So, it’s been a couple days since I last posted. Plus a year. It’s tough to write these days, between being “frozen” by my absolute hatred of Trump and MoscowMitch and any Republican or rightwing or conservative thinking or actions and just not giving a shit about a lot of things. By the way, of course, no opinions that are pro-conservative ever will be on here; there is an entire internet’s worth of places you can put that drivel.
What’s with the title, you ask? Sometimes I just like to type bizarro or mean-spirited searches into my desktop here, because Google will save them forever, perhaps, and if I were to kick off someone may see them someday and say, yup, sounds like him. So one day when I started to type in “Everything needs to go fuck itself,” the Google came up with “Everything needs to go fuchsia.” Indeed. When I searched the color, because I wasn’t quite sure what shade it was, it also told me about something called Fuchsia that Google was trying for awhile, not sure what it was or if it’s ongoing or failed and I don’t care a whit.
I lost my job at the big home improvement chain which may or may not rhyme with, or be described by, the word “Blowes.” I lost it, after 12 years, by running my mouth (no, I feel no shame about that) but my position and others were eliminated across the whole company a few months later anyway. So I’m supposedly easing into retirement by working part-time at a mom-and-pop burger joint (actually just a pop), getting enough pay for part of my bills, relying on “Obamacare” for a few months til I’m old enough for Medicare. I’m the “dependable morning guy,” which is hilarious since I could never get to work right on time at Blows, and didn’t care, and still got all my stuff done, and they could always fuck themselves to hell anyway. I mop first thing every morning for an hour, then, thrill of thrills, I make “meatballs.” They call them that. I think of meatballs as spiced balls of dead cow that Italians and others put with more spices and pasta and whatnot, but these are just lean ground beef dead cow that one scoops up with an ice cream scoop and makes sure they’re mostly round and mostly the right size and 65 of them fit in a pan. I tell folks that, except for the obvious folks such as healthcare providers, teachers, stay-at-home parents, cops, firemen, I am the most important person in this town, because I make nearly all the hamburger patties for this 90-year old business which only 2 different families (I believe) have ever run and which is a local institution. I tell my kid that, if she applies herself and studies hard, she could make meatballs for a job also. I tell her to say it’s funny. She says no, very calmly but very firmly. I get a huge kick out of that.
I’ll tell you more utterly thrilling things about my life these days (not a whole lot going on even before the social distancing started) another time, if I blog again, haha. Say it’s funny! (LOL) But I promised more tweets of dubious interesting-ness or length. Many of these are from long ago, but I guess I still back them as far as something I’d say. The snowblower thing is “so last year,” because we had a bunch of crappy snowy crap earlier this winter, but so far not as bad as the 2018-2019 winter, which sucked balls all around and lasted into late April. Here’s some twittering at you.
From way back:
Trump warns the left to beware of Bikers4Trump. People are saying those bikers are too old and feeble to “go Altamont” on us, and someone commented “Pleased to meet you, I forgot my name,” and if that commenter is a woman I am officially in love.
Not saying I have cabin fever, but my chief entertainment is running the fan and watching my shed floor dry after putting my snowblower away. (You think I’m kidding.)
I have booze, a CD player and a space heater in my shed. Enough booze and it is no longer winter and I am young and I have a girlfriend and no I don’t mean that and besides my hands are too busy air-drumming you sicko.
Nothings “says” “we need to talk” with more condescension and pity than my teeth any time I want to spend any “extra” money on anything other than dental care.
It’s okay that I’m gonna lose two-thirds of a bridge and another tooth on the upper right, because after I got the 2 implants on the left side of my mouth, I was in danger of getting kicked out of the trailer court.
My chief communication with the kid is making fart sounds with our mouths and a co-worker told me my fart sounds weren’t good enough and I haven’t been so crushed in a long time.
Alzheimer’s runs in the family and one day I figured out that I hadn’t taken a happy pill at lunchtime at home cuz I proudly remembered I’d’ve had to open a new bottle and knew I didn’t, and then when I got home I realized a better indicator was that I hadn’t gone home at lunchtime.
Nothing makes me fantasize that I was a hotshot as a young person like the line “Now you may think you can walk on the wild wild side with me” from Pat Benatar’s “If You Think You Know How to Love Me.”
Nothing makes me think that Pat Benatar and I had vastly different upbringings than the line from “We’re So Sincere” that goes: “2 sparrows tied together will always fall.”
It’s hard to think of myself as a “higher life form” when I managed to splash coffee from my to-go cup lid into my eye. Luckily most of it hit my cheek and it wasn’t scalding.
You can’t, as far as I know, get coffee stains off a light-colored shirt with just water, only dull them out some. I have walked into many a motel, after driving across the state, looking like a homeless person who somehow managed to score a reservation.
It’s a breakthrough moment when you start to tell yourself “I need to have a drink even though,” and then you catch yourself and say “I need to drink BECAUSE it’s a bad idea.” Self-Awareness 101 there, I tell you.
When I see someone walking a dog, I smile because I think of the fact that if my kid was with me, she’d point it out and know the dog breed most likely. Then when I’m past them, I smile more thinking that soon some guy is going to be asking his woman, “Honey, do I give off gay vibes? Because some doofus in a car just gave me googly eyes while I was walking Max.
A sweet poem I thought of:
I don’t wanna be
Pissed off or pissed on
Just tell me you love me…
(Isn’t that a sweet poem?)
(assuming, of course, modern sensibility, as in the woman in question wanted to be called a whore, but then again if the poet and the subject are that tight, she’d already know that he liked staying dry)
Newer stuff though why that matters I don’t know:
After further review, I’m not so sure I want to fall in love with a woman whose goal in life is to share living expenses with a guy who owns his own singlewide mobile home.
On the other hand, “Trailer Court Trophy Wives” has a nice ring to it, don’t it?
(Provided you ain’t one of those ridiculous “angry drunks”) boozing may be slow suicide, but the endorphins released in a drinking session can’t be ignored. Like rabbit stew, they will not be ignored.
In all fairness, the last couple dozen of my “dates” had smart phones on them and could easily have googled “why does my blind date have a pallet of lime by his driveway” before walking voluntarily into my trailer.
Though I wouldn’t have thought to put it that way then, ever since I was little I’ve thought to myself that the fly buzzing around my head had the entire building or the entire world to bother rather than me. Just saying, flies.
Flies at least break down dead shit and put nutrients into the soil. All mosquitoes do is unleash evil on the world. So, they’re Republicans.
Ever seen a reasonably attractive woman and then looked at her kids and thought to yourself, “Man, her husband must be ugly?” Don’t lie now.
Alanis Morissette in 1995, “Do you long for the next distraction?” Me, in 2019: “Yes, Alanis, yes indeed.” Me in 2020: “I didn’t mean a pandemic, an even smaller paycheck, and the schools closed. What I meant was “You and I are both older now, whatsay you stop by for a cup of tea?”
If someone bores you, you can feel righteously perturbed about it and try to ditch or ignore them. If you bore someone, and finally fully realize it, you feel like a dull dolt and want to slink away in shame. Which is why I hate boring people a LOT more than I hate boring people.
I’m thinking of starting a website called “Overexplainer’s Anonymous,” but I’m afraid it would never get past the mission statement. What I mean by that is…
This hasn’t happened yet thankfully, but an idea for a horror story would be me trapped for 4 days in a blizzard at a truck stop with nothing to watch except Fox News and nothing to read except James Patterson.
There’s no greater indicator that things aren’t what they used to be than the fact that even Bob Weir got old-looking. He and Jerry Garcia were 5 years apart but looked like father and son from about the mid-70s on.
Jerry Garcia absolutely couldn’t sing except for here and there, like “Morning Dew” for example. If there was a “Sublime vocal performance by a guy who can’t sing” award, he’d get it hands down for that, I’d think. His voice was just the right kind of plaintive for it.
Here, try it. I actually like his vocals on the Europe ’72 live album better, but I don’t think there’s a readily available video of it. Anyway, thanks for reading.