Thursday, September 30, 2004


Kerry makes comment about the Bush daughters' antics.

BUSH: "I'm trying to put a leash on'em."

KERRY: "I've learned not to do that."

George Bush sounds like a smart-mouthed con-man trying to talk his way out of an ally fight. Kerry is destroying him, and Bush is outmanned. This is great.

It is 7:55 p.m. and CNN is reducing the Presidential Debate to an episode of Love Connection. They've gathered about a dozen undecided voters who are going to rate the candidates throughout the debate using handheld voting devices that gage their support on a number scale. I cannot believe what I am watching.

Is this real? Someone thought this was a good idea?

Construction workers are building a building in a lot next to my workplace. It’s fascinating to watch. After clearing the topsoil, they injected pillars of concrete around the circumference and dug out the dirt guts. Dug out the dirt guts three stories into the earth, dug it out in levels, and I could see the different colors and textures beneath. There are large, deisel machines with powerful hydrolic arms and claws. There are thick iron pins bored perpendicular into the walls of the structure. Today, the workers are reinforcing the spaces between the pillars with stones and broad steel sheets. I am a witness to human progress.

The upcoming election has me in a duldrums. The exhibition is maddening and I am a sucker for every bit of it. I am consuming news at a dizzying rate. I am disillusioned by the busted logic of it all.

I have a weekly column now. I write about bars. It is trite and depressing.

I have worked every weekend for weekends on end. I have worked late and waited late. I have risen early in sickness and in health to get seven newspapers out to the public. It is hard work, but it is good. It can be better.

The Cubs are in a dogfight. Time is running out. There isn’t much time. This weekend will resolve plenty. This weekend it will be settled, unless there is a tie. In which case more time will be allotted.

The air is a bit cooler and the days a bit shorter. I have mixed feelings about this.

I have been getting haircuts more often than usual. A follicular last gasp? I turn 30 in two months. These things are beginning to worry me.

Personal productivity is at an all-time low. I am anxious, uneasy.

Say something nice. Tell me I'm beautiful.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

I can think of no fate worse than being discredited. It’s such an abtract, lonely lot. And if you watch the news these days, it looks like more people are falling victim to discreditation now than at any time in the history of human events.

What’s so frustrating about being discredited is that no one is actually discrediting you; you have just been discredited.

And if, somewhere down the line, you can prove than you are, in fact, credible, all those who said you had been discredited can simply say “Oops. Sorry.” then scratch their chins and walk away whistling show tunes.

Why? Because all they said was “He’s been discredited.” Since they take no responsibility for discrediting you, they don’t have to apologize.

The lesson is clear: Allow the internet ghosts and political fanzines to fight your fights for you, that way you never have to answer any tough questions.

Absolutely fucking brilliant.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

16 SEPT 2004 — After the subject’s brain is removed, drill a small hole in the back of the head and pour 2 pints of delicious milk chocolate into the cranial cavity. Next, put the subject behind the wheel of a large, V8-powered Chrysler Mastadon and instruct him to drive toward the confluence of Central Expressway and Knox/Henderson. There, the subject shall wait for a small, red sports car. Skinny driver.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004

He could still see Georgia B. with a blithe stare, her chin on her hand and her elbow on her knee. Sitting on a rock, she would sit still like that for five, ten minutes on end without blinking. He could still see her stubborn, eyes failing to change focus when he waved his hand or made faces in front of her. Georgia would make up her mind and that would be that and nothing he could do would change it. She would get down eventually, grab his hand and drag him toward the lake or the climbing tree or abandoned cabin. He never said a word. In his mnd, it was better to go along than resist and lose. At least this way, he thought, I can pretend this is really what I want to do.

Georgia had five handlers who would stalk through the woods looking for her when she was out too long. They were men in black suits, black ties and sunglasses. Four white, one black, they would canter through the woods in formation. They were all the same height.

“I know Jo, let’s throw rocks at the Pharmacy. Let’s start our own tribe,” Georgia said. She would suggest things breathlessly, one after the other. “They’ll be coming for me in five minutes, so make up your mind.”

Jo could see the handlers coming, hear their soft steps on the forest floor. Their footfalls fell the same. They would come and gather Georgia up and take her to the airstrip three miles south. Take her to the airstrip, get her on the airplane — she called it a corper jet — and fly her to her uncle’s house in mid-state.

“Well?” she asked.

Jo motioned and she turned to look behind her.

“Aw see Jo, you wasted too much time.”

The first handler arrived and stopped and the rest stopped behind him. Georgia jumped into the handler's arms and he turned and they all turned and cantered back through the woods. She yelled something back but he didn’t hear her.

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

I am working on a very serious post which explores the complex juxtaposition of Corporate America and the country’s Ruling Political Parties and the resulting conflicts and the effect this all has on the Typical American Citizen who, in most cases, just wants to live a comfortable life in this ridiculously affluent country and is willing to work hard for reasonable hours in exchange for a decent wage and health benefits in order to attain that lifestyle. But I’ll be damned if every time I get started, I don’t end up writing something about how I wish “Melrose Place” was back on the air.

So read this before you consume any more political bile. I am indisposed.