Rambling Man

Hunter S. Thompson lives on in all of us.
The keys on this computer are unresponsive at times.
It causes me to type, and retype.
Edit forward and back, backward and forth.
A line I lifted from an old WCW speech.
Like Woody Guthrie says, "I really love that line."

Ataxia.
I think I have ataxia.
It causes memory loss a dazed perspective, and a drunken kind of stagger.
Dizziness.
Sort of two steps forward and one step back.
Not all the time, but on occation.
And knee jerk.
Not the reactions, but more of a tremor.
I wake up, drive to work, and don't even remember.

Zombies ARE real.
We walk the Earth in a stupor of unknown.
Eating, sleeping, doing things.
Watch tv all day and not remember the plot of anything I've seen.

If you exploit an idea you got from a movie, buy a man that says he got the idea from a book, does it mean you should read more, or watch more movies.

I've got to stop.
The editing is killing me, and I'm too out of it (totally sober) to handle myself.

I just needed to tell somebody I'm having difficulty keeping myself together at times.
When everything blends together, I feel like I've done somethingI should regret, but can't tell what year it happened.
Maybe when I was a child.

25 to Life

"Thaddius Gie in the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you plead?"

"Guilty."
"Do you have anything to say to the court regarding this offence?"
"I did exactly what I wanted to do. I meant to do it, I do not regret it, and I would do it again and again if I ever got the chance."
"Mr. Gie, due to your admission of guilt, I was going to take some pity on you, but in light of this statement and lack of remorse for human life, it appears I have some thinking to do. Take the defendant in to custody. I'm going to retire to my chamber to decide the sentencing."

When I arrived in prison, I got exactly what I expected. Good thing I didn't expect much. The phrase, "Three hots and a cot." wasn't an understatement, but it wasn't entirely truthful either. The 'hots' are usually swill, things I wouldn't feed a caged animal, and the 'cot' is a little better than that. A thin piece of foam on a slab of steel. That slab is cold in the summer to help keep body heat down, and colder in the winter... probably to help keep body heat down. The two sheets have a thread count of 50 a piece, and the blanket is thin wool. The kind that's both itchy and scratchy anywhere it touches you. It's especially useful in the winter when you try to stay warm and inhale the wool fibers, drying up your nasal cavity and making your nose bleed in the middle of the night. The first good,cold night when you wake up in the dark, with just the low haze from the red light, and blow your nose on a rag, thinking it's just the flu running down your face, and see the dark colored splotch on your rag... It's almost enough to cause a stroke. Nearly knocking yourself back to unconscious oblivion on the upper rack trying to get up in an effort to investigate your melting face, hitting the light, and stumbling back in terror at what must have been the last drop of blood in your body, running down your chin and dripping into the sink with a deafening 'drip.'
The barely audible echo of your new best friend shouting at you, "Hey. HEY! *snap-snap* IT'S JUST A NOSE BLEED! IT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE AT FIRST! UNTIL YOU GET USED TO THE WOOL!"
"What!?" The ringing as your mind blurs and your ears clear the path for new sound.
He speaks again, "I said it's the wool. The joke is, the prison only uses sheep cursed by the Gods. It's what gives the wool it's incense itch."
"You mean incessant?"
"Yeah, that's what I said."
Figures. Not only are you in prison with bedding like this, but you're cell-mate is a dumb truck.

Every day is new excitement. Cell searches, fights, rumors about what you did, and everyone asking you, "Hey you! What did you do?"
Like it's really their business. Some people point and whisper. Some of the smaller guys make a wide path for you. As they pass you hear them start to whisper, "... a family at dinner."
"I heard it was a bus full of nuns."
"No! I'm telling you it was a school for the blind!"
Finally you get sick of the rumors. Just another thing to blur together. Like the long monotonous days, all passing by as a whiz of sunrises and sunsets, till finally, all you can recall is a long period of time that resembles high-noon.
"So..." The dumb truck finally asks, "What're you in for, buddy?"
"I killed a family of blind nuns on their way to dinner school."
"I heard you were in for murder but that's the COOLEST THING I'VE EVER HEARD!!"
"It's not true."
"Oh. OH! AWW! *groan* I didn't do anything cool either. All I did was"
"I didn't ask. And for the record, I don't care."
"Yeah but"
"Don't care."
"But I"
"I... DON'T... CARE."

Eventually, it all gets to you. The rumors circulate. The pressure builds. Till one day you, yourself, begin to wonder what you did to land this cherry gig. Then it eats at you. It gnaws at your brain, and claws the walls of your mind until the blood from your nose has less and less to do with the cursed sheep and more and more to do with what you've distorted from the life you left behind. You spend your time sitting, alone in your cell, racking your brain, watching the sun rise and set at high-noon, forgetting to eat, disregarding sleep, till one day you crack.

"So," I ask him. "What did you do to get in here."
"Robbed a little old lady."
"Kill her?"
"Nope. Got thirty-eight dollars. I get out in a few months."
"... *grunt* ..."
"What about you? Finally 'member what you did? Rob somebody too?"
"Murder."
"I thought you said it wasn't true?"
"No. I said that story wasn't true. But I did murder someone."
"Yeah!? Who? Someone important? Someone rich I bet!"
"Neither."
"Nobody rich OR important?"
"Nope."
"Everybody's important to somebody."
"Not this guy."
"Well who was it then?"
"... Me."
"Shit, man. You're never getting out."
"..."
"You'll be here for-ever."

Here's Johnny!

Thanks for returning.

I meant to post a story that I had written, but I got side-tracked by Neat-O-Rama.
I found almost everything on there to be at least marginally interesting.
Rev got about a dozen e-mails from me saying, "Look how cool!!"

The day after my aforementioned forgetfulness, I worked with Officer Shadower.
A nice enough guy, younger than myself, who did what he was sent here from the future to do...
Make me feel OLD!

I telephoned (yeah, we still use those things) Rev and started my rant.
He (semi)quietly listened and nodded before replying, "Think of how I feel!!"

This year I celebrated (read: hid under the bed from) my 27th birthday.
Which, by my 'Rule of 'Almost'' means I'm a really old guy.

Shit...
I suppose I should elaborate on that.

Vincent J. Vinnetti's 'Rule of 'Almost'' as read by Samuel L. Jackson
Any amount, rounded up to it's nearest multiple of 5 (in order to get to a multiple of 10)(IE: 3 up to 5 up to 10)
Then rounded up to another multiple of 10 (10 to 20 to 30)
Then multiple multiples of 10 (30 to 50 to 100)
In order to achieve a false nearness to a person, place, or thing.
Ex. I'm 27, which is almost 30, which is almost 40, which is almost 50, which is almost DEAD!!
Thus I, at 27... am almost dead.

Not to be confused with the elders 'Rule of 'Might As Well Be''
(ex. She's only 19! Might as well be 10!)

Point, point, point...
Ah yes!
The point!

 I Like Cheese has a well written piece on "Skinny Jeans" and the fad culture of youth.
I read it.
I agreed with it.
And it reminded me of the rant at Rev, and what I was going to write about.

My little brother told me about his girlfriend's favorite action/phrase when departing; Closing her hand into a fist and holding her pointer and middle fingers up in a V shape and saying, "Deuces!"
Said little brother explained to me that this was a shortened version of "Chuckin' up some deuces."
ex. "Johnny chucked up some deuces and we left that rag-tag Benefit for the Nocturnal Harp Seal."

Admittedly, I'm an old soul.
I like music from the 50's till the mid-90's more than I do most of what's out now.
I also enjoy old movies, old T.V. shows, old cars, and older (than myself) women.
Because of this, I feel confident that most of you will, if you haven't already, gone through the above mentioned hand motion mentally or physically and realized...

IT'S THE PEACE SIGN!

I was mid rant when Officer Shadower informed me that "Chuckin' up deuces was like, 5 years ago."
...
*deep breath*
"I'll get to you in a second."
*finish ranting to/at Rev*

What in the blue f*ck has happened to us that our youth have turned this once meaningful gesture into an abominated catch-phrase?

So, I Like Cheese, if you feel old remember this;
1. I remember the peace sign (and use it) as the meaningful gesture it was intended to be.
2. I am young enough that I should know (and use) it's abomination instead.
3. I'm so out of touch with reality (spending nights at home watching M*A*S*H and listening to The Animals) that this eluded me for 5 years.

If you REALLY want to feel old...
When saving a file, the 'save' icon is a 3 1/2 inch floppy disk.
Officer Shadower informed me that he knows people that don't know what that is.
They've never seen one.

Imagine how the ZIP drive must feel.



Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

I'll Give it a Shot

I had a different image in mind, but upon using a different search engine, I found this one and couldn't pass it up.
While this shot glass is available from Neat-O-Rama, upon further inspection,  Neat-O-Rama has quite a few interesting things to look at, click on, and/or purchase.


My friend T.J. Reed (AKA: Flyin Monkey) writes stories on his blog. In a recession he's GIVING his work away!
Since I don't have a whole helluva lot to say anymore, nothing I want everyone to know anyway, I figured I'd try it too.

So come back for some bullshit from me, and some stories.
Maybe some tea...

Occasionally, Rev will stop by and we'll be playing fiddles together, or fiddling with each other, or framing one another...
I decided to stop there.
Three is enough.

So, since I'd like to see you all again...


Let ME 'getcha.
V.V.

I Just Stopped In for a Cup Of Coffee Friend

I haven't done this in a while.
I may be rusty.
Hell, I may be Cousin Eddie, but who knows...
I'm currently out of a car which leaves me carless, most days. Usually getting to work isn't so bad, but getting home is a chore and a half.
And I'm not talking half a load of laundry.
I mean an asylum of laundry, plus cooking, plus dishes.
Tuesday night is my most difficult.
My little brother usually picks me up, but Wednesday he has an early class so he stays closer to town.
Which leaves me VERY close to town.
Like, stuck in it.
So I arrange for a couch, air mattress, or bed for the night.
Tonight is Rev's night.
Just look at him, siting there all eblogulated.
It was he that turned me on to a song by Johnny Cash.
A song in which John stops by friends house after a night of, what sounds like drinking, and stays for a week or so...
Under the pretence that he only stopped by for one cup of coffee.
I swear Rev, I'll be gone after this pot of coffee is done.
Or maybe next one...

Don't let em' getcha.
V.V.

Oh, Frankie!

A lot has happened since the last time we spoke.
Same job, same Shipping and Receiving place.
Same singleness.

I while ago Miss Odd and Sgt. Puddle spoke with me about my drinking.
Yeah I go out on Monday nights for karaoke, and Friday nights, for karaoke.
Yes, I have a few beers and an occasional shot on Monday.
Yes, there's usually an "after party" where a few more beers are consumed.
Yes, I have a few on Friday as well.
But apparently, having a glass of whiskey at home, alone, isn't so great.

To be honest, if I were home, I'd have a bit more than a glass.
About a half-gallon of vodka every week or two.

So Miss Odd challenges me to two weeks of sobriety.

It was an easy first week.
The second week had me up late, weird dreams, and a pretty healthy appetite.

I made it, without a slip.
Wasn't even really a challenge.

It was an eye opener though.
I remembered what it was like to wake up and feel ok.
Frank Sinatra once said, "I feel sorry for people who don't drink, when they wake up in the morning, that's the best they'll feel all day."
I used that line a lot.

I still may.

While I can't say I won't drink (I already did, and felt like HELL!!) I will probably tone it down a few notches.

...

Oh, yeah, back to the point.
I almost forgot I had one.

During my sobriety, I realized, and remembered quite a few things.

And even though I did a Triple Lindy off the wagon, (2 weeks and 1 day) I have half a fifth of Southern Comfort staring me in the face (and has been since the night before I paused drinking) that could easily be laid to rest tonight, I'm still remembering.

I watch Scrubs a lot, Scrubs and M*A*S*H.
There's an episode of Scrubs where the main character (J.D.) has to write an introduction for the Chief of Medicine (Bob Kelso) but can't find anything nice about him.
In the episode, as soon as Dr. Kelso's feet touch the ground outside the hospital, he hasn't a care in the world.

I used to be like that at prison.
There were the people I spoke with and hung out with inside, but when I waked out the door, I left it all behind.
Someone else's problem.
Whistling as I walked away.
Even after a 16 hour shift, coming out to see the people I relieved come in, once I got outside, it was a common thing to hear Fly Me to the Moon being whistled from my smiling, cheerful, direction.

I don't do that much anymore.
I actually can't remember the last time.

Maybe it's taken 3 years for me to realize there's nothing to whistle about.
Maybe the damn place has taken it's toll on me and I realize no matter if it's not my problem anymore, it will be again in 16 hours.

While I can say I'm a better person without the drink, I'm beginning to see how it got so out of control in the first place.

Maybe just a sip wouldn't hurt...

Don't let 'em getcha.

V.V.

R.I.P. Angus Goldfish

For those of you who don't read Rev's blog...
1.) Shame on you!
B.)You didn't hear the tragic news...

My best friend in the whole wide world, Angus, recently passed away.
Angus Goldfish, died on September 7, 2009 at 7: 23PM.
He was born to a one finned goldfish named Lucky and grew up in Russian pet shop till he was sold to a midget stripper in Bolivia who wanted fish in her stilettos.
The midget Bolivian stripper was drawn to the United Stated in hopes to make it big.
However, fish in a shoe isn't really what strip joint folk want (who knew) and Angus (then known as "the fish in my left shoe") was quickly discarded.
One rarely misses a chance to see a midget stripper, and luckily, I was there.

Angus, so named for Angus Young from AC/DC (and because I REALLY wanted a cow), came to me with athletes foot and the gout, but after 26 trips to the vet, 3 years of physical therapy, and a visit by John Madden, Angus made a full recovery.

Sadly, after 9 years, 5 months, 27 days, 16 hours, 32 seconds, and 55 milliseconds, Angus died of Swim Bladder Disorder.

I was called at work by my crying mother (he was like a son to her) and tried to escape a little early to have a service all our (Angus and my) friends could attend, but that prick, Lt. Rogaine, wouldn't let me go, even though we had 3 full housing units.

So, because I got home SO late... I held the bowl side service, for a Goldfish among fish, that no one could attend.

Angus was survived by his two sons Bon and Brian, and his BFF (Best Friend Forever) Vinnie.
He was a proud member of The Fishtian Church of Bob, and a volunteer for the Boy Scouts of America's "First Look at Fish" Program.

He will be dearly missed.


Don't let 'em catch ya.

V.V.