My life is becoming a fucked up parody of every lame as shit, bitter break up I’ve ever experienced. Today’s episode brings us “Getting my shit.”

Yup, as with any break up I had the ritualistic collecting of personal belongings left behind, right down to the obligatory box of tampons. Yeah baby, no fucking way I want my ‘pons up inside another chick. No fucking way; gotta get that shit back. I even dicked around about a stereo I don’t need but is mine nonetheless.

So, yeah, if I could have lived up to “Amplifier” by the dBs, I guess I would have. Although, come to think about it, I’m more like Danny in that song. Guess it is truly good I am certifiably non-psycho, lest I off the wonderfulness that I am in my current post-break up despair.

By the way, if I lived by signs and portents, I’d be nuts by now, as I realized the second I crossed the street for my belonging collecting.

And in another bit of voodoo, the other night at circa 3 a.m., I was reading a magazine article on how Mugabe has fucked Zimbabwe in 11 thousand different assholilc for 23 years’ running kind of democratically elected dictator way, a topic near and dear to the ex. During that perusal, I caught the first peripheral glance of the fuzzy gray body with which I’m cohabitating. Yeah, I finally saw the mouse. And, just like the ex, he’s been erratic, unreliable and unpredictable. I thought I was done with him once I cleaned up the droppings, stored all possible food in the ‘fridge, set some traps and didn’t see any more signs of him. The mouse and I had veritably had the last phone conversation in which all energy that prompted togetherness is once and for all dissipated. But, just like with that ex, he came back and surprised me the moment I was feeling securely rid of him.

By the way, in Zimbabwe and other parts of southern Africa fire-roasted mice are considered mighty tasty. You can look it up.

I’m going to try hard to stay away from the ‘puter today. I have too much physical work to do to get my real world shit more together. Besides labor around the house, I really should try to memorize my lines for the “Bush Focus Group” taping tomorrow. It would suck to rehearse a good part and then flame out when they realize I’m a fucking moron.

I still haven’t decided, and M. still hasn’t decided, what all we will be doing in the future. Every time I think I’m centered and know exactly what I should do, something shitty crops up to remind me about the shittiness of the unemployed and how I got to be there.

Meanwhile, I’m seeking professional help. (I throw that in here to perk up the folks who think I need some shrink action.) But, the help I’m seeking is via Craig’s List and is for someone to help me clean and jettison shit. Might as well use a little sweat and a little cash to try to build a foundation of normal and then see what happens.

Added a register to vote link here. Register if you ain’t, and either way let’s get this pig-fucker president out of the big house.

Do you like my basement? It’s unfinished.

What are thinking about?

SHIT. Some kid in my neighborhood is having one of them total meltdown,
“MMMMMMMMMMOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY,”
screaming tantrums, where breathing is choked and sobbing racks in loud bursts.

It was so bad I threw on some clothes to go outside, because I thought maybe some poor, little bugger was wondering the streets scared out of his friggin’ mind. (While I suck at the old maternal nurturing gig, at least I ain’t no depraved molester type looking to snag a free-roaming tyke, so better me to the rescue.)

But, I got on my front porch and realized that the cries were coming from behind the doors and walls from across the street.

It was exactly the kind of tantrum on a summer’s day that would have had Pat in rare shrieking form her ownself, running from window to window slamming them shut so the neighbor’s wouldn’t hear. “Stop it! Stop it! People can hear you! Do you want them to hear?”

Nothing like an oppressively hot house, now hermetically sealed, and Pat out of her mind angry screaming at you to calm down to really smooth over the tantrum. If the neighbors heard anything, they never did call 9-1-1 even with the apparenly homicidal-sounding rages my mother feared would get us noticed.

Come to think of it, I don’t remember hearing screaming like I just heard from other households growing up. (No doubt Pat would say that was because no other children were as bad as us.) But, honestly, today’s crying sounded like an out of control two to four-year-old not a crime in progress.

I wonder if it’s city living with the houses that much closer and the streets that much narrower. Or maybe the suburban reserve that had my mother slamming down windows in August was pervasive in that time and place.

I think I’ve gotten the kinks out of phone posting. Check out double vee dub. The Bush Focus Group director has good taste in rides.

Just took the bike out to run some errands and got excited when I passed a falafel truck in an MIT parking lot. I haven’t had a cheap falafel sandwich for eons, and I thought it would be a nice junk food combo with the biking not driving, tanned and non-nail biting me.

I circled closer and thought about falafel or falafel and hummos and a little kid leans out of the passenger seat and yacks on the asphalt.

While I can imagine a whole lot of reasons a maybe eight-year-old boy might be yawning out some bile that has nothing to do with the quality of the food or food-borne viral disease, I just couldn’t go through with the transaction.

In the minute it took to wheel my bike around and leave, the poor kid’s mom had sent him around to the side of the truck along side a fence and weeds and rocks to wretch alone privately.

I think diet coke and hermetically crackers will be my late lunch.

Last email phone test.

Justin directing "Bush Focus Group"

During the DNC I biked over the Mass Ave bridge. It was completely empty of cars.