"Nah. Wrapping paper, not rolling paper."

When you’re a little lonely, and you’re driving around, dropping in this drug store, that book store (if it’s still open), that grocery store, that gas station... you’re just lonely out there, driving around, dropping in these places, and the people working there are yacking to each other - joking around, gossiping, complaining about their jobs, wishing it was closing time, making plans, etc... when you hear all this going on, and you think you can inject yourself into their world - their conversation - their scene - just because they are there and you have this access to them because of the nature of their work, dealing with the general public... They rebuff my ignorant, arrogant intrusion of course.


If I were to rate myself on a scale from purely ‘urban minded’ to purely ‘rural minded’ - I mean - whether I consider myself a country mouse or a city boy - I’m somewhere in the middle of the scale. 'Somewhere in the middle' is where I inhabit most scales and spectrums. I was a suburban kid... somewhere in the middle. Well the middle is a tough place to be. The middle has been disappearing for a while, right? least the chunks of ice that I find myself floating on seem to be melting. I’ll skip the stats and sociology and so on (and even the structured thought) and I’ll babble this: That with all of the ‘with us or against us’ talk, and the recurrent headlines pointing to the growing rift between rich and poor, and the struggle for moderates... it’s tough to remain in the middle of any spectrum.

In the media and in society there are these character types. People are compelled to dress themselves in the garb of some type... such as: A. The Hipster B. The Country Music fan or whatever... The pull of these character types sucks the identity right out of you. Similar to personal politics - there might be one issue you feel strongly about - you’ll go to whichever side appears to represent your interest in that one issue.

You end up where you end up. I was born in Portsmouth, Virginia because GE opened a new facility there, my dad worked for them. I’ve lived somewhat urban and been lucky to avoid getting shot, stabbed or robbed. I’ve lived rural, and have somehow managed to avoid the ‘Most Dangerous Gamers’ who’d strip you naked and give you a fifteen minute head start before they let the dogs loose.


I haven't made any friends in Florida yet!

1. My expectations for Florida were obliterated rather quickly upon arrival. I don't know why, but I just didn't expect it to be the typical southern state. That sounds really stupid, doesn't it?

2. I live in a county outside of Orlando... I guess that with these outlying areas - there are still families here who have been here for generation upon generation (depressingly similar to Virginia). They're suspicious of newcomers - younger newcomers, that is. I guess they're used to the retirees.

3. The friendliest people where I live are the retirees.

4. Metro Orlando is expanding - like all metro areas. I live in Eustis - an area that is reasonably accessible to Orlando metro (by DC standards, anyway), yet still pretty isolated. I guess you live as close as you can afford to - to the metro area - to your job. The poorer you are, the longer your commute. When you live so far from your job, your home life in the county is so different from the hustle and bustle and diversity and tone and attitude and utility of your work district. (My new boss is Muslim... and I'm somewhat ignorant but trying... but the day before we left for the holidays, I got to watch everybody who worked in and near our department stumble through their seasons greetings to my boss: Happy you celebrate. If not, enjoy your time off.)

5. I get here to Florida - to the Orlando area - and they've shattered their all time record for murders this year. There're more murders here than in Miami. Only Jacksonville has more - but Jax is way bigger.

6. The lakes are so poluted. There are signs next to the lake that warn you about killer amoebas and shit. Do not swim near the bottom. Wear earplugs. Wear eye protection. Even the cold water burns. It's all farm run off and industrial waste.

7. The one great poetry reading down here that I found, Speakeasy at Wills Pub on Mills Ave., hosted by Todd Caviness... it ended a few months after I got here.
I have had many jobs, as I have stated here before. One advantage of my transience at these various places of employment is that it gives me the opportunity to place amazing prank calls! Most of the companies I have worked for have had toll free numbers with automated switchboards. It is so easy to dial in, and find the extension of the person I’m looking to mess with, and go right into their voicemail. The people I like to prank call are, of course, jerks. That is why I do this to them. They are the kind of people who like to blare their voicemail messages on speaker phone - loud as shit every morning when they come in. So if I’m lucky, they’ll blare my crazy prank message, and not be able to get to the phone in time to disconnect - and people nearby will hear my message: I’ve got gonorrhea, you’d better get checked out soon. Or, here’s one: Hi. Yeah. You don’t know me. But until very recently, I was seeing your wife . . .
I wish it was ten years ago. Fifteen even.


Maybe I shouldn’t talk about such dark stuff. Maybe people would be more comfortable around me if I kept things a little lighter. Here’s an example: I recently steered a conversation from the subjects of bouncy balls and silly putty, to the evils of IBM and their involvement in the Holocaust. This conversation went bad fast. The guy I was talking to, some I.T. guy at work, probably has mentally labeled me as a freak for life!

I’m always talking about crime or tragedies or the underside of this or that. You know what else? I don’t regulate my thoughts. I let them go to whatever crazy places they will go to. I don’t manage them at all. And here’s the goofy part - the reason: I’m afraid it will kill my creativity if I try to block out the scary stuff . . . if I block out anything.

I’m such a weirdo. I’d like to have normal interactions now and then. But usually - no. And on that note I’d like to point out the following: There are people who have not even been born yet who will end up yelling at you. If you could somehow see into the future and identify these people, maybe you could burst into the bedroom of their parents right before the person is conceived... and like . . . scream at the people... Hey, cut that shit out!
. . . better off primitive . . .


Today I was piecing together memories, and I realized how close I came to a particular ass whipping. I was mean to a guy, I bumped him - kind of shoved him - because I believed (correctly, it turned out) that he was doing it with my girlfriend. But, he was a black belted bad ass mofo. Luckily for me, he used his zen jedi emotion restraint techniques in dealing with me instead of using some exotic death grip. It’s easy to be all zenned out and happy and pleased with life and balanced when you’re doing somebody else’s girlfriend.

I came upon the realization of this narrowly averted disaster, as I say, by piecing together bits of memory from that time period... that time of my life was hazy - when it wasn’t incredibly foggy. I didn’t know he was a black belted, kickboxing dangerous man until well after I bumped him of course. I later kind of became friends with his friends, many of whom were kickboxin black belts (a couple of whom were also messing around with that girlfriend of mine too). They used to have these crazed hacky sack sessions around the corner from where I lived - all night - there were six or seven of these guys - I thought they were regular old stoner hippies. They were always out there hacky sackin: three, four, five in the morning - pupils so dilated, they could actually swallow hacky sacks in their eyeballs. I thought they were all peaceful, wimpy stoner hippie dudes. But they were fearsome warriors. So probably - if that guy wanted to - he could have brought his whole black belted, hacky sackin, acid tripping gang of crazies down on me with quite a fearsome fury - in effect - using me for a hacky sack. It’s just one of those times when I should have gotten my ass kicked, but I didn’t. I’m not sure why this didn’t occur to me until now. I guess I used to think I could beat up six black belts at once and I didn’t give it a thought... or maybe I did realize it back then - that it was a close call - but I forgot that I realized it, and today while I was supposed to be working, I realized it again.

How often have you come close to getting your ass kicked? Do you even know?


EATING MY OWN REALITY FOR LUNCH (or was it breakfast)

You can’t leave home without checking the oven three times. Did you turn it off? Did you unplug the iron? You have to check your alarm clock four times so you don’t sleep late. And when you do leave: Did you lock the door to your place before you left for the day? You should probably drive home right now and check. Because there might be a burglar there now - stealing your stuff - because you left the door wide open. Maybe he’ll turn off your oven for you. Maybe he’ll unplug your iron too (so he can steal it).

What you are really doing is ruining your grasp of reality. As you convince yourself that: no, you did not lock the door, the very door that you just saw your own hands lock, or, no, you did not just check the oven already and see that the switches were all turned to ‘Off’ position, and you didn’t even use the oven this morning anyway, nor did you use it last night, and so most likely, the oven has not been on for two days straight just cooking nothing, approaching critical mass, preparing to burst your whole home into an inferno. Probably not.

The more you do this weirdo obsessive shit (these things are symptoms of a greater mental problem, incidentally), the weaker your grasp on reality becomes - The more easy it is for paranoia to completely permeate your consciousness... and soon you don’t even live in the real world - and you erase pieces of memory and so you don’t know where the hell you are in your timeline... Soon you’ll be doubting whether you did anything at all - and then it’ll be time to just have a seat on the sidewalk and wait for the help (that you need) to arrive. I realized the danger of this reality eating condition today - I was adding long columns of numbers, and I kept going back, “Did I add this one?” “Did I add this one?” Yes, I had, but I thought, “No,” I hadn’t, so it was sucking off all of my time and stealing my memory of reality or blotting it out.


trying on makeup just so I can cry through it

[Man, I’m in a weird mood lately - I’m about to get canned from my job I think. Rats. Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the south, Bob’s collectin cans, so he can get soused.]


Is phone sex ever really a good idea?
leave me a message
and after these messages
we’ll be right back
What about cubicles?
good or bad
I’ll tell you a truly bad idea:
Now that we’re herded into cubicles
tearing them all down
in order to
‘open up the space’
is a bad idea
marketing campaigns headed up by
people who have no friends
and don’t get out
people who have no friends
and don’t get out
who intentionally damage their computers
so that friendly people will help them
bad idea


Maybe I ran out of interesting stories from my past, I've got nothing interesting happening right now, and I can't even imagine anything interesting. I'm just observing. Reading the news - barely reacting to that.
I'm sorry I'm not very interactive lately. I'm not going to kill off my blog (NEVER!) but I'm just not as active (not as INTERactive) as I used to be with it. I feel bad because some of my old old bloggin friends get back into it just as I'm entering a slow period - or new people start up, and they're really enthusiastic about it, but I'm just blah. I remember when I first started - I was lucky to be blogging around with a lot of other newbies and we were all blogging are freakin heads off and really really into it . . . but . . .

I am still posting stuff, but I am so selfish - I don't read other people's stuff enough. I had been operating under this rule that I made up, but then I slacked on it, but it is this: Post something and do not post again until I've gone around and read everybody else's latest posts. If you're talking too much and not listening to what others are saying - you start to lose touch - which is probably bad.


I haven’t had the true blogging oomph in a while now. I’m not comfortable enough at work to start the all out blogging campaign - not yet - but really - I’m suffering a general indecisive . . . somethin . . .

Like many writer wannabees (but unlike many other writer wannabees), I have been trying to come up with a Writing Plan. What should I write? Poems? Short Stories? Essays? Memoir? I wander around the bookstore - the BOOK STORE SECTIONS - wondering where I could shove something. Lately I’ve been hanging around the comedy sections in book stores. It is really more wide open than one would think. I’m excited about the comedy section because there you find books like the following:

This Book Will Change Your Life by Benrik

The Areas of My Expertise by John Hodgman

. . . maybe I could pull off some wanked out scatter brained variety book like this with pranks and jokes and weird plans and what-ifs and scenarios and weird bits of wisdom and knowledge.

Also I’m excited about books like the following which can also be found in comedy sections, . . . books that come from brilliant ideas - books which write themselves - or are not really written at all by the authors but edited - written by the public - like sociology experiments or something --- once they’re conceived they accumulate and form on their own - books that are interactive and so very in touch with the people who’d actually be reading them:

Suggestion by Illegal Art, Michael McDevitt, and Otis Kriegel

My Secret: A PostSecret Book (Postsecret) by Frank Warren

Found: The Best Lost, Tossed, and Forgotten Items from Around the World by Davy Rothbart

All of that reminds me of this, which I find incredibly fascinating and brilliant and noble, and I wish I could think of something on this scale:

GREETINGS FROM NEW ORLEANS - An Experiment in Found Art

Right now, I’m reading:

The Lay of the Land by Richard Ford

. . . I like it, but it’s really kind of sad. It’s sad in that the main character is going through shakey times: cancer, divorce, weird second marriage - but it’s also sad in that the main character is a salesman type who totally encapsulates perspective buyers and people in general and just sums people up and pretty much reads them like account balance slips ... reduces them . .. and he seems pretty hung up on fashions and money and name brands and materialism - but I guess that's the characterization - but it gets old . . . I mean - his observations gradually work toward something more, more profound, but not really - not mostly - I don’t know - I can’t put the book down, I'm enjoying it - so I guess I don’t know what to make of it -- I’ll tell you this - IT’S THE FUNNIEST BOOK I’VE READ IN A WHILE - I mean this dude is funny - I think I first read Richard Ford when I read an essay of his about punching people in the face - I think - I think it was in one of those yearly “The Best American Essays” books - anyway I’m sitting there laughing out loud at his book in the miserable lunch room at work lately - with a table to myself eatin my salad and blah blah this post will just trail off into nothing right about . . . here
C3PO meets Fraiser


I could lie and say I've gone on medication and live up to this lie by using a method acting technique where I actually emerse myself in an imagined normalcy. That'd be a fun prank to pull.


telepathy cuss out