Hey Joe

The Horror

So did I mention this is my last week on the job? Yesterday, due to a dramatic drop in sales, they removed the vending machines from our "break room."

"Golly, Mr. Vending Machine Company, and Soon-to-be-ex-employer, please accept the collective apology of the remaining six employees for not spending enough money to make up for the 20-something people that have either moved to Chicago, already been laid off, or are soon to BE laid off, and therefore do not have the extra scrilla to spend on high-priced snack food."

First my job, and now my T.G.I.Friday's Cheddar and Bacon Potato Skins Snack Chips ®. Will this nightmare never end?

Yes, actually, on Friday. Waa waaaa

If that’s a bratwurst in your hand, it must be Oktoberfest

So Clayton held its annual Oktoberfest this weekend and the boy and I paid a visit.

New post about it up at UpTake, so go check 'er out.

At least he’s got a skill to fall back on once Idol folds

During last Monday night's dinner conversation, the boy was explaining something that took place at school that day.

Boy:        "And he said 'Hey douche bag!'"

Me:        "Nice."

Boy:         "What's a douche bag?"

        *crickets*

        I look at Lisa.

Lisa to girl:    "Do you know?"

Girl:        "No, what is it?"

Lisa:        "Do you really want to know?"

Kids:        "Yes."

Lisa:        *Explanation ensues*

Boy:        *hysterical laughter followed by coughing fit*

Girl:        "Yea, you didn't need to tell us."

Boy:        "Really?"

Me:        "No, it's actually Ryan Seacrest."

Kidding, but not really.

Dueling Cakes

Twice the flavor of dueling banjos, and with 75% LESS INBREEDING!

Charitable contribution

Dick Hoover

1930 - 2009

OK, this is sort of a charitable celebrity death contribution, not only because I don't know who the hell he was (not that my personal knowledge of their existence is a prerequisite for inclusion), but because it's arguable as to whether or not he rates inclusion. I mean no disrespect but really, how many of us have heard of this guy? There are so called celebrities dying every day that I don't cover because their celebrity status is debatable.

Let's be reasonable. This month the slab has seen Indian actress Mrs. S. Varalakshmi, Greek handball coach, Yiannis Dimitropoulos, and American pianist, Arthur Ferrante just to name a few. Heard of them? I didn't think so. If I included every so called celebrity when would you have time to read about my sore foot and other important happenings in my life?

OK, granted, there's a good chance that most of you never heard of Gale Storm, Mickey Carroll, or Bob May, among others, but at least Gale was hot, Mickey was a midget, and Bob was a robot. Again no disrespect, but this guy was a bowler. Gross.

Anyway, he died, and my entire point for including him as a quasi-celebrity was simply to say this:

With a name like that he should have gone into gay porn instead of bowling.

Thank you – Good Night!

Open mouth insert boo.., er foot

So I went to the dr. today and got me a cortisone shot right in me foot. See, like I've got this flat foot thing right, the result of which is this bone issue (that's what she said) where said bones be knocking together I guess, and so the doc done shot me with cortisone to numbeth thine own pain.

And speaking of thine own pain, it really hurt about two hours later. Like a hunka, hunka, burning son of a bitch.

Yeah, so, here I am pissing and moaning about a little shot when friend Sonia is over there battling the big C with her usual high-spirits and humor.

God, you're such a little baby, Joe

Cue Europe

Today began my final two-weeks on the job.

It feels strange. Seems like no more than a month ago that we received the news about moving to Chicago, and then had to decide what the hell to do, finally deciding to pass on the offer and take my chances here in California. So far my chances haven't paid off. Can you say snake eyes?

So anyway, I had a very stressful dream the other night that it was actually my last day and I had yet to pack up any of my personal stuff. So this morning I found a box and began the process of dismantling my workstation.

(dismantling said station)

(My junk)

Homer, Shaggy and the kids are boxed and will remain so until I'm comfortable enough to display them in some future cubicle. I'm not one of those people who arrive on the first day of a job and immediately begin decorating their cage with all of their personal crap. That always seemed a little presumptuous to me. I mean, how embarrassing if, after tacking up your kid's latest school pictures and finding the perfect spot for your beloved Homer (and recently acquired Apu!) your new boss decides that you really do suck ass.

"You suck ass. Get out."

"Um, can I have a box to pack up my stuff?"

"But you just got here. You shouldn't have any stuff."

"I know, but I'm a loser.'

"I'll say. Get out."

Take note losers.

In other news, my boss popped in for a surprise visit today, which took a little doing since he lives in Chicago. Perhaps he was trying to substantiate the rumor that I've been wearing a thong to work. AMBUSH FAIL! Lucky for me that he is not aware of a little thing we like to call Thong Thursdays. Oh, how I'll miss them.

Them Dukes, them Dukes!

So get this. I'm on Clayton Rd. driving back to work around 1:30 or so. I'm just at the point where the road goes from two lanes to three and I'm heading over to the third lane so I can swing into Subway for a soda.

So I see this girl walking in the street, next to the sidewalk but not on it. She's got long brown hair, a short denim skirt, and a red low cut blouse and sunglasses. In short, she looked pretty damn good, not that I noticed. So I slow down and change lanes and as I pass her she waves at me in my rear-view mirror.

Yea, I've still got it.*

I pull into the parking lot further down the road and go into Subway. When I come back out the girl is standing in the Subway parking lot next to a black Mercedes, which is parked behind a blue pick-up truck. It appears that the two cars were involved in some sort of minor accident. Several people are standing around the pick-up talking. Not being in any hurry to get back to work, I linger. I'm not close enough to hear the conversation but it seems somewhat tense.

In the meantime, Daisy Duke is sort of walking back and forth between the two cars and some tall dude who does not appear to be directly involved and who's talking on his cell phone.

Still I linger.

Tall dude gets off his cell phone and walks over to Subway where he engages some random strip mall employee in a loud, profanity laced conversation. This I am close enough to hear. The gist of it is that Mr. Mercedes apparently stopped to "negotiate" with Daisy Duke.

When the hell did Clayton Rd. become a trolling ground for hookers? I need to get out more.

Anyway, I'm assuming an arrangement was agreed upon because tall dude says that Mr. Mercedes then physically pulled her into his car. Seeing this, Tall Dude approached the car to make sure all was copacetic with our young Ms. Duke. Tall Dude and Mr. Mercedes exchanged words and according to Tall Dude, Mr. Mercedes, in an attempt to get away from him, pulled out of the parking lot and collided with the pick-up truck.

At about this time, the necessary insurance information apparently having been exchanged, Mr. Mercedes and Daisy get back in his car, with Tall Dude loudly advising Daisy to "get a real man."

Curious, and needing to head in that direction anyway, I get in my car to see where the happy couple is heading. They pull out on to Clayton Rd. and stop at the red light. I wait for an on-coming car to pass and pull out behind them. So get this. The car that I allowed to go by apparently rolled into Mr. Mercedes at the stop light! HA! So Mr. Mercedes leans out his window, gesticulating to the other driver, and as the light turns green both cars make an immediate right and pull over to examine the damage and exchange information. Thinking that it might look a little strange if I pull over to watch I continued back to work.

All I can say is - I hope the p*ssy was worth it Mr. Mercedes.

Oh, and get this. Mr. Mercedes is my mechanic. I hope he didn't recognize me.

*So long as I've got the cash

Update: OK, Lisa had a possible alternate theory. Perhaps Daisy was Mr. Mercedes' girlfriend and they got in some sort of tiff and she walked out on him. Then he drove up and forced her back into the car. Maybe? Possible I suppose, but not nearly as entertaining.

R.I.P. – Mary Travers

Mary Travers

1936 – 2009

The sweet, angelic voice of one-third of the 1960's folk group, Peter, Paul and Mary, has been silenced.

Mary Travers, the feminine third of PP&M, passed away yesterday from complications arising from chemotherapy. Travers was diagnosed with leukemia in 2005.

PP&M were part of the early 1960's folk music movement, remembered for such hits as "Leaving on a Jet Plane," "Where Have all the Flowers Gone?" "If I Had a Hammer," and "Blowin' in the Wind."

R.I.P. – Jim Carroll

Jim Carroll

1949 – 2009

Jim Carroll died of a heart attack at his Manhattan home on Friday September 11. Author, musician, poet, and punk, Carroll played them all and he played them well.

Like most of us, I was introduced to Carroll through The Basketball Diaries, his classic 1978 memoir which chronicled his spotted youth growing up in NYC, his Catholic school experiences, his success on the court and his decent into heroin addiction and prostitution. The spine of this fascinating autobiography is visible on my bookshelf as I write, and somewhere buried amongst my books you'll find its sequel, Forced Entries: The Downtown Diaries.

During the late 70's and early 80's, Carroll performed with punk/new wave group, The Jim Carroll band, collaborating with various artists including Lou Reed, Boz Scaggs and Pearl Jam. The 1990's saw Carroll's return to writing and his emergence as a spoken word artist, often performing with Ray Manzarek.

Carroll's first novel, (current working title, The Petting Zoo), hopefully will be published soon. (And added to my wish list) According to his website: "The story takes place in the 1980s. The protagonist of the novel is a young painter (working name: "Billy Wolfram") who suffers an existential crisis after viewing an important art exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan."

Godspeed Catholic Boy.