of the dogs while they're away in Arizona. So, I spent the afternoon furiously cleaning the apartment, and then headed to Midway for a quarter to midnight pickup.

We stopped for Frosties on the way home and were asleep sometime in the two o'clock hour. Slept in, and then 12:30 Mass. AMF is at the gym now; we're both trying to fight cold, tired Sunday laziness. Tonight, dinner at the folks'. Lamb, I believe. Mmm... tasty.

Thus far, things have been great, and I have no reason to expect they'll be otherwise as the week progresses. I'm thrilled with how things have been working out. If I can only convince her to never pick up the return ticket, things would be aces across the board.

We'll hit Burger King when AMF gets back. She's in a fast food mood, and I'm interested in checking out their Star Wars toys. You know, because I'm basically ten years old.

...Now I've Got the Reds.

It's another quiet night at the ranch.

AMF is still in DC, off at a pie-eating contest tonight, and I'm all goofed up on allergy medication.

I did the gym, where a dad (oh Lord, I hope...) was instructing his son to squat in front of the mirror. Let me tell you- this is a creepy and distracting thing to have going on around you. 10 year old repeatedly squatting in front of the mirror while "dad" worked out on the machines in his street clothes.

But, it takes all kinds, right? Right.

All I've had to eat today are the Frosties, so I should probably be thinking about tossing some grub into my belly. But- the allergy medication. I've had an awkward uncomfortable nose tickle that's led to some awkward sneezing. I took a single pill, and I feel down for the count. I've locked the door and turned off most lights to discourage Gypsies. I couldn't take a single a-one in my condition. They'd have my wallet, my cat, and all the canned goods, and there wouldn't be a damned thing I could do about it. Not a damned thing.

I've been futzing around with emusic.com in the background of this haze. Right now, I can't remember for the life of me what it was that directed me there. Ghosts, perhaps. They have a free trial subscription, 50 free song downloads, and if you cancel within two weeks, there's no charge. If you don't, they have several subscription levels allowing different numbers of song downloads per month, all of which are significantly cheaper than iTunes. Right now, I'm in the midst of downloading the first two Methadones albums- the selection is pretty great. The even have two live Figgs albums. Thus far, I like this, but still probably plan on skipping out after my 50 songs. Just can't be tossing the ducets around these days.

Playing right now is "Hygiene Aisle" by the Methadones. Pretty freaking great. And, a great band. I will go on record as saying that their most recent album, "Not Economically Viable," is one of the top "modern" punk albums I've heard in quite some time. It's difficult to explain, but it's a very rare album that, start to finish, has songs that just "work." And, by "work," I mean there's never a point in a song where I feel the chorus just went wrong, or a transition just turned a great song into a mediocre one. Dan Schaefer knows how to write a great pop song. Cheap Trick couldn't do too much better.

My current sleepiness indicates that this will be an early night, which will work out well. I want to get up early tomorrow and have a real day. I don't know exactly what a real day entails, but I really want one, dammit.

I'll report back tomorrow on my findings, my successes, and my failures.

Everyone Knows it's Wendy's.

I still don't know how many stoplights I pass on my way to work, but I now know how many Wendy's.

It's three.

I know this because I stopped at all of them on my way home. Free Frosties this weekend, folks. Make sure you don't forget.

Now, I feel a bit ill, even though they were very small Frosties.

Off to the gym, perhance to vomit.

A Thing You Don't See Every Day.

When I got to the gym today, there was a fat hairy guy wearing only his bathing suit in line in front of me to check in. He was in the middle of a conversation with the two women at the desk, and both women seemed perplexed.

"Can you cut it yourself?" Asked one of the women. "We're not allowed to go in there."

The man answered in the affirmative, and the other woman opened up a closet and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters that she then handed to the man.

I prayed that the discussion did not involve a foreskin.

Thank the maker, it did not. Seems the guy had forgotten the combination to his lock and couldn't get to his clothes. The man asked what he owed for the lock, and was told not to worry about it. Everyone's biggest concern was getting this man his clothes.

With that he walked away, big red bolt cutters in his hands.

Were I in the locker room when this guy walked in, I think I'd probably play dead.

Lost Control Again. Today.

Well, no. Not really. Not yet.

But, I'm listening to Naked Raygun's "Vanilla Blue," and I can't deny the power of a great chorus.

Woke up this morning to darkness and the harrowing sounds of a magnificent thunderstorm. For a moment, I was enthralled, as I love lying in bed during a thunderstorm. I was less enthralled when I looked at the clock and saw it was almost time to get up. Usually, I wake up a couple of hours before the alarm goes off. This is a great feeling. One of my favorites. Unfortunately, I had a bit of trouble falling asleep last night.

So, damn you, Matt. Damn you for the dumb guy laughs that reverberated through my walls. Damn you for your damned friends, whose dumb guy/girl laughs did the same. Damn you for the loud TV, and damn you for forcing me to put on a new age album to try to drown out your existence.

P.S. The link above is worth checking out for the sake of reading the asinine reviews folks have sent in for the album.

The Kid Upstairs Really Doesn't Have His Crap Together.

My God, man- were I the backwoods murdering sort, I'd be clearing out a space in the woodshed for this joker.

We've all been young, we've all been ugly, and we've all been guilty of carrying on conversations outside my bedroom window at quarter to eleven at night- but enough's enough. Here follows a short list of reasons why this kid's totally f-ed.

• The TV, which appears to be located directly above my bed, is continually on, and playing loudly, at all times.
• His car is overloaded with bags of toys. They never move. For months.
• He never checks his mail. The mailboxes are in the front of the house, and he and I are in the back. Currently, his mail has overloaded the box, and has dropped to the ground. There are three UPS "hey, douchebag, we've been trying to deliver your package" slips currently stuck to the wall by his box.
• Speaking of his box, I was witness to his girlfriend's leaving him some months ago. She was an odd duck as well; I could never tell if she was British or retarded. Maybe a little of each.
• The floor of the basement laundry area is littered with his debris. And, by debris, I mean clothes. He'll leave them there for weeks until they fall on the floor, at which point I kick them to the side of the dryer. There they remain. Also, he never cleans out the lint trap. Personal pet peeve.
• Per the landlord, his lawyer dad up in Wisconsin pays his rent. Get a job, hippie.
• I got drunk a couple of weeks ago and offered him some pizza. He refused.
• He is still outside my bedroom window having a conversation. Now it is five to eleven.

I am about to go outside to check on this shit. This shit cannot stand.

------------------------------------------------

Holy crap. Dude's not even outside. All this noise is coming through the floor.

This is worse than the clockwork 5:00AM sounds of adultery that came with the woman who used to live upstairs. Five minutes of mattress squeaks and grunts followed by the sound of a dude hustling down the stairs to pull his hidden little green woman car out of the garage and head off to his job at Lifetime Fitness. Both kept me from sleeping, but illicit sex is at least interesting.

Two Hot Dog Lunch.

Budget lunch today. 2 gas station hot dogs and a 44 oz. root beer for $1.69. Can't beat that with a stick, folks. The drink wouldn't even fit in my cup holder. Not comfortably, anyways. I ate the first one in the car in the Speedway parking lot (the fumes bring out the flavor) and the second at a red light. Hot damn, I love hot dogs.

This root beer is a job unto itself. 44 oz. is a mighty beverage. Surely, I'll get at least two trips to the john out of this.

Monday, Monday. Can't Trust That Day.

The rain finally came today after a pretty nice weekend. Now, it's kind of muggy. High of 80 tomorrow.

I feel disgusting in my bedroom. The difference this time is that it's due to mugginess and humidity. It's about time to put the airconditioner back in. That will be fun. It'll be a one man job again, and I'm not very handy. Additionally, there will be electrical challenges this time around, as well. The computer has basically ensured that nothing but the computer can be plugged in this room. Safely, anyways. But then, who the hell cares about safety? Not me. Not this guy. Not when it's muggy and humid in my room.

Well, not much to report. When it comes down to writing about the weather, it's time to hang up the phone. It's like a conversation with an disliked relative. Odds are, if you're reading this, though, I like you.

Goodnight folks.

P.S. For the voyeurs in the house, here's a picture of the interior of Terry's empty apartment. The brain surgeons refinishing his floor left the windows open. I'm expecting to wake up to a hive of hobos squatting next door:

Continuing My Descent.

Thanks to Michelle's reminder, I headed out to a comic book store today for a free comic courtesy of Free Comic Book Day. Mind you, I don't read comics, but it seemed like a good excuse to split my place, which was very noisy due to the floors being refinished in the apartment next door. I picked up a Star Wars comic as my freebie, and so I didn't feel like a real free-loader or look like a shoplifter, I also picked up a few other Star Wars comics, as well.

I hadn't been in a comic book store in years and was pretty overwhelmed by the selection. I was also a bit weirded out by the fact that all the employees were wearing ties. I was not surprised to see that they were really big geeks. Then, I was there, buying Star Wars comics, so I really can't be throwing any stones. It wouldn't have done any good anyway. I think those guys had some serious hit points along with a +3 defense modifier.

I came home and crashed out on the bed with a comic, and Truman climbed up and curled up next to me. I enjoyed myself thoroughly and all in all had a pretty relaxing day.

Call Me Atom Tan.

This second, I'm seeing just what you are seeing. This is how I share.

I got home and hit the gym, my first time with the iPod. Observations: 1) Man, it's great to have some music of my choosing to listen to while I work out. 2) Man, it's pretty damned difficult to keep a handle on an iPod while working out. But, I managed. It ended up stuck in my pants, right where all the fine fine ladies of the Y dreamed of being.

Home, and not much to do. I brewed up a pot of coffee and have been sitting at the computer, alternately transferring CDs to the iPod and doing some writing of the non-blog sort. It's an odd little thing, a dark and violent story on which I'm not terribly attached, but which I need to get out of my head and onto paper. It came out of a bizarre dream that I had months ago, and, if nothing else, it will be a good writing exercise for me. The Clash end up figuring in fairly significantly, "Combat Rock," in particular. We'll see where it goes.

"Combat Rock" has a special place in my heart. I'd had and consumed the first three albums for quite some time, but the post-London Calling era came to me a bit later, for reasons I don't quite recall. As a sophomore in college, I snagged my first girlfriend. That summer, I ended up coming to stay with her in Nantucket, where she was working in a sandwich shop. Her place was unusual, a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen cleaved out of the back of an "antique" furniture store catering to the rich who set up summer homes on the island. Drilled wormholes, artificial weathering, and assorted other tricks turned crap into treasure. The eyes and wallets of the beholders, I suppose. There was a small basket of battered cassettes on her dresser, and from here, I took my first real listens of "Combat Rock."

I'd heard "Rock the Casbah" and "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" enough times to forward past them pretty much whenever they'd come on, but the rest was like finding treasure. Pieces of these songs still give me chills to this day. The first clangs of the muted guitar strings on "Know Your Rights," the pronunciation of "alooominyum" for "aluminum" on "Car Jamming," and most indelibly, the repeated I thought I saw Lauren Bacall from the same song. Sometime later, when I was visiting my good friend Ryan in NYC, he yanked out his guitar and started playing "Atom Tan." His version of the song still sticks in my head, and it's always killed me that when I pick up a guitar, I can't touch the song.

So, God bless you, and may you rest in peace, Joe Strummer. And thank you Mick, Paul, and Topper, and a special thanks to Jen. The heartbreak was a bitch, but I appreciate your holding onto those tapes.

Time to split. My sister called, and I'm going to go enjoy a sisterly beer with her.

This Just Caps It.

You've got to be kidding me:

Nothing quite gets you out of a funk like the forecast for days of depression. Time to go home and hide the pills and knives.

F-ing A Right!!!

You're damned right that's cool!

And, for $2 a box, a pretty sweet deal on Corn Flakes, to boot.

My antsiness got the best of me, so I hit Target. Cereal, milk, razors, shaving cream, Mother's Day Card, tortillas, cheese, bread, hot dog buns, hot dogs, Target-branded Miracle Whip substitute, and other odds and ends.

Off for some late night hot dogs, and maybe some Star Wars cereal for dessert.

Sometimes, It's Nice.

Taken in the side yard in the neighborhood of 6:15. How do I know? The 6:15 church bells were ringing.

Got the camera and some DVDs from my brother, so tonight might be a movie night. Doubt it, though- I'm feeling a bit restless. And, hungry, as I projected. On the way home, I stopped at a supermarket at which I'd never shopped. It was an unfamiliar name, with unfamiliar products. It didn't feel like my supermarket. It didn't feel like my supermarket to the point that I emptied my cart of milk and $.39 yogurt and split.

There's no comfort in a strange grocery store. So, I might run out again. Maybe Meijer, maybe Trader Joe's. I have to make a plan, dammit. I have nothing. But, what do I need? I just don't know.

Live! Alone in the Suburbs.

I split work early, and am now home cooking a frozen dinner in the microwave. Lunch today was a small bag of even smaller (if they were bigger than the bag, it wouldn't work) oatmeal raisin cookies, so I'm hungry. There's hardly any food in the house, and I've been lazy about going to the grocery store. The Stouffers was AMF's, so I've looked past it every time I've opened the freezer. But, seeing as how I don't know when she'll be back, I figure I might as well eat it. And, be hungry again in about ten minutes.

I have to meet up with my brother at 5:30. I'm borrowing his video camera to make illicit sex tapes. No- I'm borrowing his camera on behalf of a friend and his fiancee' who want to make a video to enter themselves into some sort of wedding show for Bravo. Good God, man- I feel like an accomplice in something awful. I'll head out and maybe take a drive. Something to keep me from crawling up the walls here. Perchance, a grocery store. Perchance some miniature golf.

I'm trying to come up with something, but I can't conceive of more uncomfortable activity than miniature golf by oneself.

Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. In any case, I was just talking nonsense.

Dinner. Then, out.

I Thought the World Had Run Out of Heroes.

It has not. Troy Hurtubise has always been a second tier hero for me as a result of his grizzly suit. Now, I've learned that he has also invented fire-proof paste (active ingredient: Diet Pepsi) , bullet- and explosion-proof cushions, and, most amazingly, A SUPER LIGHT THAT SEES THROUGH WALLS AND SKIN. As my granddad would say, the man is clearly crazy as a shithouse rat, but it's these kind of characters that keep life interesting.

So, here's to you, Troy Hurtubise! Today, you are my hero.

I think I'll be splitting shortly to go invent myself some dinner.

They Eat Brains.

Over the last few days, I've taken particular notice of a disturbingly-named school on my way to and from work:

Resurrection Pre-School

I've been to church; I get it. But, still- the name just doesn't work too well for me, and you can be damned sure none of my illegitimate bastard children-- scattered all over the land like blown dandelions-- will be attending.

It's not so much that it sounds like a zombie movie, but rather that it sounds like a really bad zombie movie. Just as my kids won't be attending Early Mid-Morning of the Dead Pre-School or Bride of the Son of a Good Friend of the Reanimator Pre-School, they won't be going anywhere near that crap hole. Which is kind of unfortunate, because, it's right on the way to work.

I'm a Street Walking Bottom Feeder with a Head Like a Capon.

I got back to the gym, inspired by receiving a package from a vendor containing a crappy t-shirt. "This," I said to myself, to myself I said, "this is a shirt to wear for working out. It serves no other purpose in this world."

So, once I got home, I threw on the shirt and the sweatpants in which I slept last night, and as the Nike guys do, Just Did It.

It sucked. Not in the mood. But, hey, you know- it's what you do.

Now I'm shackled to the computer. I had a leftover Taco Bell burrito for dinner, and am doing some wash. Listening to the iPod, and not doing much else. Mayhaps some videogames in a bit.

On a more interesting note, to me at least, is the fact that someone was kind enough to post a live track from Ben Weasel's new band, Sweet Black & Blue. While it's hard to make out the lyrics from the mix, the song sounds great. I look very forward to hearing more from this band. Who knows, maybe I can even drag my lazy ass into the city the next time they play. While many gush over Ben and his various projects, I'll just say this: the guy knows what he's doing and is capable of writing some killer tunes. He's truly a bright spot in the vacuous space of modern punk rock.

And, Another Thing.

I added Darth Vader's Blog to my favorites over there on the side. Over there, on the right. Keep looking- there. It was a Yahoo Pick today, and I dug it, and I think that you might dig it, as well. If you don't, I apologize. How 'bout this instead? You can find anything there.

Not Much to Report. In the Midst of "Blah."

Man, alive, you'd think that after a full day of paintball I'd have more to report. But, you'd be wrong. Dead wrong. The day left me beaten, battered, and filthy. What I wrote about it is all that you're going to get. That was last week's news, kids. Move on. Enjoy the present moment.

My present moment has me feeling completely wiped out. The last few days have, too. There's a feeling inside and out of just being not here and feeling not quite right. I'm still passing the open windows, but I just don't have much in me right now.

Not having AMF here is getting old. I just kind of sit and sulk, and not much good comes from it. Sure, you could argue, I'm getting some good jerking around on the computer/videogame time in, but, that time kind of sucks. There's not much to it. I've been skipping the gym, skipping all but the necessary laundry, and all the rest. And, I have to stop that.

So, I will.

See? It's simple. In theory, anyways.

I bought an iPod on Sunday. It's cool. Really cool. That's all there is to say about it, save that I'm listening to it right now, The Tragically Hip's "Something On." My favorite song from "Phantom Power," "Thompson Girl," wouldn't copy over, which pissed me off something fierce, but I'll take "Something On," in a pinch:

Outside there's hectic action,
The ice is covering the trees
And one of 'em's interconnecting
With my Chevrolet Caprice.

I used to have a Caprice. It was held together with black duct tape and eventually exploded. Thus, I can connect with this song. And, connectivity is what it's all about. Try to argue with me; try to prove me wrong. You can't- my blog's bigger than yours, I walk the walk and talk the talk. I'm a mean motor scooter.

Yeah. Good reason I haven't been posting for the last few days. I'll try to get out of here in the next hour, piles of unfinished work be damned. There's just no time, inclination, or care. There's more important things to be done, like moping at home (not to be confused with mopping at home, and that's the issue).

I think I'm going to go and get a cup of water.

Paintball Wizard.

I went and played paintball today with a bunch of guys from work. My brother came with me, which brought it from good time to good time with my brother coming with me. Which means: fun.

I'd never played before. The paintballs don't hurt too much, unless you get shot point blank in the hand, which I was.

Damn- I'm too tired to really write anything about it right now. I'm exhausted, and I'm up too late. Maybe more tomorrow, probably not. Right now, I'm a tired cranky little bitch, and I'm ready to eat a bit of pizza and then go to bed.