Nothing makes you feel older than seeing someone who’s butt you once wiped holding a teeny weeny human being with her own diapered butt.

I feel like a grandmother and I ain’t even had any spawn.  Going to have to start attending the meetings to equalize. 

I sit in a cube.  That’s the shit end of the popsicle stick at my place of employ.  But, every now and again, it’s my little bit of cheery workaday fun.

Today’s episode was overhearing someone unhappy with accountants being all bean-counterish and wonderfully full of accounting goodness.  It was Proust’s madeline to me.  Or maybe some other pretentious imagery that’s a mnemonic segue.

I suspect in the quiet moments of my dismal worrying life that a cabal of accountants was complicit in my undoing.  But, you know what I fucking figured out today — Duh, it wasn’t me, it’s them.  I actually understand that accountants are what they are and do what they do, and I don’t hassle them for it.  I don’t roll over if a soupcon of imagination could bring them to the old cliched win-win.  But, yeah, an accountant jugular will never be my fight.

At the old job, my accounting skirmishes were abberrant.  Quite a few were about, um, ah, arithmetic.  You know the counting shit those people are supposed to be good at.  Yeah, if you tell me two plus two ain’t what I think it is, and need to whip out a calculator to show me how you got something else, I’ll fight you.  ‘Cause, like, you know, reality is cool and shit.

Nah, truth is, I’ll let some shit go at work, if it can just make my life a bit tasty sweetier.

So, once again, a big “fuck you” shout out to folks at the old bad place.  And, an equally big “yay me” for, well, being me.

I’m falling asleep at the wheel, ah, couch, here. So, I can’t get it up for actual coherence. Bullets, the non-violent hippie writer kind, that’s all I got.

• Welcome to the world, Rachel. (I generally don’t out folks by name. But, she’s too fresh to read, and dad’s too creeped out by the “blog-o-fucking-sphere” to see this note.)
• The bonus of working at a place so much smaller than all others is that there are fewer maroons to dope slap per capita. But, fucking A., the majority of one I got working my last friendly nerve into a crispy, fried treat, deserves repeated ear cuffing and forehead thumps. (Note, Cali is all free and easy and tree-huggy, weed chuffing goodness, so I don’t feel so stabby stab, just slappy slap and punchy punch.)
• Can snopes.com or somebody write up a summary of the debunking the fucking global warming “controversy,” to whit “There’s a debate over whether (global warming) is manmade or naturally caused…” and slap it up on the web? Then, could some one else email the link to GW, buffoon in chief?
• Number of legit scientists, who didn’t get cash from oil companies, Bush cronies and what not who believe global warming could be nature-made: 0.
• Maybe this study is another reason for Catholics to have smaller families. Maybe it also explains the older tradition of having one son who’s a priest.
• Hmmm, cigarettes, drool.

Uncharacteristically, we got our asses out of bed to meet with a guy who’s going to help the man with a bullet-proof resume. Of course, between the two of us the DIY approach could kick cliched ass. But, the older I get the more pumped I get with the notion of paying someone else to do my shit.

Why walk when you can fly? OK, that makes no fucking sense there, but goddamn it I’m American and we know how to write checks and process credit cards.

Got my first rejection from a short film submission. Yay. For brief, unrealistic, unfocused moments I thin, “aw shit.” Then, after a couple of whacks up my own head and some earboxing, I remember that my exercise was process. Gotta get into the groove of trying, submitting, blabbity fucking blah.

You ain’t getting laid if you don’t get in the game.

I, of course, am sitting here writing about my dreams and aspirations (to get laid), because M.’s going on to the resume man about his old curriculum vitae. Small and closed that I am, listening in makes me think of me, Dee-Rob, center of my own miniature universe.

I’m procrastinating on shit that I actually have tons of time to do. So, I got nothing all around.

In the back of my head is the thought of devising some kind of funny set list of jokey jokes and merriment for tonight’s show. But, really, wouldn’t it be funny enough to see me whimper, drool on myself blankly and then leave the stage?

Other than that, I love the fucking world wide web. Back in the horse and buggy days you couldn’t get an email from millions and millions of fucking miles away and eons of time. OK, make that 3,000 miles and some years, but you know fucking far.

Thanks to this bullshit, I’ve heard from different people from old jobs, old friendships, old passages of time, who otherwise would have fallen into dim, dusty, vague, “Huh? What ever happened…” memory, much like my virginity. I’ve almost kind of met new people, too.
And, I’ve got to stalk a few old chestnuts and whatnot from an incredibly safe cyber distance of weblog reading.

GOOGLE, I salute you.

My trek to California has been one exciting adventure after another. A smorgasbord of trying new things.

Today’s chapter is called “Gun Show.” These fine people, apparently named Russ and Sallie, got some space at the San Jose Fairgrounds. Having never been to a gun show and seeing the obnoxious orange signs hung around power poles all over town, we figured what the hell. Perhaps we could learn something beyond snide condescension.
Nah, fuck that bullshit. I live for snide condescension.

I totally dug this sign out front, because I think you can never be reminded too many times. [image:3856:l] Sadly, the camera wasn’t allowed past that point. In fact, there was some threatening notice about confiscating cell phones with cameras. Gun yahoos must be shy.

There was also some notice about wounding people who violated some rule, but I can only remember the part about wounding. I thought about taking a picture, but wounds scare me.

It cost $8 to get into what basically amounted to a really shitty craft sale/flea market with guns. I could have got in for free, if I stopped by and joined at the NRA table out front. I thought about it long and hard, ‘cuz this gal loves a bargain. (I’m a “gal” when I’m with my gun-toting peeps.)

But, then I remembered two things: (1) I would have to pay membership dues, so bargain evaporated and (2) they are the fucking N R FUCKING A. I mean, I loved, loved, loved the Planet of the Apes and would have jumped Taylor faster than either the mute chick or Zira, but fucking get real. Shit, I dodged that bullet and passed the NRA table by.

Here’s the NRA dudes’ table:[image:3855:l]

Later, we did our usual shit and ended up hiking around Stanford’s dish. After admiring military surplus, including some Nazi SS patches…(Note to gun show type folks, every time someone sells neato, cool Nazi paraphenalia at one of your shows, your case is weakened.) …I made M. drop and give me 50.[image:3866:l][newline] Truth be told, he just does that shit out on the street every now and again.

Oh, another note to the gun folks, ix-nay on the u-Klux-Klan-Kay. There was a big, framed movie poster that actually would be pretty awesome for a film student or whatnot to have. It was D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation. Only, the image was of a hooded figure on horseback. Was it history, or was it nostalgia that brought it out to the gun show?

Here’s my fave pic of the day:

[image:3870:l] [newline]

Runner-up would be this poor little tail-less fella.[image:3874:l]