I have an awesomely stupid story to relay, but I'm tired and fucking lazy with a capital LAY.

The best part of the story is the phrase FOX made famous — "Caught on Tape."  I got caught on the office surveillance equipment.  Thankfully, I wasn't peeing in the office coffee pot or such like office hijinks.  In fact, what I did engendered sympathy.  (OK, not really, it engendered cruel and heartless laughter.) 

Truth is I'm too short for much of the the truly awful things FOX has spotlighted.

Randomly, and more importantly, here's my favorite thing about CNN's crappy descent into 'round the clock bullshit disguised as something kind of like news-flavored?  It's when someone connected somehow with a murder or disappearance "blogs."  Nancy Grace, "Are you telling me that the person blogged that day."   "That very day there are multiple blogs."  "Is it true she put a picture on myspace.com in a blog, with a kitten?  Tell me what kind of people are those bloggers on myspace."

What kind of sick motherfucking monster writes?  I tell you what, that's just immoral.  That blogging. 

I could be wrong, but I think Nancy Grace is on to something.  If you have a computer, you might be capable of murder.  Think about it.  In this day and age the pattern is clear.  Murderers have computers and/or cell phones.

Lastly, way to go on reawakening that Crusade vibe, Mr. Pope.  Or, I guess, Father Pope.  Fuck the Bene in Benedict, no more Father Nice Pope.

I don't disagree with the Pope's remarks, and I get the whole message of peace. It's a good one.  But, you're the new guy and, um, you're more than a bit playing with fire by trying to appeal to the better nature of folks who don't acknowledge your special magic powers and think you're just another German dude.  Yeah, they're wrong, I guess, I mean you get to wear the hat, but who says they are listening.

Remember when you were a nerdy little schoolboy in your cute little Nazi Youth shorts and tie?  Right before they punched you to the ground, you probably had something provocative and intellectual to say.  But, did it work?

Where's the Knight Templars at to kick some Holy Land ass? 

Growing up, there were five kids and one mom and a lot of self-involved agendas.  I guess one of the bonuses of childhood is getting to do your thing llike it's the only fucking thing in the world.

Pat coped in one way by seeking asylum.  The asylum was the back bedroom, her bedroom, the inner sanctum into which mere mortals, my siblings and I, were not allowed.  If she went into her room and shut the door, the message was fucking clear, step back or face the wrath.

This week, a work week full to fucking maximum overload with meetings and staff meetings and all sorts of fun, fun, fun office dealios, some of which were organized by yours truly, has been exhausting.  For the first time in a very long fucking time the ill stress fractures of type A workaholic hell were creeping up on me.  I could feel the "shit I better stay…just one more email…god I am so important the worlds axis is slowing without me" pressure.

The high/low of my last workaholic gig, you know the past life in Boston I foreswore to never let itself repeat, yeah that life, the high and the low was that I pretty much went it alone.  So a long fucking neverending day at work meant the quiet solitude of a completely empty apartment.  I could sleep, I could weep, I could eat ice cream in lieu of actual food, I could do absolutely nothing.

Here, I am not alone.  At work, I am not alone.  I am part of units larger than myself.

I really fucking understand my mom's untouchable room.  Pat, I want you to know, I get it, and could I please borrow your room?

Before George W. started executing the retards, Texas had a governor that was an amazing, tough, old broad.  And, yeah, I likes the word "broad" when it tells you something about the woman.

Platinum, brassy, brass-balled, funny and with some road tread for sure on some wheels that had gone round a few blocks more than most.

R.I.P. Ann Richardson, had you still been governor, I wouldn't have driven hard through the panhandle eager to spend the shortest time possible crossing your state.

[newline] [newline]From:   http://www.tsl.state.tx.us/governors/modern/richards-p01.html

Work is all about meetings.  Painful, painful meetings. 

If I ever to run a management seminar, you know those horrible weekend camps for executives or whatnot, I think I would have to set up an elaborate serial killer trap like gets written about all the time, but is too elaborate to actually work.  The Rube Goldberg meets Jeffrey Dahmer killer, like in the Saw movies.   I probably wouldn't actually kill anyone.  'Cept for maybe by accident.  Oops.

Here's my survivalist team building exercise.  You have like an average conference room and your maybe edumacated smart manager types.  They sit in a happy discussion-invoking horseshoe shape, happy happy joy joy, and we all commence to building the team.

First we go around the room and say a bit about ourselves, because we fucking love ourselves, don't we?  Then we play an icebreaker game meant to show off our intellectual sparkling clarity, our logic skills, our ability to get a fox and a bag of feed and a chicken on a boat and flip pennies into piles of tails and heads and figure out which marble is coming out of the bag into our brilliant even to our digits fingertips.

Here's the catch — I start removing oxygen from the room in direct proportion to self-satisfaction, self-promotion, self-aggrandizement.  All the classic selves.  All the rows of I after I after I after I that spells out the I everyone tries to find in the word team.

You play with the team, you learn how to collaborate, you breathe.  Simple really.

Beats the fuck out of rappelling through an obstacle course.  Who doesn't like to breathe?

I'm pretty sure M. might be possessed by an angry spirit, which means we'll have to call in a priest.  You know, the usual exorcising evil routine and all.  Then, he'll threaten me with a little domestic abuse action.

Finally, we'll move.  The sun will shine, and maybe the music on one of our iPods will blurt out something foreboding.  Until next time.

How else to explain that we've come home two nights in a row now with the back door layered with flies.  It's Amityville and I'm waiting on the HORROR. 

I was thinking of writing about September 11 after driving into work and listening to Howard Stern rebroadcast his show from five years ago today.

But, what the fuck could I possibly add to the dialogue.  Here's my take:  I got shit to say.  Terrorism is shit.  US foreign policy shits the bed.  That's all I got.

Instead, I offer the world this photo.  It ain't an olive branch, but it provides me hope for something.  Something like a world with more Doug Henning.

[image:4662:l] 

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Spent a lot of the day editing some shit at work.  

The half-full glass part of that reality is life is a hunky dory festival where I get to do shit I don't suck at, that interests me and you know takes a spare brain cell or two.  Better than digging ditches, a pay check and some semblance to being/doing shit I care about — namely writing.  I didn't 100 percent embrace what I was editing, 'cuz at the end of the day some shit about domestic policy and blah blah congressional decision makers is going to get a bit dry.  Not to mention, trying to convince social scientist types that "capacity building" is the kind of windy phrase signifying absofuckinglutely nothing and best avoided is a fool's errand.

The downside, the empty glass, is the phrase I like to torment the old boss with — working above my paygrade.  Try as I fucking might, no one at any job just lets me make the copies, staple the pages, label the files and call it a day.  Nope, I gets all the extra credit, thinking hard shit to do after a while.

The koan is, I guess, can I ever live my slack, lackadaisical dream?  Or am I destined to get into the overachieving groove?  

The real shit part for me is the slacker dream is one in which I work at a survivable pay rate but with just enough work to pay the bills and give me a rich and full personal life with hours enough to work on all the crazy ass projects and stories and comedy bits cramming the gray matter and itching to get out.  But, I found a day job where the goal is really supposed to be helping the goddamn world and all the folks starving in it.

Check it and imagine the inherent conflict — Time enough to waste my own time ostensibly creating art, likely creating dreck or maybe innocent little divertissements, versus spending time helping the children, the varicolored human rainbow of suffering out there in the universe, with a little bit of making a dent in the establishment, fighting the man and selfish policies thrown in for fun and raising hell sport.  Think of the children.

Over a year in to the gig, and I still haven't figured out the right balance.  'Course it doesn't help that the last couple of comedy shows have felt like, "eh, what's the point."  I gotta find a mustang to get back on and ride. 

After a little Photoshop action, here's a birdie:

[image:4640:l] [newline]

Meanwhile, I'm dozing off too much to be clever good or even purely mediocre.  Nope, I got nothing.  Best you entertain yourselves.  Might I suggest puzzles, they can be soothing.  Or there's always a well-timed wank.  (Well-timed of course being relative.  Time it for need and nuance or time it for duration, I don't care.) 

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