Up a Mountain, Down a Hill

Predator Press

[LOBO]

There's a side of me that is grateful to have a job at all, but the climb out of this crater is exponentially harder all the time. The last six months of employment have been 12 hour days, and six days a week.  As of Tuesday, Sisyphus and I are now connected on LinkedIn.

 
Work. Sleep. Work. Sleep. Work, nap, work, work … 

 

Thank God football season ended or I would be dead by now.  And then you guys have to erect that giant commemorative solid gold statue of me, and change all your calendars to include the “After LOBO” era to that weird “B.C.” and “A.C.” crap!

 

But fear not, o Loyal Reader.

 

-I have stayed alive for your convenience.

MARCY PLAYGROUND - Poppies

Predator Press

"And now this story told,
from days of our old
-when gossamer doggies
ran round

They patiently wait
with pieces of eight
so everybody could smile
one more time."

So Complex Cassandra

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I wasn't surprised when the fight broke out at the plant today.

-Twelve hour six-day weekly shifts, blisters on blisters, and brutal, intense cold since October will get you some fucking fights.

And I started the shift in a state of pre-aggitatation myself: the Feds are wiping their ass with some bullshit “Constitution” via the NSA. Simultaneously, they're shitting on Colorado's State Rights to legalize cannabis by making the proceeds illegal to deposit in banks ... thus, a legal business Colorado supported is being meddled with and physically endangered in a pussy-ass chicken-shit attempt to trick them into laundering money.

-A Federal Offense.

Hmmmmm.

So who owns the banks? Who owns America? Who do they represent?  Who owns this big lie “Freedom," and why did all those all those brave guys die defending it?

I'm not sure why it bothers me frankly. LOBOnia seceded from the “American Dream” many, many, many tax seasons ago.  We don't understand paying somebody to fuck with Us in pursuit of “Liberty”: the “Land-of-Opportunity to rub nickels together for some fuck on a distant foreign beach yelling into his cellephone about his profit margin between blowjobs” can kiss Our royal ass.

LOBOnia formally requests Colorado to send diplomats and delegates to hammer out Peace Treaty terms, and discuss a possible Alliance.

(Catered by Fritos.)

The Cosmic Rolodex

Predator Press

[LOBO]

”Thank you for holding,” she says. ”You have been very patient.”

And this lie throws me off.

-In the Cosmic Rolodex outlining my attributes, “Patient” would be a waaaaayyy deep cut.

”And when did this problem start sir?”

That Rolodex would go: Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clack clickety clickety clickety clickety clack clickety clickety clack clack clack … clack … clack … clack ...

... clack ...

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clickety clack clickety clickety clickety clickety clack clickety clickety clack clack clack … clack … clack … clack ...

... clack ...

“... Patient.”

-Booyah! And it's about damn TIME.

”I am very sorry I could not resolve your problem,” she concedes. ”Is there anything I can further assist you with today?”

“Well, yes,” I says. “Why is my mother so hard to get along with lately?”

Fimbulvetr

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I left this morning, it was negative eleven degrees.

Holy shit that's cold.

I remote started the car through the kitchen window, and came out minutes later to find it off. I thought, “that's weird” and started her back up.  All kinds of blinking lights and crazy warning messages came on -like I was driving the flying saucer from Close Encounters.

“ESC MAINTENENCE REQUIRED.”

What the hell does that mean?

-"I'm too sexy to be stolen from the Earth,” I thought. "People will notice! Important people!

 

***

Home safely now. Banging the snow from my boots causes blinding pain, as numerous blisters have fused my feet to my socks. But even then it's hard to be upset. For one, I kinda like winter. Even this nigh-impervious dump is vulnerable to the beauty of a fresh coating of snow. But perhaps more importantly, it's almost Christmas … the months of crazy overtime are finally abating, and the four day vacation ahead -the longest I've had since August by far- is right around the corner.

I am greeted by a pleasant rush of warmth, and set the mail, an ironic mix of bills and Christmas cards, on the end table as I engage in the process of removing my winter gear. Phil II waits impatiently, mewing her plaintiff welcomes.

Preoccupied with the Christmas cards, I ponder looking forward to the end of the holiday season for all the wrong reasons.

-For the first time in years I am confronted with the possibility of not celebrating Christmas, and not having a good excuse for it this time.

Sexy Lulu

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Lars Arson's eyebrows raised, and he whistled in surprise.

"That's a pretty nice offer."

"Yeah," I agree, still fiddling with my new glasses.  Damn my asymmetrical head.

"You should consider taking it anyway," he adds.  "Think about it.  It matches your goals of increased pay and technically living closer to your parents."

I tilt my head up and down, testing the bifocal lenses on my beer bottle label.  "A month ago I would have pounced it," I says.  "But that place was a viper pit before the Sexy Lulu debacle.  Can you imagine it now?  If it was San Francisco, San Diego, Los Angeles ... hell even Seattle, I would be all systems go."

Lars sets his empty beer on the bar, and signals the bartender.  "Wasn't she supposed to move here in February?"

"Yeah.  February 2011," I reply.  "And 2012."

Dear 2014

Predator Press

[LOBO]

2013 wasn't all that bad. In fact the things that fell apart in 2013 would have been utter fiascoes if allowed to continue on into 2014. But the climb out of utter ruin has been slow and tedious, and I'm dissatisfied with the progress so far. So I decided to organize and write out some goals for 2014:

1) Move Closer to Family. I moved back to Chicagoland at the height of the recession out of desperation, relying on professional contacts and personal reputation to claw my way into the rather meager situation I'm in now. But as the recession slowly abates, it's clear Illinois is not the same industrious animal it once was: the taxes and weather are horrendous, good opportunities are scarce, the meter maids with guns (aka cops) are leaching whatever is left … and I'm just not “feeling” it anymore. Meanwhile my aging parents have happily semiretired. I need role models like that. This is crap. I'm better than this.

2) Network to a Better Job. My income needs to double. Sure this job saved me from homelessness and soup lines, but in the digitized age of Kindle and iPads, book distributor opportunities aren't likely to improve. I enjoy the work, so I need to be careful of getting complacent; actual “physical” books are increasingly exotic, and I suspect this industry will vanish altogether within the next decade.

3) Be More Careful about My Associations. I must accept that I can't fix people, and some only arise to their potential of being devastating setbacks. Reaching into my past, I want to try and recapture some carefully-selected old friendships that fate and misadventure drove away. And building from these lessons, I want to improve future relationships.

4) Quit Smoking. This battle is currently underway, as I'm about 70% on e-cigarettes. At this rate I should be done with both by the end of the year.

5) Less Internet, More Life. Fantasy baseball, social media (excluding ones relevant to goals 2 and 3), and news, news, news, have rendered me an anxiety-addled basket case. All are on the chopping block. I want to streamline use to fantasy football, blogging, podcasts and pornography, just like Al Gore intended.

And maybe get some sun.

Dead Air

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My return to our Lord and Savior has nothing to do with natural disasters.

-If you look back over time, I do this every year when there's only four weeks left of fantasy football "regular season."  And this year when that collection plate comes around I got five bucks, and a two-for-one coupon on Crocs™.

It's crunch time, Jesus!

I Warned You People! Nature HATES Us!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

ONCE AGAIN Illinois has been leveled to the ground, and I alone am left to pick up the lazy, worthless pieces.  Well just once I would like to be one of those lazy, worthless pieces ... but God, in His Infinite Wisdom, is Infinitely and Wisely cruel to His favorite blogger.

It's pretty bad.

This is the worst kind of natural disaster possible -the kind that happens to me.  Now there's only one thing left: swift and lethal payback.

-It's time to show that bitch Mother Nature exactly who's in charge around here.

Take that, Earth.

Letter to Inmate H*****

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Hey Buuuuddy!
 

Still really stuffy, but gradually feeling better. Sorry I didn't write this week: all the coughing and sneezing has me sleeping like shit, so besides work that's pretty much all I do. You should see my place … it looks like I've been testing hand grenades on a Kleenex factory. All the hacking up glop and sleep dep has me edgy too: I opened a shoe box and a moth flew out, which almost gave me a heart attack. I have a tacit and tenuous non-aggression pact with the spider in my bathtub. This is as close as I've come to camping in thirty years.

The fact that it's Halloween kinda snuck up under my radar, and I don't have any candy for the little moochy bastards. I would probably call Child Protective Services on any parent that let there kids trick or treat in this neighborhood anyway. Still, I'm in a lights-out stealth mode for now, and the stubborn pricks interrupting my football will be rewarded with canned vegetables and fistfuls of oyster crackers.

I listen to a great ESPN/NFL podcast at work, and it was just nominated for an award. Unfortunately, it is competing with the other nominee, “Taylor Swift Talk.” Taylor Swift -in case you don't know- is an apparently successful teeny-bopper country chick that made her career writing angry and soppy songs about ex boyfriends. “Taylor Swift Talk,” in fact, isn't even directly affiliated with Taylor Swift -it's two guys and a girl waxing enthusiastic about the pre-pubescent lil blonde starlet. It's not even sanctioned by Taylor Swift. It's totally rogue and weird fan crap.

Smash-Cut to today: hundreds of thousands of NFL meatheads have launched a Twitter and Facebook war on “The Taylor Swift Podcast” -which isn't even the right fucking podcast. Somewhere there are three poor little teenage girls who have no idea why the full behemoth wrath of NFL fans have come crushing down upon “The Taylor Swift Podcast,” which was virtually unknown until yesterday.

Sometimes I love this planet.

Be safe, be smart. I love you Bro! See you soon!

 

 

The Revenge of Ox Nuts

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Ox Nuts,” reads the Judge. “We hereby find you Guilty of riding a horse at 21 miles per hour in a school zone. How do you plead?”

The thick chains tinkled as Ox Nuts stroked his mighty chin mightily.

“Guilty Your Honor.”

The crowd gasped.

“But,” Ox Nuts added, “The ZPD are all pansy dickhead metermaids with guns."

“Really?” asked the Judge, examining his records. “Holy crap, you're right! I am going to dismiss all charges, and give you $10,000 for all your pain and suffering.”

Snapping his chains, Ox Nuts suddenly impaled the Bailiff with a wooden pew.

"That's not enough!” he growled.