Blogless-Will Work For Food

Well, it seems there has been an unacceptable lapse in time since my last entry. I'm gonna blame this one on my job, which has been the source of much soul-sucking dismay as-of-late.

If you don't already know, I'm a radio anchor for a teensie-tiny, itty-bitty radio wire service. I read supposedly up-to-date news, traffic and weather reports on A.M. stations that the average person wouldn't know existed. As a matter-of-fact, I just finished reading reports for a hip-hop gospel station we provide news for. Yes, hip-hop...gospel. Despite my best efforts, I just can't seem to "get it crunk in the name of the lord up in here," as one the (admittedly talented) artists suggests on a nearly daily basis. I just don't get...crunk all that often these days.

If I were to, it would likely be in the name of scotch (no offense meant to any unspecified deity that might be watching me with an index finger at the ready on a lightning bolt button). Yup, I'd get crunk...with Johnnie Walker as my witness. So, for me at least, if drunk=crunk, and I'm aiming to get crunk in the lord's name, then crunk in the lord's name=drunk in the lord's name, which I'm not altogether sure is a balanced equation. I got my degree in journalism, not mathematics.

But I digress...this was supposed to be an explanation of my blatant absenteeism on the blog front. Candidly, I hate my job, and have been spending my evenings scouring the Web for anything sweet in a realm reeking of a foul new fragrance named "Recession."

This whole malcontent thing has been brewing daily, much like the coffee I'm paid with. I mean shit, I essentially recycle news reports from sources that employ real reporters, who actually go out and...well, report. For example: John Q. Reporter wrote a story for today's Sacramento Bee about the upcoming mayoral runoff that I need. I take the information supplied in the story and trim it, re-arrange the words, descriptions, information and so forth, until...Shazam! I've got a shiny-new, radio-ized version of what somebody else already wrote.

Anybody that goes to school starts out an idealist-no exceptions. I mean, yeah, every journalism student is told early on that there's "no money in the business." Every prospective Ed Murrow or Diane Sawyer gets skull-fucked through the ear hole with the "it's a labor of love" rant early on, but nobody, I repeat, NOBODY graduates college thinking, "Finally, I can get out there and start not having money!"

I believe every person that goes to college truly believes that their education is going to wing them to the land of milk and honey...at first. But, over this past year I've come to think success in life really is all about attrition. Can you "wait it out" in order to get to your dreams? Can you persevere, all the while feeling weak from nourishment-lacking Top Ramen?

I'm trying to stay positive. I really do want get professionally crunk...in the name of journalism. But I'm drenched in Recession...and all the job hunting is starving my poor little blog.

Possibly Public Purgatory

As I walked through the automatic doorway, a middle-aged, somewhat unkempt fellow walked out with a look that made me wonder if he had just evacuated his bladder after three days of waiting. This pudgy, scruffy gent shot me some sort of sly, rotten-pumpkin-tooth grin as I passed. "What the hell are you smiling about, Sir Yuckmouth?" I thought to myself-nearing the inner door. As I walked in, I was greeted by the symphony of the damned- sniffles, coughs, cellular ring tones and baby screams. I was truly in hell.

A word to the wise from the apparently dumb-as-dog poo: Renew your driver's license good and early-preferably on the Internet.

I walked smack dab into a queue of les miserables (apparently in the DMV Dimension, there's always a line for the line) and noticed that the woman at the front looked slightly more unhappy than the nine or ten poor souls behind her. I couldn't for the life of me determine what this woman (who obviously couldn't afford combs, lotion, and most especially, manners) was so pissed off about. So back-and-forth went Miss Congeniality 08' and a rather unamused-looking young man at the info desk...

"...Well, I aint waitin' in no damn line, I told yo ass already."

"I'm sorry miss, but you're going to have to wait in line like all these other people."

"Fo dis? {Holding up document} Are you serious? That don't make no got-damned sense."

"I'm sorry mam, but I've done all I can do."

"Mana-juh..."

"Excuse me?"

"Mana-GER!"

Apparently, acting like a horse's ass in public is not without its benefits. The manager and her charges took care of Suzy Sunshine's issue so expeditiously and ran her out of the building so fast, I couldn't be completely sure that she wasn't some sort of blissfully-unaware, undignified-dignitary. Maybe DMV workers feel the flames too-but they don't want us to remind them of where they are, I'm sure.

Finally, I got to the counter and received my renewal paperwork and a line number. The ticket read "G596". "Oh goody," I huffed while shuffling toward a corner seat. Then I heard...it. That flat, soul-less, mechanized, she-voice of evil that narrates GPS directions by day, and car drivers' nightmares by night...

"NOW-SER-VING...F...THREE-ONE-FOUR..."

"NOW-SER-VING...B...FOUR-SEVEN-TWO..."

"NOW-SER-VING...G...FIVE-FIVE-ONE..."

I thought I was going to faint. Five-five-one? FIVE-FIVE-ONE!? !? My number was FORTY-FIVE-FUCKING-FREAKS AWAY!!!

Resigned to my fate, I took a chair as far away from the surrounding freak show as possible. Sitting in a DMV is like visiting in an urban bio-refuge. I spent the next hour-and-twenty documenting the wildlife.

-Crazy dead eyes hippie demonstrating police submission maneuvers on a random woman's son (woman laughs).

-Marginally obese woman in what must be a lime-green, plastic dress that accentuates fat rolls, complete with matching strappy sandals that tie nearly up to her knees. Toe nail polish is also lime-green.

"NOW-SER-VING...G...FIVE-SIX-EIGHT..."

-Somewhat cute baby boy with faux-hawk that won't stop staring at me. Mother asks him if he's making new friends in baby voice. Baby releases drool rope and continues staring.

-Hells Angels-esque old timer in wheelchair and wearing "P.O.W./M.I.A." jacket tells attendant he didn't renew his registration sooner because of "all the stupid people here."

-Man in seat across allows chihuahua-like lap dog to lick inside his mouth.

"NOW-SER-VING...G...FIVE-NINE-SIX..." "Oh, my god." "Thank you Mr. Jesus."

"Yes, I'd be more than happy to pay 30 dollars to renew my license." "You take ATM?" "Great." "Yeah, tomorrow's my birthday...gettin' old, I know." "That's it?" "Awesome." "Thank you so much."

Practically skipping out, I looked back at that cursed room-"Yup...absolutely as bad as they say."

On the way out the front door I came across a younger man wearing a T-shirt, jeans and a baseball cap pulled down that almost covered eyes that were widened in anticipation. His face showed purpose...and hurry.

As we passed I acknowledged the youngster...

with a nod most sincere...

and a grin most wicked.

Morning Glory and Lamb Sandwiches

I saw the new "Indiana Jones" film on Memorial Day and left the theater thoroughly convinced that aging, while inevitable as long as something should exist on this earth, doesn't serve everything (or everyone) well. I'm not into spoilers, but I will say that I think everybody involved...Ford, Lucas, Spielberg and so on, and so forth, have lost their touch. Fine wine, my ass.

Anywho, I started my new shift at the ole j-o-b (justification of bills) and I think it's going to take a while for me to grow accustomed to waking up at 6:30 a.m. I'm used to falling asleep once my body decides for me that consciousness is no longer in the interest of maintaining life-supporting functionality. This used to happen around 3:30-to-4:00 each morning in the dark-room flicker of movies I'd probably already watched too many times already. Oh, the joys of night shift wage earning.

On the brighter side of things, I now work a "normal" schedule, meaning I get to use the freeway at the same time as the other 15-thousand or so people that work within the Sacramento city limits. Everyday, we further explore the great mysteries of sharing while practicing all sorts of improvised sign language and finger gestures-Awesome! Seriously though, that traffic is a bit of a pain in my shitslinger.

Speaking of awesome, if you get a chance to eat a gyro, I mean a really good one...by all means do. I had one out in the Bay Area this weekend and it was a yogurt-based, garlic-y, flame-broiled-lamb kiss from God. Well, at least that's how I saw it in my mind's eye that day. The point is that it was a pretty damn good gyro, and I think it's important that at least once-per-week, you eat something that makes you either very happy or break out in quasi-theological descriptive phrases. Just my opinion.

I'm sorry this post isn't the full-fledged magnum opus I tend to allow myself to get sucked into writing...But, I've got to get up really early, eat lambs and share the freeway with Sacramento. Talk to you later this week.

Fruit Of My (Pulled) Loins

It happened two weeks ago while I was performing an improvised back exercise-a sort of herky-jerky, up-and-down dance while clutching a 25 lb. weight. In theory, bending over then rising my torso repeatedly while cradling that aforementioned steel works the lower back-to include recently gelatinized parts like my rear quarter panels (love handles). Sweat was everywhere. I had a particularly beastly grunt going. All was man-tastic in my world. Then suddenly...TINK!

"Ouch," was my first thought. "Hmm...The ole' crotch-n-rocks sure feel a bit funny." But it wasn't late-night Cinemax at age 13 funny. Ah! Nein mein Herr. This was something akin to post-"punched-in-the-junk" funny. And just how the hell does one pull his sacred junk? I mean, I understand that all men of adult age from time-to-time will experience groinal tugging, yanking, and in extreme cases, strangulation. That's the price of the glory packaged with each shiny new "Y" chromosome. No biggie. But a groin "pull?" I thought that was something that happened to ballet freaks and over-the-hill football players. And besides that, my twig-n-berries were scientifically-proven to be indestruc...Oh, shit...I'm really getting old.

I've ascertained that this "old" crap started the night of June 2nd, 2007. I was in the bathroom cleaning up for the evening's festivities. Some friends were taking me out to dinner that night to celebrate the dubious milestone of a 30th "earthsurf" around the sun. As I peered in the mirror, yanking out an errant nose hair and willing away an escape attempt by a lone, subsequent tear, something seemed...different. The man staring back in the reflection was not the Aubrey of eyebrow-cocking lore. This guy looked a little more worse for wear than I remembered. And dare I say it-slightly out of shape.

It was a similar face, but a pudge-packed turkey neck had seemingly sprung out of nowhere. The remnants of a once mighty Velcro-mane sang a sad, pitiful, hair-restoration product jingle-a figurative chorus of failing follicles declaring their vehement disapproval of my mother's genetic contribution. And ohhhh my poor stomach-once gravity for girl fingers globally-now on the path to becoming...(sigh)...a belt blanket.

Swearing to make any bar we visited feel the financial brunt of my sudden self-loathing, I vowed to cut my alcohol intake in half. So, I nursemaid-ed my way to the bottom of nine Heinekens. While stewing in lard-induced guilt deep in the snug of Fanny Anne's, I would've sworn the cutesy bartender was beaming concentrated disgust from her eyes at me. "Nice twenty-four pack, Slim," was all I could hear with every glance into those pools of suspiciously store-bought-looking green. "Keep this up, and we'll tap that belly and cut ya a check." This normally would've elicited a cobra-quick and appropriately venomous response, but even my subconscious self languished in lethargy only cheese-covered meat pies can bring on. I took my internalized lashing like a man and ordered another round-thoroughly defeated by fettuccine and ale. Later that night, I slept like I'd curled up inside a child's Christmas drum set. Don't believe the hype, ladies and gents. Women and gay men aren't the only ones capable of developing insanity-inducing body image issues.

Which brings us to the now. I've iced and treated my wounded crotch-socket and am back to chasing imaginary Bratwurst on a treadmill. Twelve pounds have gone missing in the past three weeks and the youthful energy that had left me has slowly returned, coaxing me into feeling something like old self again. Hopefully I won't punch anyone today. Life really comes at you fast, doesn't it? I just can't remember how I got to that point-all squishy lump-lump and Shar Pei-eyed. It probably had something to do with those last two years in college I spent digesting pizzas and pissing Pilsner. Anyhow, since my recent transmogrification into calender-fearing gym Nazi, my left knee has gone gimp-ster on me, my left ankle is collecting water and my hands feel arthritic. As I get richer in wisdom, God raises the taxes on my body. Such is life.

I gimped into a gas station the other day, arms outstretched and fingers flexing. A toddler stood near the check-out counter, latched to his mother's leg like a snot-nosed koala with a bowl-cut. "Look mommy, a mummy," said the boy, pointing. "Good one kid," I said to myself. Little fucker didn't bother me one bit. I was looking good. I was feeling good. And I got my beloved groin back. As a single man, that's all that really matters, isn't it?