The first thing I want to say is addressed to all you fucking jerk-offs with 300 rolls of toilet paper stashed away at home.
Fuck off and drop dead.
My first impulse is to pray you get Corvid-19 and die a horrible, lonely death. But I think I have a better solution.
I hope you develop a case of explosive diarrhea. So much so that all you can do is shit. Spending 24 hours a day sitting on your toilet, unable to wipe your ass at all. Shitting until you collapse and die from dehydration.
Then I'm gonna come over and take your toilet paper.
The soft hearted keep saying "Remember, we are all in this together. We gotta take care of each other". We don't live in that world anymore (if we ever did). The world we live in is filled with hatred and the imminent threat of violence.
Simply put - if we were all in this together there would be toilet paper on the shelves.
Instead we all crawl around like fucking bugs desperately fighting to find tp. Because all the selfish pricks - and there are millions of them - care only about themselves. Period. They do not give a fuck about anyone else; they do not give a fuck if other people die; they do not give a fuck if other people have access to simple life necessities.
I had to pick up equipment at work yesterday so I can work at home. While I was in Concord I popped into Market Basket for food and ...............tp. No fucking tp. Again. And again and again.
I also popped into Rite Aid. No fucking tp.
I have been to two different Market Baskets, Shaw's, Rite Aid, Target, Harvester Market.
This is easily the 10th, 12th or 15th time I have gone looking for tp. I have only scored twice. I check online multiple times a day. Nothing.
I got sage advice telling me that I gotta make an early morning run if I want a chance, which is obviously what I am going to have to do. But if I get up at 5 or 6 to connect with early morning hours and there is no TP, someone is gonna die. If I see someone walking out of the store with TP I will bash their legs with a baseball bat and steal the precious goods. Even if it is a 93 year old woman.
I gotta get up early to score TP? Fuck you fuck you fuck you.
Next: Wanna know what trump supporters do when they are stuck at home? They ride 4 wheelers endlessly around their yard and fire guns in the back yard.
I have a trump supporter next door. A real brainless motherfucker. He owns some bizarre military vehicle - a big goddamn thing in camouflage colors. Probably not even legal. He rides it up and down the street from time to time. Complete with a full size trump flag in the back.
His kid rides his 4 wheeler endlessly during the day. Last weekend dad was out in the back yard firing his gun, which does not happen often.
I guarantee you he wasn't sharpening his aim. I guarantee you he was sending a message to his neighbors. When he runs out of tp (300 rolls later) he will come over here, shoot me in the face, and take mine.
What he doesn't know is that he won't get away with it. I am an angry man. I hated my fucking life before I was reduced to scavenging for tp. I really hate my life now.
It will be like that scene in the movie, the scene that everybody loves. The quiet guy who never raises his fists until he is pushed too far. Then he beats the living shit out of someone, really destroys them physically, maybe kills them, continually smashing his fist into their face long after they have gone unconscious.
That is where I am at.
Just thought you should know.
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
Sunday, March 29, 2020
Quite Disquieting
I recently had a dream.
I was in a room with a woman I once worked with. I have no idea who it was, there was just a sense that I knew her, specifically that I had worked with her in the past.
She was busy doing something with her hands. Don't know what it was. She was leaning over moving things around; manipulating things.
I looked at her and said: "I am going to die soon".
She looked up and said: "I know".
There was no emotion in either statement; just a flat expression of fact.
I was in a room with a woman I once worked with. I have no idea who it was, there was just a sense that I knew her, specifically that I had worked with her in the past.
She was busy doing something with her hands. Don't know what it was. She was leaning over moving things around; manipulating things.
I looked at her and said: "I am going to die soon".
She looked up and said: "I know".
There was no emotion in either statement; just a flat expression of fact.
Saturday, March 28, 2020
Coronavirus Is My Friend
Coronavirus has done for my life what I've been unable to do for 14 years.
Keep people the fuck away from me.
I started in customer service - tending bar - in 2006. Seemed like a brilliant move at the time. I love bars, I love being around drunken psychopaths. But I ended up working at an American Legion; no money in that.
I gradually drifted into true customer service jobs. You know, the kind that are demeaning and choke the life out of your soul.
First - NH State liquor stores. Again, good to be around booze. I'm comfortable in that environment. But customers suck. Sales reps suck. Liquor commission management sucks.
I began to slowly die.
Semi-retired (I hate that fucking phrase) in 2016. Took one month off - just one, after an entire lifetime of working for ungrateful, short-sighted motherfuckers. Got a part time job working in a thrift store. Told myself I was doing a good thing, working for a good organization.
I lie to myself all the time.
Couldn't get out of there fast enough. One year later I was working at the Capitol Center for the Arts. Been there for 3 years.
Soul sucking. Answering the same idiotic questions over and over again from an unlimited supply of mindless morons.
Last September I took on a second part time job; working for the city of Concord. Pays well but.......how bizarre, how bizarre. Fucking weird job. I won't get into details but it is strange. And still, the entire focus is waiting on schizophrenic subhumans.
Since September I have been slowly melting down. The combination of the two jobs is eating me up. Five days a week of sacrificing my ego and swallowing my pride to bring in a buck, in two completely different environments with two completely different sets of types of people.
Two Mondays. Monday is Monday. Wednesday is Monday.
My anger and frustration has been slowly building. Whiskey input had increased to the point where I was hurting myself. Waking up with fucking headaches. I never get headaches from drinking whiskey.
The jobs were destroying me. Physically and mentally. Whiskey was destroying me.
I had no hope. You gotta have hope, you gotta see a light at the end of the tunnel. If you don't life will eat you up like cancer.
When coronavirus came along I was on my knees praying to be sent home. I did not know how much longer I could keep this up.
Now here I am. Home. City of Concord is essentially giving me a paid vacation - the job is too stupid to do at home. I hope they keep it coming. Cap Ctr is giving me six weeks working from home then everybody gets laid off.
I am catching my breath. I started exercising again. Dieting again. Writing again. Drinking less whiskey. My philosophy is to do healthy things and things that make me happy. Flush out my brain. Air out my soul.
I gotta create hope. Not sure how I am going to do that but the seed has been planted and has a little time to be nourished. I am hoping to hold on to these good habits when I am inevitably called back to the grind. I am hoping to develop a new perspective to help me deal with these jobs.
I do not want to go back to where I was. I don't think I can go back to where I was.
I hate that so many people are being hurt by this disease. These are the most bizarre times I have ever lived through which, for someone of my generation, is saying a lot.
On the other hand, if a few thousand people have to die to enable me to find peace of mind, it's a pretty fair tradeoff.
Keep people the fuck away from me.
I started in customer service - tending bar - in 2006. Seemed like a brilliant move at the time. I love bars, I love being around drunken psychopaths. But I ended up working at an American Legion; no money in that.
I gradually drifted into true customer service jobs. You know, the kind that are demeaning and choke the life out of your soul.
First - NH State liquor stores. Again, good to be around booze. I'm comfortable in that environment. But customers suck. Sales reps suck. Liquor commission management sucks.
I began to slowly die.
Semi-retired (I hate that fucking phrase) in 2016. Took one month off - just one, after an entire lifetime of working for ungrateful, short-sighted motherfuckers. Got a part time job working in a thrift store. Told myself I was doing a good thing, working for a good organization.
I lie to myself all the time.
Couldn't get out of there fast enough. One year later I was working at the Capitol Center for the Arts. Been there for 3 years.
Soul sucking. Answering the same idiotic questions over and over again from an unlimited supply of mindless morons.
Last September I took on a second part time job; working for the city of Concord. Pays well but.......how bizarre, how bizarre. Fucking weird job. I won't get into details but it is strange. And still, the entire focus is waiting on schizophrenic subhumans.
Since September I have been slowly melting down. The combination of the two jobs is eating me up. Five days a week of sacrificing my ego and swallowing my pride to bring in a buck, in two completely different environments with two completely different sets of types of people.
Two Mondays. Monday is Monday. Wednesday is Monday.
My anger and frustration has been slowly building. Whiskey input had increased to the point where I was hurting myself. Waking up with fucking headaches. I never get headaches from drinking whiskey.
The jobs were destroying me. Physically and mentally. Whiskey was destroying me.
I had no hope. You gotta have hope, you gotta see a light at the end of the tunnel. If you don't life will eat you up like cancer.
When coronavirus came along I was on my knees praying to be sent home. I did not know how much longer I could keep this up.
Now here I am. Home. City of Concord is essentially giving me a paid vacation - the job is too stupid to do at home. I hope they keep it coming. Cap Ctr is giving me six weeks working from home then everybody gets laid off.
I am catching my breath. I started exercising again. Dieting again. Writing again. Drinking less whiskey. My philosophy is to do healthy things and things that make me happy. Flush out my brain. Air out my soul.
I gotta create hope. Not sure how I am going to do that but the seed has been planted and has a little time to be nourished. I am hoping to hold on to these good habits when I am inevitably called back to the grind. I am hoping to develop a new perspective to help me deal with these jobs.
I do not want to go back to where I was. I don't think I can go back to where I was.
I hate that so many people are being hurt by this disease. These are the most bizarre times I have ever lived through which, for someone of my generation, is saying a lot.
On the other hand, if a few thousand people have to die to enable me to find peace of mind, it's a pretty fair tradeoff.
Tuesday, March 24, 2020
Shock of Recognition
I am always up before Carol.
By the time she comes downstairs I am gently settled in the recliner, cup of coffee to my right, Maka in my lap, book in my hands. Sometimes for hours on weekends before she arises.
When Carol gets to the bottom of the stairs I always say good morning. Often, after that, I am compelled to say something brilliant, as is my way.
This morning I said "I would applaud, but I have a book in my hands." An electric shock ran through me as I immediately recognized the meaningfulness of that comment. If I were a songwriter I would have immediately begun writing a song with that as the theme. If I were a poet, a poem. That's how creativity often works.
"I have a book in my hands" gets to the very essence of who I am. I am a whiskey swilling, blues loving, barfly used-to-be-wannabe, football worshiping, insanity leaning motherfucker. No doubt. I am deeply sensitive, emotional, and endlessly loving.
But if you break me down to my soul, if you look into my heart, I am all about books. More specifically, words. I like to write, I love to read. I love to lose myself in books.
I worship words.
"I Have a Book in My Hands" would be appropriate on my tombstone. It's perfect. You could bury me with a book in my hands. I choose those words over "Please Forget You Knew My Name", my previous choice.
Catch is you ain't gonna bury me. As much as that image fascinates me, the dead underground lying in the shadow of a tombstone, I prefer that you toast me like a marshmallow. I haven't decided yet where I want my ashes scattered. Maybe you will make that decision for me. I trust your judgement.
"I Have a Book in My Hands". It will be the name of the biopic Hollywood will one day make about me.
I have been thinking about this a lot lately. Who exactly am I. Life has really buried me under a mountain of deception; all the deceptions I have to manage every day just to survive. I lost myself. I really don't know who I am. So I function as a ghost, a shell of a human being, stepping out on stage every day to put on the act. Call me Pacino.
Then I return home bewildered. Stunned that I am 66 and not retired. Maybe never retired. Stunned that I am working menial jobs. Two menial jobs. Stunned that I still answer to other people.
I slip into my recliner and hope to find myself. I never do. Even there I kid myself. But Maka and whiskey soften the blow.
I am reading a biography of Paul Simon. He wrote a song called "Mother and Child Reunion". Know where he got the inspiration for the song? A Chinese restaurant. Specifically, the menu. It had a dish on it called mother and child reunion. Amusingly enough it was a chicken and egg dish.
Of course there was a helluva lot more that went into the writing of the song, all kinds of influences and experiences and memories, but the phrase got into his brain and escaped through creativity.
Creative people get struck by lightening. Words, phrases, images that juice up the creative process. It gets filed away in the brain. It stews. Other words, phrases and images get connected to the original. Eventually you have something. Something very cool.
I am a creative person. Fiercely creative. Even if there is little or no evidence to support that assertion.
Words and phrases are forever burrowing into my diseased brain. I love the feeling. I will stop whatever I am doing when I hear words that impress me. Someone talking. TV. Wherever it comes from. It floors me.
When I come across stuff like that as I read, I often stop and write them down. It means that much to me. I especially love the feeling when I come up with creative phrases on my own. It is the best feeling in the world to me. It's just that I don't do anything with them. They languish unused but hopeful in the dark corners of my mind, repressed by boredom and despair as I lurch through life like a blind man in a minefield.
"I have a book in my hands". No big deal for you. I understand. They are just words. But when I said it I felt like I was saying "This is who I am". I felt like I was explaining myself to god. Books have provided more peace for me than any other recreational thing I have ever done. And I have been doing it longer than anything else I have ever done.
I don't ever remember not wanting to read. I will never stop reading.
"I Have a Book In My Hands". Inscribe it on the urn.
By the time she comes downstairs I am gently settled in the recliner, cup of coffee to my right, Maka in my lap, book in my hands. Sometimes for hours on weekends before she arises.
When Carol gets to the bottom of the stairs I always say good morning. Often, after that, I am compelled to say something brilliant, as is my way.
This morning I said "I would applaud, but I have a book in my hands." An electric shock ran through me as I immediately recognized the meaningfulness of that comment. If I were a songwriter I would have immediately begun writing a song with that as the theme. If I were a poet, a poem. That's how creativity often works.
"I have a book in my hands" gets to the very essence of who I am. I am a whiskey swilling, blues loving, barfly used-to-be-wannabe, football worshiping, insanity leaning motherfucker. No doubt. I am deeply sensitive, emotional, and endlessly loving.
But if you break me down to my soul, if you look into my heart, I am all about books. More specifically, words. I like to write, I love to read. I love to lose myself in books.
I worship words.
"I Have a Book in My Hands" would be appropriate on my tombstone. It's perfect. You could bury me with a book in my hands. I choose those words over "Please Forget You Knew My Name", my previous choice.
Catch is you ain't gonna bury me. As much as that image fascinates me, the dead underground lying in the shadow of a tombstone, I prefer that you toast me like a marshmallow. I haven't decided yet where I want my ashes scattered. Maybe you will make that decision for me. I trust your judgement.
"I Have a Book in My Hands". It will be the name of the biopic Hollywood will one day make about me.
I have been thinking about this a lot lately. Who exactly am I. Life has really buried me under a mountain of deception; all the deceptions I have to manage every day just to survive. I lost myself. I really don't know who I am. So I function as a ghost, a shell of a human being, stepping out on stage every day to put on the act. Call me Pacino.
Then I return home bewildered. Stunned that I am 66 and not retired. Maybe never retired. Stunned that I am working menial jobs. Two menial jobs. Stunned that I still answer to other people.
I slip into my recliner and hope to find myself. I never do. Even there I kid myself. But Maka and whiskey soften the blow.
I am reading a biography of Paul Simon. He wrote a song called "Mother and Child Reunion". Know where he got the inspiration for the song? A Chinese restaurant. Specifically, the menu. It had a dish on it called mother and child reunion. Amusingly enough it was a chicken and egg dish.
Of course there was a helluva lot more that went into the writing of the song, all kinds of influences and experiences and memories, but the phrase got into his brain and escaped through creativity.
Creative people get struck by lightening. Words, phrases, images that juice up the creative process. It gets filed away in the brain. It stews. Other words, phrases and images get connected to the original. Eventually you have something. Something very cool.
I am a creative person. Fiercely creative. Even if there is little or no evidence to support that assertion.
Words and phrases are forever burrowing into my diseased brain. I love the feeling. I will stop whatever I am doing when I hear words that impress me. Someone talking. TV. Wherever it comes from. It floors me.
When I come across stuff like that as I read, I often stop and write them down. It means that much to me. I especially love the feeling when I come up with creative phrases on my own. It is the best feeling in the world to me. It's just that I don't do anything with them. They languish unused but hopeful in the dark corners of my mind, repressed by boredom and despair as I lurch through life like a blind man in a minefield.
"I have a book in my hands". No big deal for you. I understand. They are just words. But when I said it I felt like I was saying "This is who I am". I felt like I was explaining myself to god. Books have provided more peace for me than any other recreational thing I have ever done. And I have been doing it longer than anything else I have ever done.
I don't ever remember not wanting to read. I will never stop reading.
"I Have a Book In My Hands". Inscribe it on the urn.
Saturday, March 14, 2020
&
"You know I've been thinking I just might quit drinkin'
And now I don't know all in all
I just might stay home and get drunk all alone
And punch a few holes in the wall"
"I Feel Like Hank Williams Tonight", Chris Wall
And now I don't know all in all
I just might stay home and get drunk all alone
And punch a few holes in the wall"
"I Feel Like Hank Williams Tonight", Chris Wall
Saturday, March 7, 2020
Years
"Years.
Everybody knows
You gotta let 'em go
And they kinda roll by
Like tears
Just a measure of time
Playin' with your mind
Passin' you by
Those years
Look around
Up and down
They're nowhere to be found
Like the wind
Old friends
They come and go again
Don't look back in sorrow
Just hope you see tomorrow
You and me
Came to be
We raised a family
When we're gone
They live on
To see what we won't see
Don't look back in sorrow
The children have tomorrow
Those years
Everybody knows
You gotta let 'em go
And they kinda roll by
Like tears
Just a measure of time
Playin' with your mind
Passin' you by"
"Years", by John Anderson
Everybody knows
You gotta let 'em go
And they kinda roll by
Like tears
Just a measure of time
Playin' with your mind
Passin' you by
Those years
Look around
Up and down
They're nowhere to be found
Like the wind
Old friends
They come and go again
Don't look back in sorrow
Just hope you see tomorrow
You and me
Came to be
We raised a family
When we're gone
They live on
To see what we won't see
Don't look back in sorrow
The children have tomorrow
Those years
Everybody knows
You gotta let 'em go
And they kinda roll by
Like tears
Just a measure of time
Playin' with your mind
Passin' you by"
"Years", by John Anderson
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