squidbag

Full Circle

If you've been following my blog longer than is healthy, say, for instance, since Autumn of 2004, you might remember my 5th and 6th posts, both of which have to do with primary elections that happened in Escambia County, Florida.  I worked on a campaign for J.E. Jones, a republican candidate for County Commissioner District 1.  I managed it as well at it would be managed, got Jones to a lot of events, got him name recognition, coached him through debates and interviews, made the signs and put them up, hosted events in my building, and investigated the infractions of the other candidates in the race.  In the end, we got stomped like a roach on white carpet, and I lost the faith, not just in the people of Pensacola, who lied to me and voted in the old criminal they once threw out, but I also haven't worked on another race since then, not in any really serious way.  17 races between 1999 and 2004.

I ended up with this interesting artifact, though - a DVD of the campaign ads we did for Jones, complete with Roads, Mole People, shattering glass that produced complaints, bad props, inaudible dialogue - the works.  They're so bad, they're funny, and we knew that then.  Recently, in my Politics and Elections course, my professor was referencing what kind of ads "no money" campaigns would make, so I brought the DVD in and showed it in class today.

They were confused.  Some of them thought it was funny, but for the most part, you could see the opinions of me going down like a Hindenburg whore.  They mostly didn't get it, didn't understand that not everything is slick, and that candidates are often crazy characters with no real business running for office; that campaigns are crazy times with no money and no sleep and no time.  Regardless, I was glad that I had this leftover collection of weirdness from the past that could inform the present.

Thanks, Jones.

Crawdad Larry Gunfucks Seafood Mart

Via Matt Olson:

Larry Wayne "Crawdad Larry" Kelly apparently peppered the L & T Seafood Market in Ensley over the holiday weekend because they were out of the most proliferate form of seafood, the crawfish - and Crazy Larry Wayne didn't like that.  Gotta love that "Larry Wayne" moniker on any Southern male packing heat.  

Also apparently, Larry Wayne's a "sovereign citizen," one of those crazy motherfuckers walking around enjoying American tax-dollar funded things while complaining to anyone who will listen that the government, all governments, are oppressive, and that he doesn't have to follow the rules.  This was a philosophy that actually worked pretty well for me in private school, but I haven't had the gall to try it in my adult life.  Not so, Larry Wayne, who tried it on Florida policemen who it looks like may have taken a poke at him to show him around the oppression.  A good way to end up on weekend Fox Network programming, one would think.

So Crazy Larry got arrested after he called eleven times looking for crawfish, stopped by and shot up the place with an AK-47, and then tried his damndest to run over cops, evade cops and resist arrest.  They arrested him twice, just to make sure.  And now he's looking at more than half a million dollars worth of fines which I'm going to guess they won't let him pay off with LarryBux he makes in his "sovereign basement mint,"  I bet they're going to want Gen-U-Wine American Simoleons.  And over what, again?

Crawdads.

We're talking about a creature that's actually referred to by people who live in the Florida panhandle (and indeed, elsewhere in the South) as a "mudbug," because they basically live everywhere along creek beds and anywhere you've got fresh water coming in.  You don't need a boat or a rod or a reel or a gig or a sharp stick or even a net or two hands to catch a whole mess of crawfish; a bucket dragged in the right place will pretty much do the job.  So what's Larry's fucking problem?  It's not just that God wanted Larry to eat a whole crawfish boil with potatoes and little ears of corn, it's that God didn't want Larry to have to work for it, either, and it's the fault of THE MAN (here represented by Tommy Nguyen) for keeping Larry down!

The punishment here should be taking away Larry Wayne's good shit - like his armory - and giving Larry Wayne a bucket and making him stand in hot-ass Florida Summer creeks listening to extremely competent Florida panhandle law enforcement representatives talk shit until Larry Wayne catches $500,000 worth of crawdads for Tommy Nguyen.  

At $2.39 a pound.  Retail.

Dumbest Conversation Ever

"dumbest fuck I ever met in my life"

If your experiences are anything like mine, then you get the gift of having this - the Dumbest Conversation Ever - all the time.  You find yourself on a regular basis walking away from someone, shaking your head and thinking "Damn, I don't know how that person is out of their house among others."  Stunned at just how incredibly disconnected, how fucking stupid they really were, and how pointless your interaction with them was.  Actually, I think we should retask the word "dumbstruck" for this purpose - struck dumb by a dummy.  If I should ever rub a lamp - and I do, whenever I see one - and get a genie, I'm going to ask for all the time I spend having pointless dumb conversations back.

 

Every verbal interaction with sidewalk and doorway evangelicals (except for this one), every time I hear Sarah Palin speak, I want it all back.  With her, it's not that she's so goddamned dumb that flummoxes me, it's the supposed legion of YouBetchaBitches that echo her like a Greek chorus of lemmings - I despair.  I want all the time back we spent as a country talking about Clinton's dick, or Monkeyface's anything.  All those fucking meetings that ensued after I publicly backhanded that one guy for being a dick - I still regard those as having been my punishment for losing my temper.  Every sports argument, every conversation about fashion, every Rotary meeting (and that Men's Barn thing) and all of my Psychology classes.  And a lot of family conversations - I could really use the time.

The only tool I seem to have developed for dealing with these as I've aged is perspective.  Every time I find myself thinking, "Well that was the stupidest shit ever," I am inclined to look back on the really fucking dumb conversations I've had with people throughout my life.  I don't typically include the drug and alcohol-addled ones, because that's not really fair.  People should be held accountable for what they say and do while inebriated, but criticizing it for being dumb is redundant at best.  I'm also not including any time I've been there (three) when someone has lost their mind.

I'm also not counting otherwise pointless conversations about film and art and music - Starship Troopers, Chasing Amy, Saving Private Ryan, They Might Be Giants' Flood album, the music of Van Morrison and the Beastie Boys, Rothko and that fucking video installation from the Frist - these things all come to mind.  Hell, I was once on the wrong side of a Sinatra vs. Dylan conversation, so I'm just as much to blame for these as anyone, and debate like this is like a treadmill for the mind - not going anywhere, but the exercise is nice.

When I look back, I have a few stand out nominations for worst one ever EVER.  I once had to report to a boss for accusing a fellow co-worker of being a werewolf, and was asked to stop because Bob was getting upset.  I also once had a completely unproductive all-day back and forth with a proud Klansman in Valentine, Nebraska, and that would have to be right up there.  Bluebird's lamp would certainly make the list, but I'll let Mssrs. Spector and Moore judge whether that one should be thrown out under the "inebriation clause."  So - Top Three:

3. CIGAR MENU: ME (bellying up to a new bar in a new town for the first time): Do you guys sell cigars?

BAR GUY: Yes, we do.

ME: Awesome - can I see a menu?

BAR GUY: I don't know.

ME: I'm sorry?

BAR GUY: I don't know.

ME: You don't know if I can see it?  Is it like, a secret?

...and it just goes downhill from there.

2. BANK LANGUAGE: I am in the midst, currently, of closing a checking/savings/line of credit account at a well known national bank - because they suck - in favor keeping my money at my credit union.  While discussing this on the phone with one of their representatives, I asked, "When we shut down the line of credit, is there anything special we need to do, other than paying off whatever balance there is at the time?"

BANK IDIOT: "Yes, you need to write a letter."

ME: "Is there any special language that needs to be in this letter?"

BANK IDIOT: "No, just English."

Fucking seriously.

1. SHOCK: Mr. Jonathan Broad will back me up on this one; While we were working for a well-known national hardware chain as "retail implementation specialists" in South Florida just outside of Miami, I got into, over Cuban lunch, an argument, with one of our co-workers, a guy named Eric, about whether or not a person could be in shock from an injury and still be conscious.  He contended they could not, I disagreed, vehemently, since he had interrupted a personal story I was telling to argue this detail.  This idiotic fucking argument ranged over six hours and several miles, and I am just as responsible for it as he was, since I could have just walked away instead of making everyone's work day suck just that much more.  Sorry to JB and everyone else.  What I learned from this was that sometimes others aren't worth the effort, and it's better for the larger group just to walk away.

Like a theme I've got going or something, yeah?

(Special thanks to Eric P for making me the sound file from above after I was unable to locate it anywhere!)

 

Psychic Fishmongers

This sign is recently featured on the marquee across the street from my apartments at National Chain Fish Restaurant, and it disturbs me.  I am deeply disturbed.  I have begun using the other entrance/exit point from our complex, so that I do not have to any further ruminate on the disturbing nature of this marquee.

Putting aside for a moment the natural and societal ramifications of "Love Oysters?" as an opening line, I am mostly bothered by the rest of the sign, "We Have Them Cooked to Order."

Now, you have oysters.  Fine.  And I can come in and get some, cooked to order.  Also fine.  But you "have them cooked to order?"  Already?  How the hell did you know what kind of oysters I was going to want before I even arrived?  You got some kind of psychic fishmonger in there behind the counter, a fried food chain restaurant version of Carnac or Ms. Cleo making ESPredictions about the kind of oysters people WILL want, in the future, when they arrive?

ME: "Hi, I'd like to order - "

PSYCHIC FISHMONGER: "Here you go."

ME: "(aghast) How in the name of Davy Jones did you do that?!?  That's what I was going to order!"

PSYCHIC FISHMONGER: "I know. Additionally, here's your disgustingly sweet tea."

Now, predicting my eventual gastrointestinal issues, that takes no talent at all.  Or making a prediction about your lunchtime crowd volume - no biggie.  But accurately predicting my eventual oyster order and having it cooked to order when I arrive?  Psychic fucking fishmongers, I'm telling you.  Alternately, we're talking about a level of behavior study that borders on severe privacy invasion and would need to be conducted by a legion of private investigators tailing the mass of the fish-hungry public.  I'm not buying it.  They say fish is brain food?  Maybe it's the key to unlocking the untapped psychic potential of the human brain.

And now, I must go to Florida until Sunday, where I gather they also have fish.

Pensacola Should be Destroyed

I've been saying it for years.  It's not even a remotely new sentiment; I said it so much when I lived there that people who have read this blog since its beginning, back in 2004, got weary of hearing it, and that was one of the main reasons they were happy when I at last upped and moved the hell away from the Cradle of Naval Aviation, the City of Five to Seven Flags, the reddest inflamed part of the taint that holds the cock of Florida onto the contiguous USA.  "Maybe now he'll shut up," they said, not really believing that I would ever let go of a bone this tasty and that I went to the trouble of hiding under the big elm out in the backyard.

Okay: the beach is alright sometimes.  It can stay.  But it's just sand at the place where the land meets the water, so don't romanticize it, okay?  And some of the seafood places, they can maybe stay.  It's really just the people, the structure, the local government, the weather and everything else that has to go.  Particularly, in this case, a Reagan-nominated conservative federal judge (shown here illegally picking and eating wildflowers) with a wild hair making his bench-sitting uncomfortable, and who apparently thinks that Obama's healthcare bill is flat unconstitutional, like the American government getting in your face over the dinner table and forcing you to eat broccoli.

I'mna try to suck it up, though, since I have to go back there in a couple of weeks for what should be a lovely wedding, apparently the only reason I will cross the Florida state line at this point.  All I'm saying is this: if someone had turned P'cola into a smoking crater back when I wanted to, we wouldn't have had this moron trying to inject himself into the process and talking about vegetables.  And, the sand would all be smooth and melty glass from the firebombing.  Pretty, no?

Benefit of the Doubt

People say this all the time, and apparently, employ it as a guiding principle when dealing with others.  I am encouraged, over and over again, to give one person or another "the benefit of the doubt."  I freely admit that I have never really even been able to parse this phrase, ("what doubt?  whose doubt?") even though I can easily define all the words in it.  So I went and looked it up.

The Free Dictionary has it as "to believe something good about someone, rather than something bad, when you have the possibility of doing either."  That's pretty mild, but going with just one source when there's a big, verdant Internet waiting for me to run naked in its fields of information seems supremely foolish, so Wiktionary says this: "1. A favorable judgment given in the absence of full evidence," and "2. in Cricket, the principle employed by umpires in cases of uncertainty concerning a batsman possibly being out, in which the decision must be made in the batsman's favor."  Finally, Dictionary.com gives me this one, dating it between 1840 and 1850 - "a favorable opinion or judgment adopted despite uncertainty," which is just a more succinct version of the first one.  This was helpful to me.

Essentially, a legalistic and/or sporting principle (and sports rules are themselves legalistic) which says that when there is any doubt whatsoever about which way you should fall, based on the available evidence, you should land on the side of the person in question.  Instance by instance.  When applied to human interaction, this is a sheer rock wall of faith.  Great.  Throwing aside all of the facts and data in favor of blind leaping coitus with a rolling donut whilst you decide to just put your faith in the other person.  A massive level of trust would be required, and you would never, never deign to do this for someone whose historical and recent behaviors were anything less than ideal, and were, in point of fact, incendiary.  Right?

The principle makes no mention whatsoever of the continuous, over time agglomeration of evidence, or how that sort of precedent would erode the applicability of this concept.  Briefly?  Seems to me that fully grown and developed people would only reap the benefit of the doubt ONCE.  After that, their continued behavior, intentions and results should dictate how one responds to them in various situations, yes?  If someone continues to act like a butthead, the intelligent and responsible thing to do is treat them like a butthead.  In fact, I posit that it's the responsibility of all mature people to treat people according to their evidentiary and historical behavior, because to do otherwise is potentially harmful inasmuch as it ignores who they are as people.  Maybe they're striving to be the best butthead they can be, and you're fucking it up for them.  I think I'd prefer application of the Golden Rule here; judge me based on my actions and words, and I will do likewise for you.

The benefit of the doubt is a dangerous concept, and has only a very limited use.  To trust someone in spite of what they've done, over and over again, might make for a great Lifetime Original Movie, but has no real application for anyone who wants to live happily.  Some incidences demand it, like dealing with kids in any capacity, or perhaps with someone who's deranged or emotionally immature.  Otherwise though, I'm not seeing it.  Every half decade or so, Charles Manson is hauled out of his hole and given a chance to prove he should walk the streets a free man.  If they gave him the benefit of the doubt, you'd be upset.  What they do instead is chuck Chuck back in his hole when they see that's he still an unremorseful fuckhead.  Because that's what makes sense.  They deal evenly and directly with him based on the facts presented.  Solid.

And now I go to spend the weekend with my mother-in-law.

How to Road Trip

Friday afternoon - rent the Dodge Caliber (hereafter known as Safety Car), from a very nice lady with cool sunglasses whose signature looks like the word "Butt."  Pack a bag, fitfully nap.  Try on suit, test pockets and wrinkly bits.  Make sure you have essential items like a book, an additional stack of comic books, your iPod, and toiletries.  Burn numerous comedy CDs.  Mssrs. Izzard, Gervais, Hedberg, Gaffigan and Beaz.

Friday, 6:30pm - pack the back of Safety Car, bring some cashews, wasabi peas and sodas, comedy CDs.  Make sure that smokes, shades and suits are in the vehicle, Blues Brothers style.  Put sodas in cooler compartment, phone in cellphone compartment.  Realize car has too many fucking specialized compartments.  Unleash the mighty 4 cylinders of Safety Car (as it locks its own doors and reminds you to wear your seatbelt)!  Turn on your GPS, hereafter referred to as Tabitha.  Get on I-65 and head south.  Leave Nashville, Tennessee.  Drive for hours and hours.  Stop for gas and weird road snacks (chocolate / peanut butter Bugles, chili encrusted dried mango slices, jerky), eat at an Arby's that seems to be made out of stage prop materials and dates back to 1984.  Ring the bell.  Smoke cigarettes, piss, wash hands, feel the power of the hand dryer, at last leaving the dreaded and damned State of Alabama, after taking 113 to Highway 29.

Saturday, 2:30am - Arrive destination, more or less.  Fight numerous involuntary facial muscle tics that started when you smelled Cantonment, Florida's paper mill.  Swallow geographic hatred in the face of your traveling companion's incessant pseudo-enthusiasm.  Drive by old house, observe changes.  Chew gum.  Drive to father-in-law's home, walk around on the lawn at pitch black three in the morning, knocking on windows and ringing bells before finally just calling.  Enter through garage.  After pleasant but groggy kitchen conversations, walk around place you haven't been in for over two years, declare room assignments and then crash motherfucking hard watching Justice League movie on iPod.

Saturday, 10:25am - Awaken from best night's sleep in months.  Text person about wedding time, watch end of Iron Man on iPod, read some kung fu comics.  Drink remainder of room temperature soda.  Enjoy ceiling fan.  Finally compelled to leave bed by bladder, wander out to see how house and grounds have really changed.  Reflect for a while, chat about comic books, other random stuff.  After everyone is awake, eat a delicious homemade egg breakfast and smoke Partagas cigars by poolside for an hour.  Coffee.  Discussion about impending tobacco tax.  Walk around house, talking about it.  Converse about the idyllic parts of the past, and the harder parts of the present.  Adjourn to iron, shower, shave, primp, dress and re-pack.  Short goodbyes in driveway, start listening to that bossy tart Tabitha again.

Saturday, 4:35pm - after wrong turn, have Greek lunch of calamari & gyros at Founaris Brothers in Pensacola.  Call various people, watch cell phone video.  After lunch (?) be guided by Tabitha to nice but unhelpful police officer downtown at the bayfront.  Illegally parallel park Safety Car, tuck shirts and straighten clothes in parking lot.  Attend wedding at lovely bed and breakfast.

Saturday, 5:55pm - Wedding.  Lyla's wedding to Jason, who I had only just met, was a beautiful and intimate affair, with only their close friends and family in attendance, which was still something like a couple of hundred people.  Lyla designed her dress and made her vintage-looking headpiece by hand, and she looked perfect.  The ceremony was quick and personal and sweet, and the reception was flawlessly put together with plenty of roam / mingle spaces, delicious food, free drinks, and engaging guests.  There were some fun parallels with my own Pensacola nuptials of nearly 14 years ago: Clark and Company, a two piece strings act which has one of my brother in law's old bandmates in it played both weddings, Lyla's bouquet hit a light fixture on the way down from the second story, just as Christie's got hung up on the chandelier back in the day.  The wedding was a wonderful affair, and I was proud and honored to be invited to see Lyla get hitched to the love of her life.  I wish them all the best.  I'll have to do better than that, though.  When it was over, and the first few dances had been danced, the bugs under my skin were all screaming that it was time to leave Pensacola.

Saturday, 9:03pm - Cell calls and message checking, shoe changing occur in the parking lot.  Cigarettes.  Tabitha is reactivated, and we once again fire up the power that is Safety Car.  Just before the exit to i-65, bathroom breaks, gas, drinks - complete change of clothes.  This last leads to me yanking my dress shirt off the stall door just as a another man enters the restroom.  He is startled, and says, "Oh, I'm sorry," to which I reply, "It's alright, sir - I'm a superhero," as I walk out the door.  Drive for more hours and hours, spill wasabi peas in car.  Listen to more CDs, one of us (me) naps for about 45 minutes in total.

Sunday, 3:50am - Arrive back in the Nash.  Only partially unpack car, drag bodies upstairs, and after pointless jitteriness, fall asleep by 4:30 or so.  Leaving the whole of the next day before vacation's end for zoo attendance, packing, and laziness.  My kids woke me up at about 8:30 or so, which was not ideal, but was okay.  Safety Car was returned to its home by 1:30 or so in the afternoon.

Jimbo, I couldn't have done it without you.  Fuck me, "BEST ROAD TRIP EVER 2009!!!"  Lyla, I wouldn't have done it without you.  I can't think of many other reasons I would ever return to Pensacola, and I wish you and Jason unqualified love and happiness on the next part of your adventure together.  Ron, thanks for putting us up, making eggs, and smoking stogies.  Best night's sleep in a dog's age, seriously.  C, thanks for letting me bail for a couple of days to do it.

Manga Molester

I am sad to say that this is poem about people I knew, in Pensacola, over the Summer and Fall of 2004.  The Manga Molester, Twinkie the Kid, and the Hostess Ho were all names for these people which were coin of the realm.  I doubt that any of the principals read this, but if they do...

There once was a slimeball named Chris,
who worked at the Anime store,
but after Monday's events transpired,
he prob'ly don't work there no more.

See, Will was on duty up at the front,
when the plainclothes law busted in,
and they was looking for Chris, who was up in the back,
to arrest him and take his ass in.

As they spoke, it was clear
that Chris was rightfully totally clowned,
since he had been child molestin',
and those assholes should all be drowned.

The cops took him out, and the Anime folks
tried to give him a little support,
but we'll see how understanding they are,
when the law drags his ass into court.

"What kind of foolish subhumans,
employ a scumfuck like Chris," you might grouse?
Twinkie the Kid, and the Hostess Ho,
they let him stay with them too, in their house.

To Mothball or Not to Mothball

Play this whilst you read, at least 'til you get to the bottom.  If you're ever speaking to me and it becomes clear that I, for whatever reason, have stopped listening to you, this is the song that is playing in my head.

I've decided to officially mothball the Whining about Pensacola category, which means nothing, other than I won't be putting anything else in there after this entry unless, somehow, it invades my current day-to-day existence (like Izzard's joke about Jerusalem wherein, presumably, Pensacola would have to be builded here) via something other than the phone; or, by some trick of fate, I end up at some point in the future visiting there and once again feel the need to vent about it.  So, like I said, utterly meaningless, just an excuse for an entry.

Because I have some bookkeeping to take care of, so here goes: Those of you who saw me in Chicago on the 20th of January for Evan's memorial may have heard me mention that I had gotten some angry emails from Pensacola pastors and churchgoers that I would someday publish.  Today is that day.  I'm only going to do two, the first one I got, and the worst one I got.  The rest, when I went back over them, weren't nearly as amusing as I remembered, and have since been deleted.  I should stress that these are just the maniacs - there have been been some insightful comments left by many people of faith.  Rational believers leave comments, it seems, in public, where everyone can see.  The crazy ones send me nasty emails.  Words of the faithful in red italics.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected](popular mail service).com
Re: Your website entires (my what?)

Scumbag, (It's right up there on the top, how hard would it be to spell check?)

It is hard for me to believe that God lets you keep doing what you do and saying what you say. (almost as though he expects the God of Old Testament to strike me dead when I go near a keyboard.)  You are so obviously an repentant sinner, and you are going to hell.  (Judge not, lest ye be judged...I think that's in the rule book.)  Your kind of hate against christians is what leads to today's persecution of them, and the toilet our country has fallen into.  (At least I capitalize you fuckers when I blast you.  Also: My hate leads to toilets?)  You should be tried for treason for talking about Jesus and the President (first, I'm pretty sure only Peter could actually betray Jesus, and second, take another look at the 1st Amendment before Monkeyface eliminates it.) like you do, and it is so bad I have stopped praying for you and your family. (It's probably best that you stopped wasting your time anyway, and went back to praying for the Ice Pilots.  Even in the off-season.)

And:

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected](name of institution).com
Re: no subject

You are a sinner, and you should repent and be saved, instead of condemning good men, spreading lies, and mocking the church of God and his Son Jesus Christ.  Heretics, liars, blasphemers and silver-tongued sayers like yourself are the root of the evil, personifying what happens when people are given too much freedom and allowed to stray from God's grace.  You are only trying to bring others down with you when you spin into the pit of Hades to burn for all eternity.  Your punishment may not be here on Earth, but in the afterlife, and you should reflect, in the midst of your heady madness, on this long stretch of torture, of pain, of damnation, before you part your lips to say another evil thing against the most Holy and Perfect Lord, God our...and it just goes on like this for awhile.  I mean, Holy Rhetoric, Batman!  The next time you readers of the Squidbag are sitting there reading my "mockery, lies, heady madness and silver-tongued blasphemies," (which would make a hell of a slogan for the banner, yeah?) just remember that I'm only jealous of the saved, angel-and-invisible-friend believing masses, and I'm trying to drag you all down into Hell with me, where I assume you would be forced to read my blog for eternity.  It's like a million Christmas trees on fire, you know, and you jump right in the middle, there.  Hell, I mean.  Oh, and I should mention that this person self-identifies as a youth minister, so watch that VBS shit, too.

Finally, as many of you know, Pensacola was a dark and depressed time for me and mine, during which shit seemed to just continue to stack up in big iron crates that stunk like death, leaked all over the carpet and furniture, had thin plastic handles that cut into the soft hand flesh, and that we had to carry around with us everywhere we went.  I would say that the biggest change about the recent move is a feeling of freedom, a feeling of renewal.  (sighs) However, when I was in the dark time, I did what any melodramatic person from our era is wont to do - I made mix disks.  The one below is significant, because I actually tried to sit down and capture - in tracks I already had - my day-to-day mood about my situation, and retain some small measure of hope.  I did this in lieu of sleeping.  This is what I came up with, and according to the date on the disk, I did this one year ago Monday.  Weird.

1. This Is Not - Static X ("This is not my life, this is not my home, this is not me - I hate this.")

2. Fucking Hostile - Pantera (duh)

3. Under the Gun - Supreme Beings of Leisure (again, duh)

4. The Beast in Me - Johnny Cash (I think everyone has this feeling sometimes)

5. People Just Ain't No Good - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds (very easy to believe, for about two years)

6. Mogadishu Blues - Hans Zimmer (a slow, sad, meandering track that seems to last forever...)

7. I Got a Gun - Treat Her Right (simple, pissed revenge song)

8. Superman's Song - Crash Test Dummies (melancholy as hell, but has a kind of "push on" feel)

9. All Things Must Pass - Harry Heck (pretty obvious beginning of an up note)

10. Don't Give Up - Willie Nelson & Sinead O'Connor (it has to be this version, because they believe in it)

11. Bring Me to Life - Evanescence (I don't care what you think - it works.)

12. Sittin' On Top of the World - Vini & The Demons (makes me laugh and cry at the same time...)

13. Just a Kid - Wilco (I also think everyone feels this way sometimes)

14. Tough it Out - Webb Wilder ("I won't bow, I won't bend, I won't break, never compromise.")

15. Rise - Chuck Prophet (get up and go again)

16. Hymn of the Big Wheel - Massive Attack (again, I don't care what you think; chills me right out)

T Minus 12 Hours

I am writing this entry at 10:31 at night on a Thursday, which means that I close on my house almost exactly twelve hours from right now.  Whenever you're reading this, have a glance at your watch and think of us signing documents that free us from living here, where we don't want to be.

We have spent the last couple of weeks packing, but the last three days have been the mad-rush, concentrated version, with the help of Jimbo, Matt and Lyla, and locally the Adams clan.  We could not - and I bloody well mean this - have done it without them.  You're sitting there thinking; "Ah, no matter what he says, they'd have pulled it off."  I doubt it.  I really, really do.  So - proper thank yous go out to Jimbo, who drove all the fuck way here from Chicago in one day to help us out, and who brought the javelin with him.   Special thanks to Matt O, who burped his way through the state of Alabama and in one surgical trip, brought all the moving blankets (and spaghetti) anyone would ever need (and we used 'em all), ate Chinese food, packed the library, and bound the curio cabinet - among other things - like a hostage for transport.  The Adams (I'm avoiding 'family') folks, recent friends, who watched kids, cleaned, and secured goods for travel - thank you.  And finally, Lyla, to whom I just said a fond 'good-bye' out in the driveway and saddled with a turtle.  Wonderful, graceful, loyal, driven Lyla - you are a true friend.  I appreciate you all.  (Jesse; we're just swamped.  We didn't forget you, just be patient.  Peace at your 32nd.)

I am sitting on the floor of what used to be my office, with Jimbo's things all around, and listening to echoes bounce off my newly empty house.  I am so tired my skin aches, and everytime I close my eyes, I drop into instant REM, little microdreams about someone called "Satellite Man."  We have sold things, given things away, thrown things out.  Cars are fixed and roadworthy.  Arrangements have been made, and the ABF truck with most of my stuff on it left about five hours ago.  Tomorrow is the day I've been waiting for since Winter of 2004-2005.  In some ways, it has set in, but in others, not just yet.  Excitement is the word of the day, just after logistics.  There has been some last minute drama, (including new blog readers) but I think that the change of scene is going to be the best for everyone, ultimately.  It's hard to let the past be the past when you continue to live it day to day.

I have to disconnect and move my computer, so it will be awhile, I suppose.  Wish us luck.

It's now even less than twelve hours to go.  I'm so short I could see up an ant's skirt.