I Believe Elton John Said It Best,

When he sang, "The Bitch is Back"

That's right, ladies and gentleman! The one, the only, the evil, the thieving, the worst manager ever:

BOSS FRANTIC!

[I'll pause while you all catch up on those links to the past.]

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--- hmm-hmm-hmmmhmm

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Okay.
As some of you may know, my part time job is closing at its current location near the end of October, and then it'll move a couple of store fronts down to a larger location.
The Company is going for a bit of an overlap process. While the Croatian Gyration Sensation takes over as Closing-the-Store Manager (she's a floor supervisor now), "they're" bringing in Boss Frantic to act as a Guide or some shit while our current cool Store Manager goes off somewhere for Larger Store Training.

Luckily, I only work a couple of nights a week and Sundays; so, maybe I'll not see her. In any event, the two months or so I may have to work with her will just be like living with a two month Bowel Obstruction: livable, a lot of pain in the ass and a horrific yellowy brown smell in the air, but livable.

With my luck, "they'll" bring back Evil Fannie, too.

I mean, really, all I need is an arrest for assault with a deadly weapon to completely make 2008 a total and official Crap Year.

Boss Frantic and Evil Fannie, I, begrudgingly*, dedicate the below video to you:




*begrudgingly because putting this (one of my favorite songs of all times) and their names in the same sentence is like taking one's favorite deserts and shoving it into a large pile of pig shit.
But, the words aptly sum up my feelings for both of them.

Cheers!

I Dropped Acid With Billie Piper...

on top of the Sears Tower, and then we totally did it. Twice.

Today, I had fun at work. Mind you, I didn't do any work, but had fun here. As you can see from my timestamps, I spent most of the day online, posting a Yin-yang of comments (some good, some bad). Those Gawker Commenters crack me up!

Eh, whattaya gonna do?

(Billie Piper is lovely, and when I found this syrupy video, I had to include it!)




Cheers.

(Billie: call me!)

Not Dead, Just Passed Out

Summer 2008:



Gas prices through the stratosphere.
Over $1000 in car repairs.
Annoyances galore at The Bank.
More hours at The Part-time job, sucking all my energy and annihilated my "social life." However, that job is like a Love Fest Laugh Fest compared to The Bank.
Grandpa M. died.
Grandma M. wants to die, like, NOW!
Still counting myself among The Poors.
Currently sweating my balls off as I type.
The last two women I, finally, convinced myself into asking out turned out to be both engaged, one with a kid.
My adult-onset mystery allergy is flaring up more.

But other than that, life is a Pink Cotton Candy Bra on a Porn Star!

Really, it ain't all that bad, I just needed to type some of that off my chest. I'm just bored, not down. Not falling back into that whole 2004 Madness; thank God.

I guess I shouldn't complain about work, I should be thrilled with the chaos of my job, and the fact I am burrowed away in The Gopher Hole most of the week. If I could just trade Biggie J. for another coworker, I'd be set!
Part of the problem with the job at The Bank is I've borderline "worked myself out of a job." Compared to my predecessor, I'm like fucking Flash Gordon. He went the extra mile to call around and hassle local vendors into selling at a lower price (true, he took bribes from them, and I wouldn't, but that's besides the point), but rest of the job he SUCKED AT! (and I'll not go into the duties of my job unless asked for they are not exciting. At. All.) Basically, what would take him 3 weeks to accomplish, I finish in 3 days maximum. Upside: makes my coworkers and boss happy! Downside: a whole hell of a lot of downtime!

But, at least I spend downtime moments here and there with The Banks interests in the forefront of my mind. HA!

Alright, enough bitching and moaning (and navel-gazing: Shut Up, Spav1!) for now, my computer is running sluggish in this heat.

'Night.

A Dead Blog is worse than a Boring Blog

We're just going to pretend that line is true tonight even though the reverse probably rings more True*.

I'm bored and, ironically, sober on a Thirsty Thursday. Haven't had a drink tonight (read: to lazy to stop at the store for drinks).
And tired.
Biggie J. called off today at The Bank, "my back is bothering me," is what the voice mail said; actually, it said, "my bbaghk ith buthrin me" because the guy speaks like his mouth is filled solid with wet gauze. So the day went fairly fast and smooth doing his job and mine. And everything got accomplished correctly and on time; thus, again pointing out to me that really, we don't need him HA! Of course, if they did let him go, I wouldn't be able to cruise online or go grocery shopping on the clock, so I guess we'll keep him around.

Really I'm going crazy. Sort of. When I'm not staring off into space, half awake, my mind is filled with what could be described as the music played here. Just mildly raging with anger contempt static noise violent scratching sonic jabs. I berate myself for allowing myself to have ended up at this moment of my life.

Where did it all go sour?

I should be drifting in an Amber Ocean tonight, but I am dry on land. Twisting in the mental breezes, getting slapped in the face with needled fern leaves and rough palm branches. Sand in my eyes, grinding my pupils. Stranded on an Island of my own Making.

Pathetic.

Where did the ship get off course? Fuck?! Did I ever really leave the dock?

Ah well. It, technically, being Friday now, hope everyone has drink on me, then ;-)




*we were wrong, a dead blog is more interesting than a boring blog. Apologies.

March(ing) with the black flag up

March 2008: WTF?

I'll let Henry speak for me for a couple of minutes.



It's been a soggy month in My Cube.

Car broke down for a week, walked to work.

I decided to stop seeing someone, still have to break it officially (the hardest phone call, well besides informing/being informed someone died). It wasn't really a relationship, per se, but it still sucks. I only sort of know what happened, I know how it started, I sort of know why I let it continue, but after coming back from Hawaii (stepping aside from the situation), it's like my head cleared. I did not want this. It isn't fair to either of us. It shouldn't have started. I should have broke it immediately when, upon the first or second meeting, she asked,

"Can I fuck you with a strap-on?"
"Um, no."

Mis-counted the meds, so I went halfsies for a couple of weeks. The silver-lining of which is now I know for sure, I need them. The Blue-haired Demons came back, clawing at the door and salivating for my blood. They never breached the barricades; but, damn, they made their presence known. The couch and sleep protected me from God-knows-what, and I drowned any who peeked their heads in my room at night with chilling amber. Then cowered under the covers for warmth.

But, their stench still filled My Cube's air. And now Chavo speaks for me:



And then, I get an email from my parents. They're breaking their Florida stay a month short and coming home. My Grandpa is (has been) dying. As of today, about two weeks to live. Now, the sad thing is, I'm more upset for my dad than the actual upcoming death of my grandpa. See, he and I differ on many values, but, shit, he is my grandpa, so I feel like hell not feeling....well, much.


But a re-fill of the Happy Pills kicked in just in time for my Wingman's visit from overseas. Ah, this is what I need. A couple of drunken nights out with a good friend (who needs to move his ass back here. For fuck's sake, drag that wife of yours back here by the hair!!! (just kidding Doctor!!!)). It was great as usual to see him, meet his friends, meet my friends, etc etc etc. [pics, hopefully, coming soon]

And then there's been work (mainly The Bank): I AM SO BORED.

[I'll update and add to this post later. I'm tired of typing now]

My new Theme Song, Mutha-fuka!

I feel this guy, yo!
Thank you Chicagoist!

Damn, I'm weary. Worked around/over 60 hours this week, and have 9 more tomorrow at the part-time job. I rarely know what day it is if it weren't for the emails at work listing the time and day they plop into the inbox. It felt like Friday 3 days in a row.

I've recently asked myself, "to what does this all amount?"

I mean, really? All these hours, with nothing to brag about pay, where is it getting me?

Another absurd example of The Bank

I hang with one of the maintenance guys at The Bank. He's a 60-something official freaking D.O.M. (Dirty Old Man), always grinding on about all "these G-ddamn morons that work here," and talks about the "big tittied blond" in the office across from The Gopher Hole; he cracks me up. Shit, I'd invite him to a party, if I threw one. He'd keep me and my friends in stitches with his stories about the Army and Korean War alone!

Anyway, Dirty Jim comes into the Gopher Hole the other day holding a newspaper, kind of looking at it confused and smirking.

"You ever seen this paper before?"

"Yeah, I used to read it alot when I first moved here, why?"

"Well, I'm reading the G-ddamn thing, and I'm thinking 'what the fuck is up with headline?' George Bush says Army just not that good"

"It's all satire, parodies, and humor stuff."

"Well, Dickle [the owner of The Bank] told Marketing he wanted some papers on that newsstand table in the lobby for our Spanish clientele, and this G-ddamn thing shows up, what the Hell???"

I nearly pissed myself laughing. The paper picked for our Spanish-speaking clientele was this paper.

Dickle and Marketing es muy idiotas!

Yeah. I get paid for this.

This is a sort of montage/listy thing of a typical workday at The Bank:

• Leave home late (fifteen to twenty minutes late).
• Spend ride to post office berating myself for always being late.
• Smoke two cigarettes during ride.
• Fight/swerve/U-turn for a parking space as close as possible to the post office front door.
• If the Caller Window is open, make small talk with Larry. A big burly mean (teddy bear interior) hairy guy who loves to go "to the boats" and gamble and hates most all humans.
• If Caller Window is closed, I stand in line with the common folk and listen to everyone in line (which moves deathly slow. Always.) bitch and complain about how no one works here and they all suck and they move slow and everyone is going to call the Supervisor and there's always one nasally guy yelling as he walks out-- totally extending the rant to the point where you switch from being on his side to thinking, "man, shut the fuck up, bitch!"
• Get mail, light a smoke, pop in current punk tape your into this week, drive to The Bank.
• Give mail to Biggie J. and turn on computer.
• Make coffee.
• Check emails.
• Drink coffee.
• Respond to emails-- 40% of which are stupid and not my jurisdiction/job.
• Pop in a CD (this week= Modest Mouse, Husker Du, Suicidal Tendencies, and Lady Sovereign).
• Drink coffee.
• Deliver any supply orders I left from last night.
• Chat with two hottie Assyrian Tellers I'm trying to get with.
• Fail to hook up with two hottie Assyrian Tellers I'm trying to get with.
• Head back down to The Gopher Hole.
• Listen to music.
• Check email.
• Take nap while Biggie J. goes on his mail run.
• Check out Gawker and vote on my T-shirts.
• Drink Coffee.
• Think about a Lebanese women I met recently, wonder what she's doing.
• Go outside for a cigarette.
• Check out Gapersblock.
• Drink coffee.
• Change CD.
• Check out Chicagoist.
• Take a hot, dark yellow coffee piss.
• Walk around storeroom intending to REALLY straighten this place up more.
• Return to The Gopher Hole.
• Lay back in chair and stare at ceiling for a while.
• Surf the net, emailing myself interesting articles for future reference at home.
• Go outside for a smoke.
• Check emails.
• Drink Coffee.
• Go on a late "official" break, head outside for a smoke.
• Check emails.
• Recheck Gawker.
• Deliver some supplies.
• Return emails letting the recipient
• Nap again while Joe is on Mail run.
• Scratch balls.
• Go to lunch around 3 or 3:30.
• Clock back in and go outside for a cigarette.
• Come back, check-return emails.
• Clock out, go home.

The Gopher Hole at The Bank is either Heaven or Hell on Earth.

Summer Heats Up Neighborhood, Part II

I'm in a couple of those moments at The Bank where you find yourself taking a stand. I'm trying to argue points and define my position, and I suddenly find myself in a meeting in The Gopher Hole with my two top management team, Harley A and The Castro.

I don't do well in these kinds of positions: my lips tremble, I lose my train of thought, my arguments get out of focus, I lean toward arguing The Big Picture instead of sticking to the details at hand, and I sound emotional. Throw on the fact that I was aware of the meeting until an hour or so ahead of time (plenty of time to prepare while running around and babysitting the bankers, no?) and I'd finished my fourth or fifth cup of coffee, and, according to Harley A (whom I find to not be a totally creditable source), I came across a little abstract and crazed.

I've been hiding out in The Hole for as much as possible and while continue to do so in the weeks ahead.

And then I come home, park the car, and step in dried paint on the sidewalk...do a double-take, and realize it's the blood from the other day. I'm strangely torn as I look down at the splattery oddly V-shaped smear of reddish-brown between total sadness and total apathy. In a way, this split of emotion makes me feel even worse...like I've lost something very important that makes up a "good person."

I walk to my back door, and say hello to my neighbor through their open door. They shout the usual, "Hi Neighbor!" (I don't think they know my real name after two years), and then proceed to tell me I just missed another shooting...6 shots this time compared to 3 last time.

Great.

Later that night, anesthetized with Jameson, I suddenly hear Hot Hispanic Upstairs Neighbor yelling for my direct neighbors. Through the kitchen window, both eavesdropping and later actual conversation with the mother, it turned out the 15 year old son had gotten stopped by detectives and they patted him down. I agreed with her shouting out at the neighborhood (and the lady has the volume of twenty Marshall Full stacks) that this was bullshit. Busting a 15 year old boy on the way to the store for ice cream, drug dealers all around (especially up on Birchwood and Wollcot by the school) and the cops gotta fuck with a little boy. And then she went the "if it was a white boy, this wouldn't have happened!" And as I normally don't like that kind of argument, in this case/neighborhood, I grudgedly admitted she was right. (Fresh! Remember when we were driving and the cops flashed the cop searchlight into the car at the stop sigh, then shut it off for no apparent reason? We laughed.."Ah, just a couple crackers, let 'em go."

And today, I look out the window, and there's a flickering blaze of blue flashing light up the other street. Five cop cruisers and two detective cars clogging up the street in front of that condo that always has an ambulance show up to it.

It's going to be a long ass summer isn't it?

Merry Christmas

Halfway through work today, Santa brought me a stuffy nose, aching body, a headache, and a sore throat. No coal, though, so I must have been good this year, no?

Ugh. Sniff. Moan. Cough.

What did you all get?