Thursday, December 20, 2007

God bless America.

Only in this fine country.

The letter was left on my kitchen counter after a regular night of drinking.

To all:
I am not sure if either of you have ever experienced the distinct pleasure of spending the night in a small puddle of you own vomit. I hadn't until last night.
I'm not sure what cosmic alignment of the stars induced all of that (first urf in four years), but be that as it may, I took the liberty of taking a few of the affected items for cleaning. I will return them tonight.
I believe the couch proper to mostly be unaffected. I will come tonight prepared to clean any spots I missed in the early morning.
Thanks for putting up with all of this.
- Lineman #33243
The Paragraph Factory.

Saturday, December 08, 2007

No time to lose

Sorry for the long delay in posts, kids.

The last two weeks have been crazy and already I feel behind. Behind in a good way, though.

When the snow started to fall I thought it would be neat to take some snow photos. This one I snapped from my desk in my new office - sexy, eh?

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Fuck you, Robert Frost

It was my last shift at the old paragraph factory.

My last deadline; last awkward exchange with some co-workers and my last chance to steal from the fridge.

I walked out of the factory just as I had every other night for the last year and a half. Only this time the darkness seemed to consume the stairs that descended into the parking lot.

The lights had not yet clicked on and with the darkness looming earlier and earlier, our cars were bathed in an eerie black that usually was reserved for forgotten parts of the city - not decadent office complexes.

There were only about a dozen stairs, but the invading darkness seemed to blot out the end obscuring the landing. But, really, i could not have imagined a more appropriate way to end my time here.

This new adventure was about descending those darkened stair cases and entering those yellow woods with ill wrought trails.

Fuck you, Frost, this is my adventure now.

As we took our first few steps today at the Weekly we were tepid around the old guards. They would never understand what we wanted to do. We spoke in hushed tones and averted our eyes when words like redesign...or overhaul...suddenly snaked into the conversation.

We knew what we wanted to do, but talking about it around the departing editor and designer was like riping out the kiddie crap in a 9-year-old's room telling him its time to grow up.

The publisher, though, encouraged it. He wanted it, he was excited about it. He has sat at the helm of this paper for a decade and he is ready to make this something more than a free neighborhood shopper.

Come Monday this conversation will become exponentially louder. We will stop at nothing to create something completely new and sell it to the masses.

The memos that chased me out of the factory (layoffs! buy outs! cutbacks!) are a thing of the past. This is a whole new conversation - hell, a whole new language - that now will follow us into the night. But it will make us stronger and appreciate what we do so much more.

I did the arenas and major stages. My venue lies with the slack elite that gather in the cramped quarters of the dive bars and underground stages.

That made no sense, but really this is not about making sense; this is about being weird and going pro.

Here's to the weeds, the brush, the overgrowth that we are preparing the enter into and those random adventures and beasts we will encounter.

Join me - someday. Consider this your invitation, your provocation, to find your own ill-wrought trails in those godforsaken yellow woods.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Hate for a day

AT&T/Cingular, I hate you.

I cannot tell you how irritating you are. You drop calls. You miss calls. You have some "phantom" glitch that make it seem like my phone is calling random people when I am not calling this people at all.

If i get one more phone call at 8 a.m. from an angry mexican guy screaming into the phone about how I need to stop calling him, I will pitch my phone into the river.

Not only is my phone crapping out on me one device at a time, but any hint of customer service is always weaved with an impressvie sales pitch.

"Hijacked phone number? How about you buy a new phone...or purchase the rights to a new number!"

"Receiver not working? Oh, hon, we don't repair phones we just sell newer ones!"

The blank stares and bewildered looks that came from, how do I fix this were almost sad if they were not so deathly serious.

"No really, jsut throw it away and buy a new one, kid."

There is also this bizarre rule where if you do not know the street address of the where the bill is sent you get no serivce what so ever.

As I approached the clerk she asked for my number and the name an address of the policy holder. I complied but confused the street number of my parent's home with that of my granparents home.

"I'm sorry that is not right, you will have to go to the end of the line."

What? Like I am on some Price is RIght triva game? Do I get to use my defective phone as a Plinko chips the next time around to see what level of service I will get.

Sinnfuly unhelpful.

Damn you AT&T, you make me actaully want to go to Sprint and their land grabbing, arena building whore of a company.

Now I am all whipped up into a froth!

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

I stepped in it this time.

I have a habit - for some reason - of starting new jobs on Wednesday.

I started my first job on a Wednesday - I also started the job right after that on a Wednesday.

And today, at the end of a weird and wild Tuesday, I walked into the paragraph factory and told them I was leaving in two weeks to start a new job on the Wednesday after Thanksgiving.

The circle of life.

That's right, kiddies, I'm busting out of the corporate world and preparing for a venture in the Indie-Newspaper Scene.

I will start wearing all black - mostly from he ink that will stain my hands as I label and fold that weeks newspaper.

I will cut my hair asymmetrically - on account of my sleep deprivation from editing all night to meet a crazy Monday night deadline.

Today I accepted a job as the editor of a weekly newspaper here in KC. I get the dream job of a small office owned and operated by a family but with the intricate detail of being located in the middle of Kansas City Proper rather than in the middle of nowhere.

There are so many things here I will get to work on that would not even think of invading the tender sensibilities of the JoCo Crowd.

I probably should have taken more time to think about what I was stepping into before I signed the contract and pledged a day to show up for work. I probably should have thought about doing something that "made sense" rather than being rash.

Fuck, you are only young once. I have the next 60 years to make the decisions that are boring and will "enhance my career."

Today was about buying the ticket and actually taking the god-damned ride.

Here's to the ticket, rather, here is to the ride that we will straddle and clutch for the next few years...or until the next ride comes along - probably sometime on a Wednesday.


UPDATE: 1:23 a.m. - What have I done? I don't think i have ever been so terrified of my own decision.


UPDATE: 2:47 a.m. - SHIT!

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Running from daylight

Offers and disappointment have followed me this month to an almost ludicrous degree.

I thought getting back to school was going to be the answer. I thought heading back into the classrooms and book stacks that I just came clattering from a few years ago was where I could find what I wanted/needed to do.

"Are you going back to school because you think you will honestly learn something new or because it is comfortable," she said.

Moms are powerful like that.

I don't think I will ever discount school, but right now I think there is something else I should be doing. Something else that needs to be done before we get back to the books.

I really fucked it up the first time around - I think that will haunt me for a while. No need to go back into that mess.

But now what?

The decisions keep coming and the possibilities are countless. It really is just a matter of doing it.

"Have you bought the ticket yet?" the text message said. "I have," I quipped back, but I am terrified of the ride."

I don't think will change any time soon - not yet anyway. But until then we will keep running from that sunrise that is supposed to take me away to whatever magic land that holds my riches, fame and happiness we all dreamed about when we were young.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Dear Diary,

4:25: Begin entry with something witty.

4:30: Give up. Just begin entry any way.

I’m not much for rehashing news stories, unless they are of obituaries of famous people who somehow managed to worm their way into my own ice cold heart.

But the Rev. Robert Shield’s obit was a little startling. Mostly because it was roughly 3.75 million words long.

4:35: Paused to calculate what 3.75 million words looks like. Gasp in horror.

A typical college paper is about 1,000 words. A singe page of double-spaced copy paper can hole about 500 words. And many of the stories we assemble here at the paragraph factory are roughly 800 words.

So to sit down in a single year and pound out 3.7 million words on an old typrwriter takes al level of old-man insanity not yet seen since Jerry Stockwell of Wisconsin who has saved every AOL CD sent to his home “just in case” he needs a copy of the free internet provider.

4:40: Recognize that crazy people are everywhere and they are collecting my garbage for shits and grins.

No, Shields - up yonder in the great state of Washington - was not really crazy in any conventional sense. Rather, he just wanted to document every loving tidbit and minute detail of his life.

So, that instead of boring the crap out of his brood of grandkids with his life over some Werther’s Originals hard candy, he can tell the general public every time he had a Bowel Movement or decided that his woolen socks were too itchy and made his bunions hurt.

4:45: Gets comfy to hear this one.

He would spend, literally, hours each day at a typewriter – much like I do – documenting what he did, things he ate, mail that arrived, temperature of the room, what he was wearing, how many times he peed, pooed, drank, slept, walked outside for freshair – which apparently was rare – and a whole host of other natural things that needed to be saved for posterity.

Who’s exactly? We may never know.

He would offer minute by minute accounts of his day broken up into five minute sections hat read like stereo instructions for the infirm and the feeble.

But don’t discount this stocky, ruddy faced little man of God. He had a level of dedication that really no one, that I knowingly will admit to knowing, has.
I can’t even consistently post on this foul forum on a regular basis. And that, I know, leaves you my readers listless and wandering the interwebs searching for answers to the ultimate question in life; “I wonder Mike is doing today?”

4:50: Searched for a point.

Ultimately, I need to get back to the daily journaling.

I started it back in the high school days. Old fashion paper and pen – mostly when I traveled but also when there were major life changing events.

First girlfriend, Debate victories, being editor of the paper, Europe, graduation and so on.

But that did not last long and I think the books got lost in the shuffle of moving several times and the usual packing and unpacking that would follow.

In college I tried typing them out, but the short entries where pretty boring and devoid of much flavor sense we were lacking the handwriting and the kind of flair that only a notebook and ink pen can provide.

So, like most thing I lost interest and became distracted with other things – mostly my lust for alcohol.

4:55: Fading fast.

But now, with a few years of blogging under my belt and a credential on my wall calling me a “professional” writer, I think we need to jump back into the scene of journaling not for the sake of freaking out the genral public on a blog.

5:00: A new goal.

Most people I know all did computer-style journaling – Doogie Houser, Md., Dana Scully, FBI and a slew of my own (real) friends.

I think it is time I join the ranks of journal-ers. Then when I die (later more so than sooner) my journal can be made into an amazing book that talks about my struggles against the Nazi oppression.

Maybe we begin tonight.

Maybe tomorrow.

Hell, maybe I will lose interest and just get a drink.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Death is only nice once.

The absurdity continues.

I always get a little sad when the wild times I cultivated for so many years become a distant memory.

Like looking back in a dusty photo album saying, “Remember that time…with the fire…and the strippers…” We trail off and then stare into the sky as if the memory would suddenly fall back onto our fragile heads if for only a moment.

But when the waters get clam and the waves begin to flutter into the gentle ebb of the tide there is undoubtedly someone, or something that is willing to pierce the night with a bang sending throwing their wake on your peaceful shore.

With a full moon and only a handful of days until Halloween, I knew it was time for one of those nights.

I am not really sure how we got ourselves into a situation that involved dancing bananas, nicknames and one of htem ost ominous invitations from Death himself. But then again, being blinded sided by life is better. Then the stories – as your struggle to remember them – are all the better over tacos and cheese dip the next day.

The night was fueled, for me anyway, with more than dozen bourbons and sugar daddy going though his midlife crisis. We managed to score a spot next to the juke box at the Lava Room, a dimly-lit lounge that is reminiscent of what the 1950s though the future was going to look like.

A regular blast from the past to help you thought the haze of cigarette smoke and booze. The man, who serves on the school board in one of the small suburban cities in this god-forsakes city, kept sending us requests written on napkins with a dollar bill folded neatly inside.

His ruddy face kept getting redder and redder each time he would stop by making his white mustache stand out even more with each subsequent drink. He looked like a politician and drank like one too.

At first I felt like a musical prostitute, but eventually I got used to it. Playing some of the odder mixes off the Nickelodeon and forcing the entire bar to endure a little Pat Bennatar and Scissor Sisters…I know, sadistic. But who can resist…oh, Barracuda…

With Halloween right around the corner the bar began to fill with a few who came straight from the masked parties and events that forced sane men to dress up in ridiculous outfits and women to skank it up for a night.

Their breasts could defy gravity in these outfits as they attempted to writhe on the dance floor with two gentlemen who were parked there wearing identical V (like the Vendetta movie) masks.

“This is fucking time warp,” I said to the stripper sitting next to me. “I feel like I have been roffied…”

As soon as I said the words I could tell she was not having any of the words coming out of my mouth. Either that or she had been roofied once before and knew if I could still make coherent sentences then I was not riding the Roofie-colota pony.

As a band of Polynesian drunkards ordered their third bottle of Grey Goose in the booth next to us and began what we can only call group sex with one another, we decided it was time to bolt and leave behind whatever stragglers we could.

We were in no state to drive or even make a quick get away after all the drinks it took to even get me on a dance floor. Instead our plan was to cool our heels a while in the Newsroom, a veritable chill out tent in the insanity that was beginning around us.

But even there, The full Moon had already cast its spell on the characters streaming into the joint.

One drink in and we run into our newest friends Rad and Tex. Former lovers that now were “just friends” But from what we could tell, Rad was pimping out his blonde ex and maybe just banking on the fact that he might sleep with her if she struck out with this motley crew of drunkards and retards.

The two had another 6-foot-5 friend who apparently lived in the city, but she was off seducing the bartender, who earlier in our conversation managed to shoot a piece of ice down her shirt from across the room. A feat that was so amazing, to her mostly, that she insisted on standing on the bar and grinding her hips into his face.

“Your friend is kind of a slut,” I said to Rad. “I bet she would do you in the bathroom.”

No thanks, Rad, I have some dignity left – even after the college years.

I had no intention of going home with anyone from this group. I had what I loved at home already. My goal tonight was getting my roommate laid, or at least kissed.

Rather, he settled for a lap dance from the blonde masseuse from Texas.

By this time we had weaseled our way into their hearts with our wit and damn good looks, but more importantly we had also weaseled our way on their tab. Every new joke was accompanied by another drink and a shot for good measure.

The tall burnette was off again sitting between two 300 pound Mexican guys asking for anyone who would buy her a shot. She had gone from an easy bar pick up to an annoyance that was losing favor among the staff. Things were beginning to turn ugly.
A banana was being undressed by Tex, Rad was motoboating Jessica Rabbit and I was finishing my drink quickly before they realized we had just taken them for about $100 in booze.

Closing time; my exit strategy.

We stepped out into the cool air and were momentarily sobered up by the blinding light offered by the full moon. A soft breeze forced some to shiver. We needed to get somewhere for food or find a ride home before too long.

I did not even notice the kid approach me he as I was staring up at the moon and basking in its full weird vibe.

“There is a party going on at my place if you guys want to come along. It’s only five bucks,” he said. Something was wrong with his face but as I focused I couldn't see what exactly.

His all-black costume was unmistakeable, though.

“So what do you think? You wanna hangout,” Death said to me.

“Sure. I got nothing to lose,” I said letting the omen sink in slowly.

My spokeswoman took over from her and decided to blow the scene as quickly as it had come crashing down on us.

We were silent on the cab ride home.

Yes, Virginia, that just happened.

Here is to you roommate, you were so close.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Shit storms and dog costumes

This is the last time, paragraph factory.

I can’t believe after all we went though, you could pull a stunt like this. I thought we had an agreement. An understanding. A shared assumption that this would not happen again.

But no.

I saddle up to the desk and what do I see. Another damn animal dressed up in a costume. The paragraph factory – printing all the news that fits.

If readers send it in, we will run it in a big bold color spread and call it a feature.

I am sure there are people who love their animal and I am sure , as Kali envisioned, that love manifests itself in some way the involved a lot of felt and a glue gun.

Granted, sometimes I think it is funny to take my own Red Sox hat and put it on my own dog. Mostly because I know it irritates him and when he scratches it off he then looks at me with the most disdainful eyes.

“What the fuck, bro,” he can say with those old eyes. “Now get me a raw hot dog wrapped in cheese before I crap on your shoes again.”

He could just as easily bite my face off.

There are people though, who dress their dogs/cats/birds not because they are trying to irritate their animal and get them into a playful fight or some sort with a beef flavored rope.

Fuck no, these people dress up their dogs because it is “fashionable” or they really do believe that making your terrier look like a witch and thus makes you the hot shit on the block.

I wonder if people would find it as funny if I dressed up a pit bull in a costume and let it loose on the general public. Dogs in costumes would not be nearly as cute if he is gnawing at your jugular.

Oh but the shit storm has yet to start.

I am anxiously awaiting the “anal leakage” and “spotty flatulence” that is expected to start here in the next day or so as I embark on another dieting attempt.

My girlfriend and I have decided that we need to lose some weight in the coming months as we both have put on a considerable amount – mostly due to heavy drinking and then the drunk food that follows.

Last year at exactly this time I started a diet that involved a personal trainer and an expensive gym membership. I went from 300 to about 220 in six months. I’m back up to about 250, but maintaining.

Now I am prepared to attack this crap from all angles. We are going full throttle.

I am running again, eating healthier and supplementing my diet with a health dose of over the counter and slightly illegal pills.

Alli seems to be the most popular right now – mostly because it is the only the FDA approves of. But their modest claim to lose 3-5 lbs alone was not enough.

So we upped the ante and found a cadre of drug pushers to also hook me up with some industrial hoodia and a little bit of ephedrine laced with meth.

The combination should be a great jump start to this diet and give me the runs of an illegal migrant worker.

Look out world. As I reach my ideal weight I am going to be an unstoppable force of attractive man meat. That is, if you can get over the poop stains on my pants.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Do I regret it...fuck no.

Yes, there are times I wished I had done better in college. I probably should have studied more or focused more on the tests that got brutally shoved up my ass each and every three weeks.

Maybe I should have sucked up a little more to those professors who would rail on Wal-Mart or brand-name clothes. Or the teaching assistants who wanted to make sure we bought their books and read their works.

Fuck, I should have at least introduced myself to a few more teachers so I would not have to sweat like a jackal in heat as I wait for the scores of my most recent academic blunder.

I really screwed the pooch on this one.

But this time I actually studied. I actually wanted to do well and did not go into that class room at 8 a.m. with that dreaded stomach knot realizing I was having a test that day.

I was confident and knew I was not the one getting raped against a blackboard…calk dust getting in your eyes to ad insult to injury.

Well, this brutal back alley fight left both of us with bruised egos and walking a little funny, but at least we still had our pride intact.

What made this last fight so horrible and important was the fact that, well, I was a horrible student.

Do I regret my actions in college? Not at all. In the grand scheme of things it actually helped me. If you think grades really matters ask yourself where your high school valedictorian is these days.

Ours lives at home and is pregnant with her second kid…I think. I might be making that up. Grades don’t matter unless you are in a pissing match with a scientist; or applying to law school.

I think it was my blast from the past that put me on the foul track of wondering if I made the right decisions. And it does not take long to say, hands down, yes. I would not change on bit.

Maybe I would learn an instrument…but then, that is one of those regrets I have held onto since High School, and sweet Jesus I had a lot of regrets there.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

I remember

I remember waking up late that day.

It was one ofthose clear blue and cool days where I could probably have seen for mile if I was not glued to the grey dashboard in front of me.

I don't know why lot of things happened that morning. Why we took my car, but I did not drive. Why I was running so late or even why I decided to go by myself rather than with the rest of the team.

Maybe we were meeting downtown? Maybe it was an effrot to get focused.

All I do rememeber is wanting to throw up as my mom drove at lightening speed down I-70.

It was the last time I really felt that jumpy, that anxious about anything. I was making myself sick I was so nervous.

My high school team had clamoured from the bottom of the heap to the final rounds in the state mock trail torunament. I know, not really something to many kids get excited about, but it was what I was dreading at that moment.

I still have the clear image of me sitting there watching as we round the Benton Curve and the city came into full view.

"Just think, if you become a lawyer you can feel this way everyday," she said.

I remember hearing that but not really understanding it.

It makes perfecty sence now.

Saturday I will be embarking on this pointless voyage of taking the LSAT. Another test that will determine whether I measure up to their standards or not. I am hedging my bets and saying the latter.

Although I have no idea how well this thing will go Saturday morning, I do know that for the past couple of day that creeping, anxious feeling has returned to the pit of my stomach.

My head is again locked on my shoes focusing so I do not throw up the last bit of hope I have inside me.

Only this time no one will be there to drive me to the courtroom if I am running late.

It's an odd thought to have this week.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Location, location, location...

I like hte idea of being a regular.

Your drink or meal or laundry set out for you like they knew exaclty how you wanted it. Mostly becasue you have been coming to that bar, booth or store front for the last few months at the same time.

It's not really a rut, it is just consistency as the world around you falls apart.

Well, today I say fuck you to being a regular. I recenlty had my entire idea of how to conduct a producctive work day turned upside down when a fellow factory lineman told me that there were time he would jsut leave the office to hang out at the library, coffee shop or even occasional greasy spoon joint.

"Wait, you jsut leave the office and don't do any work? How do you meet deadlines or get your widgets screwed tightly on those adverbs?"

"I do the work," he said. "I take a laptop and a cell phone and get my work done much faster than I would in the office with all the distractions..."

Simply amazing.

So today I did my own little experiement; stealing away to the Central Research Library of the county. The rich kids library.

At 1 p.m. it was the wildest library I have ever been in. And, let me tell you, I have been in some wild libraries.

There were people everywhere.

An old many relcining reading a book, probably a Grisham or Clancy. A middled aghed hippies looking dude who was glued to his overly-fancy lap top. Probably a computer porgramer looking for an escape from his own office.

When we made eye contact from across the study room, we would nod and then shiftly go back to what we were doing - fearing, it seemed - that this stranger could somehow rat us out to the authorities.

"Is this the foreman at the Factory? Yes, well, I jsut saw one of you men reading a book down here at the library! I'll detain him until you can send the authorities."

Even the parents who would drop their kids in to the "children's section" of the library - a seperate room to allow them to read loudly and make other child like nosies without disturbing other - seemed oddly shady as they looked for their own escape from their loin inspired howler monkey.

You could tell a when a new person would arrive as they would lazily walk in a soft-edged zig-zag, trying to get a feel for the room.

Will they sit at a desk...on the couches by the window...maybe at a computer? Where will the spirit take them and plant them to fit in despite the fact that we all were kind of forced like mismatched puzzle pieces in that room.

But the juxaposed jagged edges smashed together kept us jsut far enough a part to derive some solitude, but still feel like we were in the middle of all the madness.

I feel like I am dangerously close to quoting a Jack Maniquin song.

If this post got to the point, I might have to jsut hang myself from one of those Library stacks.

Friday, September 21, 2007

Interwebs, prepare thy self!

The Wednesday Weekly has always been a good forum for my little diatribes and drunken rambling.

They might not have always been the most well though out or coherent, but damnit we had a good time. We laughed, we cried we have made some slightly racist comments in these hallowed parchments of ... inter net journaling.

Oh, don't confuse this with some kind of good bye speech. This is not my Xanadu. No, my lack luster elite. Today lesson and personal insight into my own pathetic drone of a life is an announcement!

This week wise, and beard clad men downtown bellowed the Kudo horn calling for volunteers for a new project. The old Paragraph Factory has Viagra induced boner for Blogs (consult a doctor it is last more tha four hours). And so they are preparing to launch yet another blog that will challenge the need for our own paper product.

I, like Spartacus in a crowd, raised my hand a volunteers. Well, it was more like I was conscripted. It seems, among some of the wilder crowds downtown, my reputation for insanity has been recognized as both and asset and dangerous on many levels - keep him away from the paste up machine!

Well, WWers we have already seen the creation of the crime blog...soon after we had the political blog and then the editorial cartoonists blog. Not long then we had a music blog and a business blog and a gardening blog. Hell, if i looked I am sure I would find a quilting blog.

Today, my newsroom announced though, Mike Ekey would be one of the principle contributors to the paper's newest Dating and Relationships blog. Kiss and Tell.

I know, the name leave a little to be desired, but the editors in their infinite wisdom feel it is time they let one of the younger staff members (youngest, actually) tack a crack at their blogging culture.

Being that it is my generation that is casting off the newspaper in record numbers, they want to try this little experiment to see if the masses of 20-somethings will read a relationships blog.

What is this blog about? Well, I'm not really sure. Our first editorial meeting involved me and the two other contributors (who match up with other much needed demographics) talking about dates we have been on, women/men we have been with and the general idea that we have been given a licence to write about anything that deals with the opposite sex.

Folks, we have hit the jackpot.

I mean, i know everyone is going to love hearing about the time I went on a date and managed to get roofied.

Everyone will love to hear about the church group i went to that turned out to be the dirtiest group of swingers this side of Christendom.

I know people will flock to the time I flirted and got the number of a former high school teacher (i knew she looked familiar, i said the next day reading my old year book, as I am penchant to do).

Hunter Thompson said, and I;m paraphrasing, you don't know the edge until you have gone over. Well, kids, grab your grappling hook and prepare for a sharp fall because we are getting ready for go flying off that edge and never look back.

Will it get me fired? Maybe...will i get to meet new people...I hope. Have I found a new venue for writing about this god awful gonzo existence I call my better fucking believe it.

Hold on to your butts.

(I will post the new site here once it is live. I was told it should be about two weeks from now. Any ideas? Questions? Tips...I think we will need regular features and good things to talk about. So I am looking to you, my loyal base of retards and fuck around readers.)

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

I need stats stat!

The internet is a fucking scary place.

But what really gets me about the internet is that you have, in a sence, two internets. Follow me for a second becaue this might get complicated.

Most people know the Internet - capital I - as the "place" they go to check e-mail and download porn or get photos of the grandkids. The thing is, you really anr't going anywhere. You are sitting in your office and viewing these things as they stream though the fiber optics, cable lines and telephone wires.

But the physical internet - the wires in the walls at homes, and underground cables, the boxes that are hidden by small shurbs is the physical manifestation of that same internet.

What does this all mean, Mike? Are you on the pills again?


But that does not end my own facination with the network that copmanies are figthing tooth and nail to control that allows us to look at dogs on skateboards and squirrels on skis.

The guy from AT&T was trying to pitch to the city council the idea that the city needed to instal a 10 foot tall relay box in the middle of a park. Bad news to most, but part of his pitch included these facts as to why those kinds of boxes were needed all over the city...

- Growth in Internet traffic went from 1.5 million gigabytes per month in 1996, to 700 million gigabytes per month in 2006.

- You-Tube didn’t exist in January, 2005. Its users are now watching 100 million clips daily, consuming as much bandwidth each and every day, as the entire Internet consumed in the year 2000.

- Downloading a single high definition movie consumes more bandwidth than does the downloading of 35,000 web pages; it’s the equivalent of downloading 2300 songs over Apple’s
i-Tunes web site.

- There are 60 million new video “uploads” each day.

- Daily email traffic is projected to grow from 90.4 billion in 2007, to 102.2 billion emails in 2009.

- By 2010, it is expected that 20 typical households will generate as much traffic as the entire Internet moved in 1995.

- Sweet mother of god we are addicted. I don't even want to know what percentage of that data being flowed though out bandwidth is porn or some otehr elicit item.

Consider this mind blown.

Thursday, September 06, 2007


Sam Becket is a far better man than me.

I, looking back into my own past, have lied, cheated, stolen and can barely forgive myself for that. I still lie awake at night knowing that what I have done in the past will never be as good as this fictioanl character.

But then again, fiction is better preserved than our own reality.

I have watched this episode of Quantum Leap more than half a dozen times and even now, with the sound turned off, I can recite the lines like their were my own dialog. My own words that I wish despreatly were my own so I could say that I made a difference.

But don't we all? Isn't that our nature? To be someone who did something, somewhere, somehow...

It is seems almost peverse to think that that someone could be you and you alone. And that somewhere could be a random mining town in Pennsylvania and that somehow could be simply being yourself...doing the same goddamed thing you have done for the last decade even though all you want is to go home.

Here, though, home is not an option.

I have not felt like I have actually been home for the last 6 years of my life. Nowhere, no one here, even, makes me feel comfortable. All I want to do is leap to a time when I felt like I was at home. But that time is gone.

But, maybe, that is not my mission here.

It finally makes sense when one of the greatest teachers I ever had told his less than rapt class that his bigest regret was the feeling that he had ruined the life of on student by telling her that she was not good enough.

In his own immmaturity, he blurted out that, possibly, she did not rise to the level and told her to quit. It had been more than 20 years since that day and he still regreted it.

But then again looking locally and small is not what we are this become incomprehensible for most who read this diatribe.

For that majority who strive for success and amazing things, they see themselves on a level that, somehow, affects everyone around them. Their influence touches millons and their words will fall on the ears of everyone.

But when you mass produce a good thing, there is always someone out to try and make it better and who can come up with better marketing to sell their inferior product. Even if it ends up ruining everyone you set free.

We think too globally.

We assume that everything we do must be given to everyone we see, touch or happen to run into at the corner of 3rd and Grand.

But what makes Becket so much more powerful than the average superhero is not that he saves hundrends from a falling crane or a meteor. Instead he saves ones man from his own self destruction. One woman from abuse. One life from medocity.

he makes a difference locally and on such an intense level that those around him see him as the superhero they have been waiting for all their lives. Where are our local superheros? They were mass produced sold to us as an inferior product. Better marketing outweighed the real saviors and messiahs.

It is just a TV show, but what makes me cry at this episode each time is the fact that I see my own goals relfected here...and I see my own failures gleaming there each time.

I wanted to be local. I wanted to be small town...I wanted to focus my talents and the things I can give on such a small crowd that I would make a difference...not on a scale that would merit award or praise from some natiaonl clearing house.

I wanted to be a lawyer for children, families that had been torn apart by misforuned and greed. I wanted to be a voice for people who had been so torn down by a society of global thought...passed over by people who look not for the small people, but rather the big leage takers. I wanted to make a difference to someone, anyone, anyhow...but did I?

Fuck no.

I went to the "Big Leagues" without any thought of those who pushed me there. I went daily.

I think it is time for a change. I used to dislike, but now I will refuse to write for the daily. Tonight. I will make myself a another drink and remember that I am here becasue I loved being local, small town and simple.

I am not going to muck it up by trying to be something more. Becasue the power to change that does not lie with me. Hell, I would not want it to lie with me.

Tonight, I want to be something more than a voice. TOnight I vow I am getting out of journalism. It is the only profession that lauds and celebrates the big picture to such an extent that it becomes unhealthy and unkept.

Pulitzers and state awards only celebrate those who want to change the global landscape and make a difference in but a handfull of lives. Its is the quilt ladies and the fundraisers in your town of 1,200 that make the difference to so many more...not so much in quantity, but in quality.

I guess you have to deicde what is better for you. This is the decision you have to make. RIght now I am being trained how to produce Quantity and I hate myself everyday for it. I feel dirty. But for now it will pay hte bills as I plan my escape.

2008 will by my recokning. 2008 will hold so many more possibilites and opportunites for me to do something, anything, anywhere.

I am going back down the ladder. I am demoting myself. Hopefully then I can learn what it truly means to help someone and make myself better...make them someone who can take on the mission that I want to continue here.

Maybe then I can at least become something closer to what Sam Becket has become.

Friday, August 31, 2007

Where is my commission?

Conversations I hate having:

Me: Can I help you?
Woman: Yes, I need to place and add for Spaces Magazine
M: We don’t take ads in this office anymore.
W: But Missy Smith said I could drop off an ad here for Spaces.
M: (confused look) I’ve never heard of that.
M: Is it an advertising section?
W: Is this the Kansas City Star? Am I in the right place? Spaces is the Star’s top real estate magazine that highlights all of the city major properties.
M: It sounds like an advertising thing.
W: No, it is a magazine! Developers and real estate agents write for it.
M: Definitely advertising. Let me call someone downtown.
(Call downtown, then told to take the ad and process money – even though I am told not to ever deal with cash out of this office. If I were evil I would jack up the price and take a cut).

This beard will grown on you

That's right, WWers. I have joined the great ranks of men with beards.

Two weeks in and the usual five-o-clock shadow has given way to a robust bush of facial fuzz.

We blasted though the itchy, pedophile stage and right into full growth. I wake up in the morning forgetting what I have done, until I scratch my soulder or reopen one of those deep wounds caused by a strai face hair. they are deadly, people.

The whole idea for growing this face fungus came when my roommate and I decided that we needed a competition. Granted, we compete for a lot of things - attention, alcohol, games.

But this seemed like something that neither of us really new who would win.

Let me give you the run down...

In the red corner we have My Roommate: standing at roughly 5-foot-11 and 180 lbs he comes from the far away land of Oregon. Trained in the journalistic arts of Michigan.

With an Asian liniage his ability to grow a beard was thrown into questions, but a full head of hair proved promissing as we begin this bout.

In the blue corner we have Me: 6-foot-5 and 250 lbs az native of these Missouri waters and trained in the back woods of COlumbia.

His family is a mix between Russian and German lending him to a hariy growth that would rival that of big foot. As he has gotten older hair on arms, legs, chests, stomachs and elsewhere proved promissing as he set out to also farm face fuzz.

Two weeks in and the verdicts are roughly split.

My Roommate's fine haired beard makes him more stylish and "clean" one member of our group said. On the other hand, the full thick growth I sport on my chin is more reminicent of a Mountian Beast deceding from the tops of Mt. Doom.

Yes, that was a Lord of the Rings Reference, so sue me.

We have decided that after four weeks we will assess and evauluate the beard. Personally, I am beginning to love it. It's like a whole new adventure - plus I don't have to shave - ever.

Eat it Gillete. Fuck you and your Mach 3.

Maybe after time I can groome it and trim it into some cool shapes. Maybe trim my name into the side of my face.

Now that would be badass...

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Untucked button-up shirts

It's another rough Thursday at the Paragraph factory.

Our press club was celebrating and mourning the loss of two of our most dedicated memebers. It's always bitter sweet when someone leave our little group od drunkards and fuck offs.

We all know there are better things out there and they have gone ot find them. They are in Japan, Chicago, everywhere and no where.

They came in, drank it down and yelled for the band to play House of the Rising Sun with me one last time.

But last night the band would not oblige us our intoxicated requests. Their three piece smooth jazz musings did not exactly mesh with our loud swaying into life. I think our waitress recognized our distaste for what we were listening to last night, and so she doted on us to make we'd stay and tip well - as we all usually do.

But we might have recruited someone new to this band. We might have kept alive the connections around this city. We try. we really do.

We move on and hope that whom ever they hire here in the next few weeks will be someone with the fortitude to drink with best of us on these wild wednesday weeklies.

--- My Ipod Over flowith ---

I was simply overjoyed and overwheled at the overabundance of music spilling over into my Ipod.

In fact, there was so much that I finally have filled it. All 30 Gigs.

I know; who cares? I am sure most of you have filled yours a long time ago and really do not care that I fianlly got to a point where I ahve 5,904 songs that will last me 48.1 days if played continously - which I plan to do.

The new infusion of music, though, made me cocky. I was bragging to someone about it. Like the pompous jackass that I am.

"but why do you have so much. you don't even get a chance to listen to it all."

"What do you have?" I asked

"I have about a dozen good albums that i really like."

Mind boggling. 12 albums. But who is better off? Someone with 12 albums they know, respect and will cherish forever, or someone who has every sone writen by The Misfits simply becase he can?

Will I ever listen to all of it. I hope. I want to know it and enjoy it. but I probably won't.

Maybe that is the real tragedy here.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Oral fixins

There is no way to not make this sound sexual. I will have to jsut grit and bear it..but then again, that is what got me in trouble in the first place.

Had i listened to my parents, doctors, peers - everyone - then I would not necessarily bein this mess with a jaw wired shut and enough muscle relaxers to kill a small pony.

You see, I have an oral fixation.

I will stick jsut about anything in my mouth to chew on.

Paper clips
Id badges
Headphone wires
Phones wires
Business cards

...and these are just the things sitting on my desk that I know, at one point or another, had passed my lips and been chewed on like I was a teething puppy. It is an oral fixation that rivals that of a toddler.

Hell, I had a pacifier until i was 7 year old.

I smokeds in high school and into my freshman year college, but I did it so much that it ended up making me sick. Smoking was less about inhaling the tabacco and more about simply having something that tasted good sit between my lips and heat my teeth as I would sit, walk, work or anything really.

But now, my mandible has been put on the Disabled List.

As part of this oral fixation I will gnaw on my own lips and tongue - see previous posts about me piercing my own tongue in my sleep. I will clench my jaw when stressed and grind my teeth while I sleep.

Over the year this is apprenyly not healthy for both the muscles in your face nor the teeth in your head.

In fact, in a fit of grinding and gnashing I have actualy dislocated my jaw and pulled a severl important muscle that facilitates the chewing motion in your digestive process.

TMJ syndrome it is called. When the muscles in your jaw - the important once we talked about earlier - seize up and essentially fall apart. They quit working. Give up. take the ball and go home.

How do you survive this loss of motion and everloving pain? Pain killers and a new wire that keeps the jaw in place long enough that, hopefully, the muscle will grow back and allow me to eat solid food again.

Chances, according to my doctor, are good, but not certian. The jaw is a tricky bitch that when scorned comes back only when it wants to. It cannot be coaxed by mere drugs and sweet nothing.

So, here I sit, mouth guarded and wired at work. Nothing in my mouth to help pass the time and certianly nothing in my head to make this easier. Thanlk god for the drugs in my stomach to make me clam.

mumbled/but not read

Monday, July 30, 2007

Last Call

The lights never really come up when you expect them too.

An entire bar will let out a sigh and a goran that the owner was now kick them out; it't time to go. You have families, wives, girlfriends and children o attend too.

Get the hell out. Don't you have anything better to do.

For the past 9 months we have been sitting at teh bar and drinking in every last drop of tallent that my brother has left on the court. We have awed at three point fade-away jumpers and roared at the eight-foot tall swats that can demolish even the most confident player.

We have been absorbed.

I have always enjoyed basketball - the only real american sport - but i have never been so invovled in wanting to understand plays, techniques, methods and stratgies. I have never emmersed mysefl so much in the sport - or any sport for that matter - until I saw my own brother play his heart out for 20 minuets at a time for more than an hour and a half.

This summer, was like a drug.

Games every weekend, updates coming from cellphones and e-mails from across teh country.

But now we are coming to an end, and in that end we see the light at the end of the tunnel. Its alsmost over and while this tournament really means nothing in hte larger sense, it means the world simply becasue it is the last note that will be played in the grand concerto of a Basketball Summer.

And it is not even my instrument - i am merely sitting in the balcony watching and hoping that all goes well both for the players and myself.

We have been obsessed.

But in our obsession and fanatic lust for blood, we knew where the edge was...or we thought we did. I have never wanted to cross the line - not even to let my laces dangle over the paint - into being That Fan.

That fan who knows by shere voice decibles more about the game than the 10 guys o nthe court and half dozen more on the bench.

That fan who will berate kids half his age for things that might only matter on the infetesimal scale of nothing.

That fan who would force beleigured to endure a coaching session entitled "what you did wrong 101"

I broke my one rule today and with a simple two sentence I became every other paent and jackass former coach that think they could somehow manage this team or this player better.

"Keep your god-damed feet on the gorund! Everytime you jump up they will call a foul on you."

"Bullshit, you don't know."

He was exactly right. I didn't. but it somehow helped me get over the near miss at another win for him

I had crossed the line and he had not even dried teh sweat from his face.

I had berated him on a win that i had no part in. I was no better than teh former AAU coach who continues to coach from the stands and even coach teh coaches when no one is looking.

In that brief second, I had become that parent who truly, honestly does not get it, but will insist they do simply to play some roll to drag on the coatails of what they have worked to do.

The preasure I feel at work cannot even equate to what he has jsut gone thought. I do not sit on deadline with 300 screaming, beligerent people aiming for my forehead.

I had crossed the line and I was so close to getting out without a blemish. But i fired the first shot and never have I wanted to appologize to quickly. despite the final victoris conclusion, I was the one who hit the wrong note and ended everything.

We learned the hard way that when you are downtown, you never close out the bars. You might end up with a bullet in your back.

But here we are safe - so long as we stay within the confines of the fieldhouse.

so long as we can stay within our bounds and not blow up at this game.

It's last call and tomorrow the lights will go up and the bar keep will insist we go home.

None of us want to, really, but it will be good for us. It will be good for our sanity and hopefully, give a chance to redraw those lines and make surewe know exaclty where we stand.

Friday, June 22, 2007


Life is made of little discoveries and revelations.

Today I discovered that teh same guy that wrote the theme music to Law and Order is the same guy who wrote the theme music to Quantum Leap.

Bum Bum guy also wrote a time travel ditty.


Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Random Musings

Blog ideas usually, as most of you know, come from me being absurd and living a life that seems to attract the weird and the depraved.

For some reason though I cannot pin point a moment of absurdity...a tale of weird. So I present to you a random collection of my week.


Three out of four bridesmaids agree; they want to sleep with my best friend.
But my best friend would trade it all for a magnificently delicious burrito.


For the fist time since high school I bought a pair of shoes that are not Converse All Stars.

Since my feet broke the size 16 marker I have jsut gone with what I know, rather than embarassing myself at some store. I rodered them online.

They are a sleek paid of Pumas, dark-brown suede with yellow highlights. My new dancing shoes, I said.

But what icked the soles out from under me was the fact that as they got to the post office, my FedEx tracker showed it was going to take more than a week to ship them.

Why? Well, it take a little while to ship shoes that weigh about 5 lbs, the post office employee said to me, laughing.


Standing in line at the Hen House grocery store I surveyed the goods I had selected and now had laid out on the convyer belt for check out.

the man behind me stepped up to slay out his own wares.

As he set them on the belt as well, I noticed a star distrinction between the two.

he had apples, grapes, strawberries, fine cheeses and what looked like about a dozen veggies all delicately placed before him.

I had pizza rolls, easy mac, hamberger helper and frozen pizzas.

"Ah, to be young again," he said marvling at my choiced.

"Young has nothing to do with it," I said, slighly hiding my man-which sloppy joe mix.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Saturday, June 09, 2007

Best text message ever

11:54 p.m., Friday, June 5, 2007.

"I wish my lawn was emo so it would cut itself."
- Mandy G.

I dare you to top that.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

I should be in movies!

(Camera pans from above down to a 1950s happy go-lucky kid playing with a puppy in his front yard)

Announcer: What’s wrong, Mikey?

(Mikey looks around, startled, then look right into camera)

Mikey: What? Nothing.

Announcer: Now, Mikey. Lying only makes the pain worse, you know. You can’t hide those razor blade scars from me.

It’s a hard knock life here in the upper class suburbs of Kansas City. Growing up Midwest, rich and white, just isn’t what it used to be back in the day. Being happy now comes with the agonizing feeling of guilt for destroying the earth, culture, relationships, art, race relations and anything else you befoul with your mere existence! You actually think your father loves you? (laughter)

Mikey: Wow, I never realized I was such a disappointment to…everyone. How do I fix it, sir?

Announcer: (Laughing) Oh, there is no hope for you. Frankly, you will just have to bottle all this misplaced, hormone induced emotion and force it to come out in a new creative way – or grow up to become a serial killer.

You could also undergo a new government procedure called EMO Therapy.

Mikey: Eeeeemoo? That sounds scary.

Announcer: Oh it is, and painful to boot.

Mikey: Great, let’s get started.

Announcer: First, things first, you have to stop eating.

Mikey: Stop eating what? Meat? Eggs? Cheese?

Announcer: Everything. You are not allowed to be seen eating anything. You may drink, but it will have either be hyper-expensive energy drinks or countless, tasteless cans of PBR. This lack of food will cause you to become listless and moody. The first step in your transformation as you begin to waste away into a crippled hipster.

But this will help you as you begin to die your hair black and start wearing women’s pants and t-shirts that were meant for a fifth grader.

Mikey: What? Wait, I’m not wearing women’s clothing.

Announcer: Oh, yes you will if you want to be accepted by other Emos down at the Man Hole.

Mikey: Man Hole? But that’s the gay bar…I thought I was becoming Emo, not a fa…

Announcer: Mikey, you have so much to learn. There is nothing more Emo than wearing ironic t-shirts and going to ironic bars where you can listen to the latest screed by Ssion, Patrick Wolf or any other indie-queen-band.

Mikey: This does not sound like fun anymore.

Announcer: Oh it never will be fun. You are entering a world of teeth crushing depression and you will love it.

Once the sadness sets in and Connor Oberst’s “Bowl of Oranges” finally makes sense to you, then you will know that you have made the transformation. You will have a rich future to look forward too.

Your bar conversations will be monotone diatribes about the lack of good music despite the fact that you own 600 vinyl records and no record player. You will move to an apartment in downtown Austin or Omaha and write in a composition note book. You will try to learn an instrument and swear that you are going to quit your job at the movie theater to go tour with your other Emo friends who sleep on your couch. You will become pale, sad and blog incessantly about how the world is never going to understand you with poems that have no poetic value whatsoever.

You will shun outsiders, mock those you know simply because you hate everything, even yourself.

Even the sex can be soulless and boring as Emo women lack the ability to orgasm - It’s just too much effort, plus it would be an expression of an emotion other than face crushing depression.

Mikey: Gosh. (walks off screen).

Announcer: Like smoking, being Emo will simply make you look cooler, while simultaneously eating your soul from the inside out.

But it’s worth it, right Mikey?

(Pan to Mikey who is now crying in the corner surrounded by razor blades – suddenly looks up, smiles and throws a thumbs up to the camera).

Announcer: So remember, being EMO is not just a phase; it is a vapid wasteland of emotionless fun! God Bless America.

Sunday, June 03, 2007

Knocked up

Is it wrong to say I want children?

When did it become uncouth to say I want a toeheaded daughter or a wild son?

Why can I not say I want these things in the long run and still maintian some kind of street cred with the rest of the world?

What makes the the whole hip world against children? Becasue they drag you down? Becasue they make you realize there is more in this world than just you? Becasue they make you realize that love can exsist with out fornication or some headonistic goal?

Where is it written or perscribed that to live a sucesfull life you have to be un attachded and unregualted?

You, some say, have to live a life that is without restrictions. The only way to live is to live without boundaries.

I think that is wrong.

I don't base this off some movie I saw - it serves as a good cultural starting point, though - the marksman's gun that starts this foul race I am going to call this entry.

You get on your marks, you set, you go. Then what?

You race like a fool to the end line hoping, to every god you pray to, that you will end up there alone - becasue only then you have yourself to congratulate.

Its easy to split a prize one way.

Still, you are alone.

A thunderous applause for your success sound fairly meager when no one is there to see it happen. You think your elders - or peers - will be there? You are only fooling yourself.

But what if you want more than that? Is there such a thing? Do you think my own parents care about that finish line we have imagined in our own heads?

Do they know they are in some race for success? And with every child they have only added a sandbag to their shoulders as they reach, forever more, for that finish line?

I can't answer that. I can't tell you what they think.

I can tell you that after watching family, friends and close associate marry and have children, there is something there that I want.

There is a relationship that i dont think i even realized i had with my own parents. Being a parent, for the most part, seems like a one-way relationship. You give and give and continue to give even after you have been pissed on time after time.

Why? Becasue it is your own flesh and blood.

Becasue even after they move away and decide to do their own thing, you see yourself in them. Your own dreams and ideologies, you see youself.

You can hate yourself so much that you emancipate your own child. That is something you have to live with.

Or you can love youself and your child that even after a selfhish act, you still buy them dinner and make thme feel good. You can be there when the shit hits the fan .

You can simply exsist for them.

I've seen it happen. With my own, with my family, with friends, with those who surround me in life.

Who else do you simply exsist for?

Saturday, June 02, 2007

What it means to be human.

My brother has entered the useless world of YouTube. However, this video is kind of funny.

Keep in mind the kid he is in the video with is the same kid who built a Trebuchet and flng pumpkins across the school's parking lot.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007


I’m going to murder the bell.

In fact, I think I am going to melt it down and leave it on the front desk as a reminder that if you want to interrupt me you better damn well want to dance.

It’s been a while since I have updated you lackluster slack elite to my random adventures. The adventures have not stopped, they have jsut taken on a new form. A new feeling a new texture.

I used to use this space to rant about the things that irritated, angered and saddened me. Those things have become fewer in number – I think it’s the therapy.

But even with all the anti-depressants and self-help sessions and late-night mental breakdowns recoveries, I have managed to hoist all of my remaining issues on one non-descript little silver bell that sits in my office.

It rings each time a new moron from the outside world manages to ascend the ivory tower we live in and assault us with questions that have no relevance in the modern world.

Out of sheer proximity I have to answer the front door every time someone rings that bell.

Every time someone has a question or wants to talk to someone else in the bureau, I have to stop what I am doing and do it for them.

“Oh, you want the newspaper from the third Tuesday of every month? Yeah, I can do that.” As I secretly wish I could just push the old woman down the stairs.

I have no idea how the other side of our office operates, but I get ram-rodded with questions about how to take an ad or place a classified.

I was even yelled at by a blonde girl from advertising for messing up an ad order form. It would almost be kind of a turn on if she was not so morbidly retarded. I think she gnawed through the straps of her helmet.

How am I supposed to know how to take and ad? If I’m doing that, then you better pay me a commission on each and every ad that I can push on these ingrates who come toddling up to my desk.

In fact, I have tired to get away from answering the door and the bell. I listen to music, top volume, to silence any chance of the bell making it to my central nervous system – I can still see the reflection of the people in my computer screne though.

Its almost kind of funny to watch the people in the cubicles hear the bell, then look directly at me, not registering what is going on. I am un phased, I am rock solid. But I see them running around, I see the reflection of the impatient idiot at the front door.
I remain un flinching.

It is only going to get worse to this month.

The guy who sometimes answers the front door is leaving for a month-long vacation next month.

I will murder someone with that bell.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

The Regulars

Sitting at the kitchen table, I have the perfect view of downtown.

The breeze blows in genty enough that I can catch the wifs of the Folgers Plant and the river at the same time. The smell is almost intoxicating, if not nauseauting at that same time.

I love living downtown and inmy thre weeks where I have already become a a regualr at my two bars.

At Harry's I walk in and the batender and waitresses know who i am instantly. At Dos Hombres, the bartender and this waitress know who I am from the second I plop down at my seat that has the perfet vantage point of the TV, front windows and the bar.

They know what I want to drink, they know who I want to talk to and what I want to talk about. They seem to cater to my every whim, but that is what you do in the service industry.

I have different Names, Star mike, at Dos Hombres, and House of the Rising Sun at Harry;s

My names seem to be derived from the fact that I have made my name at these two places on those presmises.

At dos Hombres, I am Star Mike becasue I hang out with the other media tpyes that gather the. TV people, radio people, sports people. We all go to drink and eat queso.

At Harr's I go to request one song from the house band - it does not take much to guess what that song is.

Just this last week, they recognized me as I walked. the band pointed and said, "we better do this song, for this guy or he might not tip the waitress."

Our waitress was attractive, as most of them are, so they knew I was going to tip heavily. But hearing my song, by the band who knew me only made me tip more.

Am I a sucker, yes. o I get taken to the cleaners everytime I hit the bars in the River Market - probably. But I dont think I would trade it for anything right now. This is where I want to be.

This is who I want to be known as for now.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Scary talent

Despite being one of the largest venues in the area, the air conditioning was not working at all last weekend.

Sitting in the balcony was the only option as it was also the only place with seating. But the sweltering heat and obnoxious foul body oder coming from below was casuing me to melt. I sort of regreted promising to spend all weekend here, but I was not there for my own amusment. I was there as a supporter - a grouppie.

As they took their position you could feel the anticipation by all of the kids. They were somewhat new to this kind of attention and crowd.

The whistel exploded acorss the court and we were thrown directly into the depth of a high school basketball game.

For three days I sat in a crowded, hot gymansium sweating out every fluid I had as I watched my brother - the jock of hte family - play his heart out in seven basketbball games.

The entire time the watchful eyes of supporters, parents and recruiters were beaming down on his every move, his every shot and even those missed ones.

10 high school kids, no older than 16 would take to the court to get noticed, hopeuflly by someone who would make them a star.

I can't beleive I am about to say this. But when I think of High School Basketball, it does not take much to make the leap into what has become the Indie Music Scene here in Kansas City.

The amibtious young kids playing their hearts out in shitty air-condition less venues hopeing to one day get noticed by the right person, the right group, the right recruiter who will walk up to them and ask, "So, are you ready to be a star?"

What kind of basketball do you have to be playing to realize that one of your spectators is BIll Self, Danny Manning, Brett Ballard, Mike Anderson and a slew of other names that can propell a lack luster high school kid in to the natioanl sports arena.

What kind of show do you have to play to realize that one of your spectators is Conor Oberst, Robert Moore, John Hulston and god know how many other kingmakers in the music industry that file into show after show to offer a deal of a life time.

If you do well in front of hte right people, then you get to go further, increase you influence and your abiltiies. You get stonger, tougher and smarter about your craft.

You become surrounded by people hwo adore you and want to be like you. You are surroudned by people who want to bring you down and make you less of a human.

How much of fame, though, is merely the discovery process.

It's a hard comparision for me to swallow. Basketball to the Indie Scene. But the similarites are striking and hard ot ignore once you are sitting in that gym or concert hall watching some very talented people do what they love.

Some do more for the sheer fun, other do it more for the want to be discovered, but neither can be mutually exclusive.

God know I keep hoping that one day Spin will finally give me a call.

Monday, April 30, 2007

There were far too many semi-colons

My new neighborhood has a motto.

Not just any motto. Fuck no. This is a mean, vicious exclusive motto that is really used as more of an insult than a term of endearment when talking about your place of residents.

Independence - Queen City of the Trails
Boston - The Cradle of Liberty
Olathe - Beautiful City
Kansas City - The City of Fountians
Peculiar, Mo. - Where the odds are with you
River Market - Get across the bridge!

Thursday, April 26, 2007

A memo drifts mournfully off a southern wind

Ministry of Gonzo – Kansas City

To: The lack luster band of fucks that call yourself followers
From: Ministry of Gonzo – Intra-office affairs.

To all,

It’s time we pack up and move the hell out of the unforgivable city that birthed us from its loins.

For too long we have suffered the injustices that it has laid down on our skull in this past year. Just this week, for example, a man was arrested after a part of his house exploded. Apparently, this jackass was building pipe bombs and left them unattended in his house as he went out for his morning jog.

On his return, he found a potion of his house blown to splinter and a thick fiery smoke billowing from what used to be his garage. The police were swarming so he decided to make a break for it. The police dogs managed to grab hold of his jugular vein and drag him down in a torrent of screams and pleas for mercy.

This, of course is only the most recent travesty to plague our quiet neighborhood where curbs and sidewalks are a luxury that only the high and mighty can afford. As the weather has warmed a familiar odor has started to waft though the quiet streets of our neighborhood. It is not quite the smell of summer or new trees and flowers. Nay, it is the smell of bleach being boiled in the house down the block as it prepares another major bath of meth to be pushed to the kids on big wheels and mothers lacking even the most simple of teeth to gnash at their evening TV dinners.

The break-in at the Ministry was the last straw, though. The terrible event disintegrated the last amount of desire I had to live in this city. My own childhood home no longer held the allure it used to.

No, catamount, this memo is not here to serve as some evil diatribe on Independence and all that is wrong with it – and by god there is a lot that is wrong with this vile town. Today we announce that the Ministry will be moving its Kansas City Branch Office downtown to a new central location.

This weekend the Ministry of Gonzo will officially open its newly constructed offices in a more desirable and hip River Market location in downtown Kansas City.

The suburbs are over rated and only lead to soul crushing depression.

With the move, the Ministry will also be expanding as we take on another staff member. The new disciple of Gonzo will begin his training process later in May when he joins the Ministry. Mike has been a loyal follower in our fellowship program and is now preparing to make the full commitment and work with the Ministry to bring the world even more of our absurdity and abusive behavior to this vicious world.

We have seen former disciples of the Good Word move on to bigger and better things, but because their identities remain a matter of national security we cannot reveal where or how they are doing.

Our new offices will not only be exquisite and state of the art, but they will also be more secure, with the newest electronic key entry locks and laser cut keys to the most advanced Tazer technology to take down all those Jesus freaks and criminals that attempt to bum rush the new offices.

We ask that you raise and glass and drink irresponsibly to the new, improved Ministry of Gonzo – Kansas City Bureau. The walls have yet to be tainted with the stout beers that we will undoubtedly duel with. Give it time.

Please address all new correspondence to:
Ministry of Gonzo
c/o Office of external communications and drug acquisition
500 East 3rd Street
Suite 301
Kansas City, Mo., 64106

You may resume wasting your life,
Director of Ministry Affairs
Ministry of Gonzo – Kansas City Bureau

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Nertz to you, Spaceman!

Harry S Truman was not a subtle man.

He was the kind of man who would grab life by the haunches and hump it into submissions. This might be why one of my favorite cartoons in syndication portrayed him as a fast talking box crushing '20s-era Elliot Ness.

I, of course, am talking about Futurama and refering to the episode where the gang gets transported back to 1947.

Truman gets introduced as several military generals are talking about how the space creatures they caught need to be kept top secrect. At this moment 2 MPs wheel a box of Eggs from an airplane.

Truman then comes punching out of the wood box and demands to know the score. He was a hard ass and was not below slapping around a lobster like animal who is a stereotype of every New Jesery Jew since the 1900s.

I'm not sure why I find this so hysterical. It could be connection to Independence, Truman's home town. It could be my new facination with preidents of this country. It could also be becasue phrases like "Nertz" and "Squidabilly" just seem funniers coming from a man in a white suit.

But really, I jsut like when cartoons portray real actors. The Simpsons did a take on Brizilain Soccer star Ronaldo. At one point Ronaldo starts an argument between Lisa and Homer.

As the Father/Daughter fight moves off screne, Ronaldo declares ,"Aha, another family destroyed by Ronaldo!" and then procedes to back flip into the sunset.

p.s. - he has a history of sleeping with other people's wives.


Why? Who the hell cares. Cartoons pretty much have the ability to do anything especailly make fun of real people without them even knowing - Tom Cruise on South Park. Or how about the whole Scientology religion...protrayed as a hunting club who has sex with little boys.


I don't think the whole web-zine is going to work here, Catamounts.

You see, I found out this week that a fellow reporter/drinking buddy is going to begin writing for The Pitch. I guess they are undergoing a hiring binge in the hopes that they are going to create - wait for it - an online music Web site that will focus on KC Music.

I think i should keep my ideas to myself in the future.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

The rules...

Some of the best laid plans are made while drunk.

Road trips, relationships, new jobs, life goals all of them suddenly become clean and clear under the haze of a few bourbons.

It is just as easy to see the insanity of thouse same plans as soon as the sun rises on the next day and you are left with only a raging hangover to teach you lesson.

"You thought what was a good idea...?" your brain would say to you flicking the senstivie nerves behind you eye.


But it seems my brain is on deck with my latest crazy idea. It actually woke me up the next day to continue the discussion, review bar napkins for more ideas and brain storming (nice turn, eh?).

And, by god, this brain was storming with idea, people who need tobe in motion, places that need to be contacted.

You see, here at the paragraph factory I have put in for a transfer out of my currnet division. But my transfer was denied - hard.

As I sulked in the dark bar of McCoys downtown it finally hit me. About halfway though The Roseline's set - visit them - when I knew it was time to take matters into my own hands.

I want to create a Web-zine that would focus on KC Music and only KC music.

Think Pitchfork, but with only bands from Kansas City, Lawrence, Easter Jackson County and maybe even Columbia.

There is a music scene - for the most part - here in KAsnas City. There are bands that are doing good things and making a name for themselves.

There is something going on here and people seem to ignore it. Anodyne Records, Oxblood Records and ahandfull of other independent labes are all based right down town, but there is no signle publication that covers them all.

As I have hashed this, soberly, in my mind, I have come to several major conclusions:

1. It has to be online
2. It will have to be daily (or more)
3. It will need the support of local musicians and other record comapnies - it cannot be seen as some outsider trying to take anyone down
4. It cannot be a place for reviews. The main hook has to be to listen to new artists and see the news of what is going on.
5. It has to be independent of any of the other media institutions.

The Pitch and the KC Star do well in their own right. The Pitch is too pretentious and does not really get at the heart of news - reviews, sure. Lauding good band, they do it well. But they do not have a great venue for news or even pictures.

Why waste my time?

It would not be a rah rah for bands. They already have one of those. But simply something that would tell us who is playing with who, when and are bands being signed and going on tour.

But i know I have my own limitations
1. I do not know enough about KC's scene
2. I do not know enough about the internet to host such a site
3. I do not have the time to do this by myself.

I know there are some out there who would jump in and help out. There are some that would love to be a part of something at the ground level like this.

I guess the only difference between this idea and the others, is how long can this idea, borne out of drunken chatter among friends, keep itself stoked without me doing anything as i continue to doubt myself about it.

Time is of the essence here. I have to at least try, right?

Friday, April 13, 2007

That is not a scene.

The punk scene died exactly one year after I was born.

In a rock show in the late Spring of 1985, Bad Brains took to the stage and instead of ripping through one of thier classic hard riffing, heavy bass scream-rants, they solmnly meandered into a regae song that left the corwd stupified and angry.

Punk rock was in its final thorws.

Not even the fuck around Henry Rollins could save it this time. And, by god, those who created it in the late 70s seemed willing to watch it die before them as they quit rocking out against the man with songs like "kill all the police, kill all the police, kill all the police" in succession for 45 seconds.

The scene was dead before anyone seemed to really know what hit them - most likely a fist from the over-adrenilined crowd that was swinging at the lead singer.

I was pulled into this scene for only a glimpse last night as I wacthed the music donumentary American Hardcore for hte first time. It was definitly not a Ken Burns-style rock-u-drama that did anything beyond the surface of what Punk music was.

Instead, it spent a shit ton of time trying to tell me that the system was already stacked agasint them and how Regan was personally working against their music andway of life. Their success, each former, burnt-out rocker would say, came from sticking it to the man.

Chuck Klosterman once wrote that he never understood Punk music. But what is there to understand? I like punk music for a varitey of reasons.

Circle Jerks, Gang Green, DOA and a whole host of other "hardcore" acts tapped into something that, for some reason, alluded most followers of this scene. They were playing angry music for an angry generation. And not just the 80s generation. They were playing for kids between the age of 13-20 some of the most angry fuck ups that today are overly medicated to keep them calm.

between 1980 and 1985 the children of the failed seekers and hippes in the 1960s were jsut fianlly starting to come into their own. They saw their happy, peace, love and hugs paretns and realized they failed against Nixon and his attempt to convert everyone into drones.

So, Instead, the kids got angry. They took it out on everthing. The man, police, parents eachother and even themselves. If we could not get people to see the central message of being yourself while being nice, then we aregoing to pound it into your face and break your nose to teach you.

Blood was the new assignment and everyone was out to get it.

Punk rock was the theme music to this anger and it stoked the fires and kicked the tired of every kid willing to get angry and feed that emotion

But the anger can only go on so long, it seemed.

Bad Brains took the first leap in an attempt to venture out into other froms of music. Beastie Boys went into white boy rap, and bands broke up around the scene becasue of creative difference.

I don't think punk died. I think it grew up.

The most interesting aspect of the whole film was a part that was not pointed out or even explicitily mentioned.

Each memeber of the former Punk dynasties sat, unintentionally, in front of a slice of what their lives had become.

They were either sitting in front of large swimming pools in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. Or in the basement of a home that they doubled as a recording stuiod.

Some sat in posh offices where they were now investment bankers or music executives.

They sold out - one might argue.

Those who did not, seemed to be trying to live the life they did when they were teenagers. They did not grow up or mature their own art - if you want to call it that.

It was a vicious cycle where those who tried to hang on wanted to keep it alive, but those who wanted it to die kept pusheing them down.

But they all agreed, Punk, in its purest form, was dead and it was never coming back. But they blamed the youth that followed them - Green Day, Blink 182 - for not keeping hte light on and playing into the night.

But how could they? The scene had aged and now was something completely different.

You can only be young once.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

The Truth?

An conversation with a Friend...

Friend: law school, huh?
Me: what?
F: heard rumor you were considering law school
Me: yeah, i think so
F: what kind of law?
Me: i think real estate development with an emphasis on suburban planning
F: I just vomited blood.

Monday, April 09, 2007

Writer's Block

There is something satisifying in telling people I spent my weekend at a Prom.

"Oh you chaperoned?"
"No, I was invivted."
(look of confusion sets in, bleeding to fear)

That is right Catamounts, I spent my saturday night being a stand in date for someone at a Prom. But before you get your panties in a tiwt and began insisiting that I have a thing for 16 year-old-girls I might need explain my positon here.

What's the score?

This was not some ordinary lack-luster prom where everyone gets dressed up and pretends this is the last time we will get dressed up and dance to the current pop hits of hte day - my high school prom theme was, Leane Womack's I hope you dance.

This, kiddies, was the local radio station's Second Chance Prom where 20-somethings and young 90s generation dwellers get fucked up and writh away the night.

I was asked at the last second to stand in for a boyfriend who apparently had to bail at the last second. It was doing a favor she said - which I think is why she kept buying my drinks.

At this point in this post you are probably asking, "Mike, what the hell do I care what you did on Saturday night."

And you are right. You probably don't. You want to come here for some introspection. A lesson, something to take away.

Well, fuck you for judging me and let me tell you: I don't dance enough.

Oh, I go to shows and enjoy music and will nod my head in apparoval and clap only when they play good versions of their own songs. But I am never the one who is letting lose and simply dancing - As Womack so incipidly insisted my senior class to do.

It's uncouth to bust a move - espectially ones as busted as my own. But this weekend you could not deny in the infectous nature of dancing to the rock version of 80s music.

You can't not dance when Flock of Sea Gulls or Oasis, hell, even The Buggles come banging from a five string bass and over tuned guitar.

For two sets, three whole hours, and an unknown number of free drinks - its good to know people who work in the radio business - I jumped and swang and moved.

Originally I was not going to take up this invitation - family had taken over my weekend this being the time when we honor the death of the Easter Bunny.

But at the last second I decided It was something I needed to do. An advneture that could not be denied. It would have been a sin. They didn't sell tickets to this advneture. No, you had to win them in some contest or know someone who worked at the station.

It was, of course, well worth it - a revival of sorts to get the juices flowing and the desire to get back in the business of dragging people by the wrist to random places and things.

I'v gotten into a bad habit of not making the kinds of decisions that put me in the middle of advnetures. It was easy when I was based in the original TEmple of GOnzo to find an advneture. There was somehting going on around all the time.

Here, though, people are resigned to their own lives and a lack of advneture seems to be what they enjoy. Gardening, babysitting a dog, knitting. These are not adventures. These are activities that keep people at home and in the safe comforts of their suburban dwellings.

Well, I'm not resigning to that. I think this partially is why I'm getting out of the suburbs all together. I can't leave, not yet. But we need a new view from the windows in my home.

There are missions a head of me and I see a new following forming in hte ministry of Gonzo. People seem willing to gobble down what it means to dance, drink and listen to rock and roll - real rock and roll - now that they have had a taste.

They were a little hesistant the first time. The coughed a bit on that first inhale. Their heads and ears rang a little after the first riff. But they seem o be coming around.

They seem to understand what is in store for them this summer. They seem to know, one of us might not come back alive, but they are willing to sign on and sign away what privacy and dignaty they have left.

There are no secrets in these hallowed halls as th summer aproaches.

And for fuck's sake - dance.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007


It was such a momentous occasion I felt like I had to pull over and toast mysellf to the full moon rising against the Olathe skyline and laugh at my own absurdity.

I had been anticipating this night for weeks. I knew that I would hit this day eventually, I just did not know when or where.

Well, Weeklies, I hit 100,000 mile-mark in my Honda at exaclty the corner of West Dennis Avenue and Lone Elm road deep in the heart of Olathe, the town that I cover.

I pulled into the gas station as soon as the odometer hit the big 1-five-0s. I was excited, my car was now officialy a used car. It has lived out the life of both its own warrenty and the average life of cars that run thourgh this foul country.

100,000 - for some reason - is the major mile stone (no pun intended) that proves your car made it. It is now somebody - or something. But the victory of making this occasion as I was covering the city's mayoraal election was not about jsut that night.

In a bizarre fit, the entire history of my car came rushing back to me...everything I have ever done in this car.

Driving it off the lot in Lee's Summit and being applauded by the lack-luster group of sales people. Driving it at breakneck speed to school everyday. Peeling out late at night in parking lot of Target after closing for another straight school night.

Driving 30 minutes just to take out my first girlfriend. Packing debate boxes and homewokr into every nook and cranny.

The exploding can of Dr. Pepper that I left in my car one summer afternoon. Still, today whne it gets hot enough, you can smell the syrum still in the fibers of the seats.

Breaking off the rear-view mirror as I backed out of my garage. Standing on the hood to get a better view of the Atlantic Ocean in Cape Cod. Gripping the wheel as my attorney and I eased our way though the driving snow in Colorado as we returned from Vegas.

The stereo has endured Blink 182, Green Day, Blind Melon, No Doubt, Weird Al, Something Corporate, Cake, Reel Big Fish, Blues Travler, Sister Hazel, Barenaked Ladies, The Jayhawks, Modest Mouse, Flee the Scene, Be/Non, Silversun Pickups, Arcade Fire, Decemberists, Explosions in the Sky, Cold War Kids, Birght Eyes, Rilo Kiley, The Faint, and an ungodly amount of other artists that - for better or worse - were part of my in-car music collection.

We have been though hook ups, break ups, move-ins, move-outs, car crashes, near misses and the numerous parking tickets and speeding violations that we have had together.

Whether they were short jaunts or long, winding drives though missouri's hill country or, more recnelty, those drives in the the Kansas Praire where getting lost is not really possible when you can see the horizon in all directions.

Kansas City, St. Louis, Hyanis, Boston, Syracuse, Chicago, Wichita, Dallas, Des Moines, Springfield, Ashland, Columbia, Omaha, West Rifle, Denver, Las Vegas, Pheonix, Oklahoma City, Olathe and so many more.

There are few things that have remained in my life for eight straight years. People have come, gone, moved away and moved on. But my car - as materalistic as it sounds - has always been there.

My uncle used to drive a 1980 Datsun until at the great age of 16 if caught fire and refused to toe the line any longer. The air had gone out, the analog clock had long died and the radio was merely there for looks. Like a dying relative things started to fail one at a time.

The real issue now, though, is what we do for the next 100,000 miles. How do we live knowing that the next big miles stone could either be the 2- five-0 or its own death or sale.

Well, kiddos, I can tell you one things. There are big things on the horizon. In Kansas it may appear to go on for miles and miles, but eventually you come to the end of the road and have to make a decision.

I have a few in front of me today that cannot be avoided any longer.

Who knows? next week, we might be talking about what to do until 200,000 or we might be talking something completely different.

Sunday, April 01, 2007

I already have a plan

I'm waitning for my real life to begin...

Sometimes your saturdays are nothing more than bourbon and a DVD you got thought netflix last week.

"There is nothing worse than feeling alone. Especially when you surround yourself with so many people who don't care."

Other times its rocking out harder than you ever have.

That was definitly emo.


Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Everyone has a story, right?

We were standing at the front doors of what used to be the CBGB.

It had been shuttered nearly six months ago, but awning announcing the former rock venue still stood - only obscured by a large "For Lease" sign. The door and front walls were covered with gafatti and piss from drunken fools who needed to put their own mark on this prolific landmark.

The homeless man could have been completely looked over had he not started to stand in front of us from the pile of cans and trash sackes that had ammased around him.

"I saw the Ramones play here when I was a kid, fuck off."

We had not even said anything to him , but he decleration that he had seen the punk rock act at this venue seemed appropriate. He had been here when it was open and Im sure it was not the only show he had caught.

Maybe there was a family, and children. Maybe he was a rocker himself but his mind gave out under the preasure of staredom and booze. maybe I would see him one day - VH1 Real Life Story and this is the part where we hear the dramatic music and wonder if he will ever spring back.

New York was invigorating. There was something going on at all time all over the place. My tour guide and I were walking acorss a busy street avoding cabs and busses as they went screaming by. Shopers were still carrying their wares and moving from pubs and restaurants for a late night snack.

"This town is simply amazing, there is so much going on right now, it feels like it is early evening."

"You stop wondering what these people are doing 2 a.m."

I was far to boring for this town. How could I compare to the Greek Family that moved from their hometown to start the Star Duszt Diner and serve authentic Buffalow Burgers? Would my life even amuse the kid who had dated a guy that used to have bathrtub in his kitchen? At what point does my story become jsut another fuck around filling pages of paper as I try to write them out?

I was smacked with this reality as I tried to get co-workers to continue the party that had been lit in my stomch from the city that never sleeps. Only one of the five I call came out.

Only one out of five approved - its like im the anti-tooth brush commercial.

I can't say we were doing anyhting special, we wre getting drinks and playing into the night to talk and converse. But husbands and boyfriends and life weighted people down andk ept them in.

I have always been terrified of being hte boring one in a relationship - any relationship. Girlfriends, releatives, friends. If I was boring them, I was failing - I would usually tell myself.

But then again, I surrounded myself with some very interesting, intriguing people. Being boring was not an option for them or for us. Those people are gone now.

Maybe I have set the bar to high. But if i lowered it, would that mean settling? Is the middle really a place I want to strive for? Do I want to date a boring woman and have boring kids that will go to boring schools and continue this cycle of life that seems to eating aay at my soul.

At least then my mother would seem happy for the first time.

At what point do we jsut become too lazy to find those people who are helplessly seeking a partner in crime, a sidekick, a drinking budy.

I really can't take it anymore. The boredom is killing me. If i lose any more weight from it, I could squeeze into girl pants for the first time. How hippster would that be?

But I have not lost all faith in humanity. One of the best deciples of the Temple of Gonzo took more than a semester to finally understand what it was like to have fun.

The problem, I think, is that these people - that I work and live around - do not know how to have fun. The second fun and adventure stares them in the face, they run away and hide in their suburban homes with their significant others who seem content to judge us with their master's degrees and husbands who look at us as wild and unkept.

I hope they choke to death on their own safety net and salvation.

I'm excited for the first for this summer to approach. I wasted my last summer here. I was too shell shocked from graduation and new jobs and broken relationships to do anything. I hid in my own suburban hell hole and did nothing.

So now, its time to right that wrong. And I hope to take down as many who are willing ot follow and fight that fight.

No more barriers - despite their energy consuming nature - will keep me out this time. No more stops.

It's time to come to work drunk at least once.

It's time to swear more and dress more comfortably on weekdays. I wear Chuck Taylor not because I am protesting anything or think they are that cool - i do it becasue they are afucking comfortable slipper/shoe.

Maybe its jsut time to be more selfish. Fuck the rest of you. It's time to blow things up and make my own mayhem...will you behind the plunger that lights that fuse?

Or will you be sitting behind your desk in the building awating your final doom?