please excuse the radio silence. while this absence was no longer than the average great gaping chasms of empty days on my entry calender that gently cushion each of my updates (jeez! my words need room to breathe, man.), this time i have an excuse. you see, i was trapped in the terrifying vacuum of a world without an Internet. (its a long story….something to do with pyramid scam or a cult or something, i don’t remember. would you believe me if i told you telephone terrorists stole my best friend? if any of you see her, tell her that her mother and i miss her and want her to come home soon.)
there i was wondering the countryside, lost in a thick mire of lawlessness and anarchy, not knowing if someone had posted another “what Herman’s head character am i?” quiz on Myspace. not knowing if there’s a new Achewood strip. good god, man: Strong Bad could have a answered an e-mail and here i am watching some Magic Bullet infomercial like a caveman…..a caveman who is interested in smoothies.
but don’t worry, good people of the Internet, i’ve got a stable connection once again, so i will never have to miss another smoking gun mug shot again. Namaste!

it is no small secret that i harbor a general distaste for 6 to 8 hour series of small but soul-grating tortures and indecencies that i call a work day and for what is, second by slow dripping second, becoming a (oh-ho-ho-ho) “career” in goddamnmotherfucking food service.

but over the recent weeks and months, i have cultured a blind and seething loathe, turbo-fueled on wage-slave rage and malcontent, deeper and darker than anything that i or the collective whole of jack london fucking square could ever conceive of in their wildest disgruntled employee dreams.
i stand back there, behind the marble bar top, sticky with the sucrose of a thousand tubs of reconstituted sweet and sour: a hyper-present sticky. a boundless sticky: without end or hope of relief.
i stand there with my pant legs soaked from mid thigh down with the bar’s pig-slop run-off: a curdled citrus sludge with the overall smell of sickly sweet rot and pineapple juice.
and i stand there amid the scowls and shouts and baying and barking in my polyester prison covered with the “stick” of the world and wonder what in the ever loving FUCK am i doing?
i slosh and curse through the day, the fumes of over priced spirits wafting off me: the perfume of a vegas lounge-whore. twenty cent tip on a ten dollar drink. a lady who just wants whip cream in a glass and some lemons and sugar and a glass of water and some crackers and ranch dressing. pays nothing, leaves nothing. the classic drooling “hey, baby” wolves and and vermin and urchins. and on and on and on.
and i really put my pathetic fucking narsso-martyr soul into this garbage. (i do nothing except my own life half-assed) i do. i work until i ache: both my body and my pride. my hands are calloused and cut and kitchen tempered, epoxied with liquid band ade, victim to exposed foil and broken glass and lemon juice, smashed with mixing tins and between broken bottles.

this bottomless vortex of disgust i’m harboring (i call it lil’ vort-y.) is only heightened by the recent addition of a checkered black and sliver vest to the clown suit i’m forced to shackle on every morning. a vest. a vest as in “1991/Blossom”. a vest as in “professional women’s pool champion.” a vest as in “lesbian comedian.” vest as in “Reno blackjack dealer.” and, i might, add a “dry clean only” vest in the stickiest place on earth. just one more indignity on top of the fire.

i’m so burnout. i couldn’t concentrate on how much tonight sucked because i was too busy thinking how much tomorrow’s going to suck.

and i know i suffer so much at work because i want other things — nay, i was designed to do other things. of course that is no acknowledgment of my worth in artistic fields: just because i was designed to do something doesn’t mean i was designed to do it well. but i think its downright sinful to deny my dna……which brings me to the point of my post:

anyone wanna call in a bomb threat? there’s three dollars in it for you. cold. hard. american. cash.
no takers?
fucking hell.
i guess i’ll have to chisel off my filthy, wine soaked work pants and hobble to bed so i can run this hamster wheel again tomorrow. and the next day and the next day until i pass out of i shoot myself in the head. hmmmmm. now there’s an idea. do you think worker’s comp covers self inflicted gunshot wounds. provided , of course, they were done on the job.

p.s. — everything i said before, only i meant NBC instead of CBS. may Ted Turner (or whoever owns television these days) strike me dead.

strange and ominous vibrations here on 24th st. a strange static in the wind. the advancing season bringing far off distortions in the airwaves and causing my corroded rabbit ears to convulse. and, somehow, bringing the heretofore absent CBS station(that’s the Columbia Broadcasting System, for all of you anti-acronym-ly inclined) to my sparse television dial. (i have the home shopping network programed in just to add some bulk) This should be monumental.
a firm follower of Andy Warhol’s creativity through hyper-sensory means, television has become my own personal late night background-noise box during those long nights at the drafting table. alas, being one of the cable-less, (cable-lessness affects one out of every three young adults. its a very serious issue!) you soon learn the sad truth about free TV: it has neither quality nor quantity. you’re talking to a girl who hasn’t batted a bloodshot eye at a CBS station in three years or so and here it is a whole new station for my perusal and — to tell you the truth — apart from Conan, it hasn’t much changed my life. man, somebody should light CBS’s programing director on fire.* cbs blows!(this journal’s views on murder, pyromania, or Jay Leno do not necessary reflect the views of livejournal ®)
so
on to my salvation once again through the channel seven late night movie.

ok, forget about the fact that i just wrote about the channel seven late night movie last entry. jeez, man, forget about the fact that 75% of this journal is me writing about the garbage i watch on TV you could just as easily watch yourself.
sweet jesus, i am talking about Corey Haim, Patricia Arquette, and Rollerblades. ladies and gentlemen, i give you Prayer of the Rollerboys. the Haimster is a hot-shot, streetwise ruffian and one bad-ass rollerblader. (”he’s the best.” or so i’m told.) Set in a bleak, not-too-distant future, (i know, i know: it looks like the ’80’s. i guess they thought that’s what the future would look like in the 90’s.) to save his brother, he must go undercover to infiltrate — i shit you not — a highly organized, para-military mob/gang/army of racist, drug-running “bladers”. (think New Jack City with matching outfits) no matter how fucked i was, i just couldn’t keep a straight face if a band of arm swinging, purposely synchronized rollerboys were coming to kill me. and i ain’t no physicist, god knows, but automatic weapons and roller skates just don’t mix. really. trust me on this.
oh and the chase scenes! my stars! you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a completely serious attempt to pit a rollerblader against a motorcycle.
there was even a mullet in this one, too: imagine a Kentucky Waterfall from Santa Cruz.

this seals it: channel seven never fails to deliver!