Who’s fucking crazier — Harry Belafonte hugging Hugo Chavez for the cameras or Pat Robertson for calling for Chavez’ assisination?

Either one is looking for the assholic rhetoric of the year award.

The other trite little premise I have to write about really deserves a picture. File this under, living with …men, kids, roommates, squirrels, furries, geriatrics…is so damned wacky.

I came home to the bottom of some delicious Costco purchased snacks called something like “Aussie bites.” They’re like cute little cakey, granola bars in the shape of mini-muffins. Kind of a two bite item, unless you enjoy the chipmunk swell of a full face.

Anyway, in the clear plastic container is a crescent shaped mini-muffin wth a CSI-worthy topography. Evidence of bite marks. Only there’re two such crescent-shaped mini-muffins.

Of course, I am wholy and completely incapable of not commenting on noticing such a thing. Each, I was told, was bitten and put back to save for later. The explanation for how that could happen twice (instead of making the time for biting the second one actually be the “later” of mythology), “You wouldn’t have this to talk about, if I did that.”

I love when a relationship provides you with schtick.

Other than that, I have a confession to get off my chest. I brought a resume home to read before an interview I am to participate in first thing in the morning. I have not read such resume.

Why?

Because I was reading a bit of fiction written not just by a “Furry,” but by a macrophiliac. The sheer, unbounded imagination of the freakishness of the human race never ceases to impress me.

It was an episode of CSIon SpikeTV what put in the mood to be studying up on furries. They were toss around lingo like yiff, and I had to know if it were true. It is.

I was going to mockingly link to the furry fanfic-dom I was perusing. But, who the fuck am I to mock, each their own and all that. Though, I just can’t fucking wrap my head around the furry, frottage fantasy, let alone one that adds the giant twist.

I’m sitting here with the TV on in the background. There’s a commercial on CNN for the “King James Bible on DVD.” Fair enough, right, if I gots books on tape, Jesus fans should be able to get their multimedia freak on.

But, the voiceover says “Guaranteed you will be inspired, or your money back.”

Yeah, money back guarantee on your spiritual experience. That’s a fucking great DVD.

I feel like this weekend had some activity, but I’d be damn jiggered (or some other old-tyme-y word) to figure out what exactly. Some projects were done, some were not, some thoughts were hatched, some died on the ganglion, now what I got is not much.

But there is this web page, still a work in progress, I fear. Still and all, it’s good I have some promo started for:
Comedy for the Community, a fabulous evening of fabulous comedy for wonderful good causes. Seriously, it’s a fund raiser and M.’s brainchild. I’m emcee and talent getter.

It’ll be cool.

Other than that, I’ve been trying to think of some “goals” for 2006 for work. Apparently, per my boss, I’m going to have to raise the bar a bit on the new work year in defining myself. I should clarify that, I may need to raise the bar on the slacker aims I keep promoting. She wasn’t really going for the main goal of “keep a low profile and continue to earn a paycheck for a more or less honest day’s work.” For some unfathomable reason, there seems to be an air that I may be capable of more than just the barest minimum of toil. Yeah, whatever, potential, rational thought, yada yada.

I wish I could say something in worthy tribute to the man who marched for civil rights, but I got nothing. I am pleased beyond the happiness of expressing my right to vote that I have the day off, though.

The weekend couldn’t have been more blah, with both M. and Dee bearing the weight of an icky rhinovirus. Yeah, that sentence almost made it seemed dramatic and interesting. It wasn’t. Just sick and managing to get some errands and chores done. Sucked.

The brightside is getting a cold now lessens the chance we’ll have one when flying in a couple of weeks to Malaysia. I am not ready for such an adventure, but it must be done. (The weirdest thing to me about planning an exotic vacation, or at least exotic to my New England mindset, is the relative blase response of folks at work. Unlike all other places of employ I have “enjoyed,” it seems like everyone has been in that general global neighborhood. Even the IT guy hales from Indonesia. I am the untraveled rube, the parochial American.)

Maybe after sokme more cold drugs my mind will clear and I will possess something otf interest about which to write.

Home sick today. Weird working at a place where there is a little bit of team in the word team. Seems like they are all like keep your sickness at home and shit and don’t infect us and get better and I’ll take care of that for you.

Fucked up, they is, I think.

The bonus of feeling like shit and lying on the couch is unfettered access to Lifetime. Rewarded I was, too, with a fine flick starring Barbara Mandrell. Damn, she sings and kind of acts, too.

Best of all, it was one of my favorite themes — your basic intimate stranger. Really, do you ever know who you are dating?

Let’s all try to stop Sam Alito.

Goddamn, I almost made it. Seven fucking months of working, and I ain’t felt the old itch of grabbing a shiv. I’ve been a model prisoner, just doing my time here on earth and maybe getting some time off for good behavior. Ain’t no stabbing left in me.

Today, though, man-o-fucking man, I could feel the temple throb, the quickened pulse, the thump of adrenaline, heart rush tension. Thick tension, the kind you need a knife to cut through to cut the heart right out.

Nah, today was more of a reminder that on the absolute suck scale my old job sucked like a crack whore hired by David Oreck. (Fuck, man, that is just so stupid lame. I pretty much hate any line that relies on similes from planet moron for the funny.)

Seriously, a day like today would have been 90 times worse, atomic, nuclear, if I time shifted to the job before. Mostly because you just knew the day after and the day after that and the day after that and the day after that would suck just as long and as hard.

Today, though, was just a bit of cranky, blood pressure rising bullshit that’s all over tomorrow. No stab fantasies required (fictional or comedic or what have you). Weirdest yet, the boss lady basically just said, “Put your foot down and tell them that’s not what you do. No need to be nice, you gotta set some limits.” ‘Course she’s all educated and shit so it didn’t sound like that. But, you know, I had gotten kind of used to the boss in the old world kind saying, “Why’d you going and make me have to hurt you like that?” Only again, more educated, but I got the message about how it was me that caused the bad stuff.

M. reminds me about how when I talk about the old job and the new job I sound like a former victim of domestic abuse. He suggests dropping the past. However, I’m holding it a bit longer, if only to make my self taste a bit more sweetness out of the changes in the past year or so.

By the way, the other thing that keeps me from writing the mock violence in this here weblog, is the part of my gig now that uses a part of my own mind and interests. Fucking weird shit that is. Like meeting with some folks from the TV behind cinematic tours de forces like “Taxicab Confessions” today. Or, like, how in that meeting someone from the Big Name Brand operation used the term “vlog” talking about the videoblog dealios, and like, yours truly was alone in that universe of that meeting room of having heard the word before. Fuck, I could even link to some here, like this guy. I know we’ve been in the same room and are one degree of separation through a couple of different folks.

Here, even toiling in the siliconest of Silicone Valley ‘hood, I am the pro from Dover, I am the seer and knower of web voodoo. I kind of get paid for a certain amount of surfing.

I guess if there were a bell tower, cream puff little me in the Cali style would just be waving and saying, “Have a nice day.” Candy is better than blood spurts in fountain formations.

It’s not really a resolution, but it started in the new year.

M.’s been teaching me some boxing moves in the gym at work. The gym is mostly vacant (and I think quite nice), making it our private workout room.

My left jab is wicked.

I woke up with visions of torture out of Hostel.

In retrospect, the movie ’tweren’t bad. Over the long haul of waking up the next day and getting on with my life, it kind of stuck. Visually and mentally. That’s probably tops for any director’s wishlist.

And it didn’t end there.

I’m sitting in a beauty salon waiting for my man. Because, like, you know, dating a beautiful person is all about being there for them in making the beauty happen. It ain’t like magic or anything. Unhappily, at the time, my hair looked like absolute shit, pigtails, over-long bangs and the whole mess of it flattened by sweat from the gym. One regret of my relationship is living with a fella who be prettier than me.

I’m minding my own business, tooling with my Sidekick, some other chick sitting there, a propos nothing (as the cliche runs) pipes up with a “It’s tough to relax, after Hostel.”

“Uh, huh, what?”

So we started talking about the movie. She said something that sounded like she saw it a week ago. But, it opened in the U.S. this past Friday, so, um, yeah, not sure what she said. Suffice it to say, she seemed a bit fucked in the old melon.

As Morgan, clip, clip, clip, had his hair trimmed, I embarked on what seemed at first like it could be a mildly diverting convo. Instead, it drained right into what could possibly have been my first truly dull, mind-numbingly boring exchange, of the new year.

“I couldn’t believe it. I got a call from Blockbusters, but not from here, she was from Southern California. They wanted to talk with me about a job and had I met with a manager, you know. I had sent my resume month’s ago and I was, like, you know, I’m not going to get this job. No way. They’re just wasting my time, but, like, I figured I’d see, you know. She said I should report to the Redwood City Blockbuster’s and I figured, yeah right, nothing is going to happen, but I went. It’s awesome. You get FIVE, five free movies a month.”

All I could think was “five?” What the fuck? Shouldn’t it be one every night.