Matthews and Jindal

So it was Chris Matthews who the mic caught muttering "Oh, God" when the cameras went to Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal, selected by the Republicans to articulate their reservations with Obama's address before Congress last night. Haha. I'm sure Matthews said, "Oh, God" during Obama's screen time as well. Though with far more squeals and panting.

Anyway, Jindal, a potential contender for the presidency in 2012, was awkward and dull, drier than the ash smudged on his forehead this morning.

Yes, today marks the commencement of Lent 2009. And as usual, I've given up Lent for Lent. But I'll try to show Christ-like kindness and patience when dealing with people. Even the motherfucking assholes.

Economic Woes

President Obama is scheduled to address a joint session of Congress at 9 PM tonight. He will be speaking about the economy -- which is so battered you'd think it was dating Chris Brown -- and his plan to salve its sores.

I shall be watching it, of course.

Song of the Day is Matthew Sweet's SICK OF MYSELF:

I Smell Good

At work, some middle-aged woman (the third one within the past thirty days or so) complimented me on my hygiene.

"You smell really good," she said. "What is that?"

Jokingly, I replied, "Oh, it's my sweat."

"Where did you get it?" she asked.

Umm ...

Song of the Day is Dramarama's ANYTHING ANYTHING:

Bad Day at Work

Goddamn, was it busy at work yesterday.

I didn't get to lay a finger upon even one of the sixty or so boxes piled in the backroom. Nor did I get to touch the two Pull Lists assigned to me. My shift was spent either at the register, the customer service desk or cleaning up after The Swine.

This one douchebag took six mass-market W.E.B. Griffin books over to a chair and left them on the floor for us to pick up after. And I'll bet my life that he didn't even get through a quarter of any of those six stories.

A lady left a pile of wedding magazines on the floor. I hope that on her wedding day, she walks into the bathroom to find the groom pumping away into the maid of honor's rectum.

There was this one middle-aged woman who I was helping at the register. Unappealing, standing at about 4'2", a wart on her face, the woman was irritated because she couldn't locate her deck of numerous membership and savings cards within her purse. She was like a demented, pissy imp. She was purchasing some novel about wizards and strange, enchanted creatures. Brushing up on her home country's history, I suppose.

And in less than an hour, I'm back to work.

Hopefully, I'll get something done today.

Song of the Day is BLISTER IN THE SUN by the Violent Femmes:

Tagalog

Sometime ago at Blockbuster I saw a DVD titled ASWANG. Underneath the title was a definition of the word: "a Filipino vampire, feeds on the unborn."

So that's what Dad was saying I was during our arguments! And I always thought the word meant "asshole".



I'm going to learn how to speak Tagalog. Or as people from Mississippi probably call it: "Chinese." Maybe I'll pick up a few instructional books at The Store today. I punch in at 5 PM.

First I'll stop by McDonald's. Get me some Filet-O-Fish, fries, and maybe some unborn.

I Didn't Start Swimming and I Sank Like a Stone

Okay -- about the karaoke ...

During the drive to the tavern, I decided that -- if the DJ had the track -- my Song of the Night would be Bob Dylan's "The Times, They Are a Changin'." It's one of my all-time favorite songs. I began, in rather high volume, rehearsing it in my car, affecting Dylan's nasally voice. "And don't speak too soon/For the wheel's still in spin/And there's no tellin' who/That it's namin'."

I entered the bar feeling more than a little nervous. I texted a couple of friends asking them to wish me luck. One responded: "You'll need more than luck, u crazy bastard." Still, I was resolved to sing. RESOLVED! As bad a singer as I was, I was going to "soon shake your windows/And rattle your walls."

Yeah ...

Well ...

That resolve completely wilted not even twenty minutes after my arrival. I choked up. What the fuck are you doing, dude? You're not actually going UP there, are you? By that time, the lyrics to another song came to mind: "FUCK THIS SHIT, YO/I'M GOIN' THE FUCK HOME/Rollin' my shoulders as I run back to this 8 Mile Road."

Well, I didn't go "the fuck home" right away. I decided that since I made the twenty-five minute or so trek there, I'd at least cease the quivers in my stomach with a filet mignon. (And may I note: that filet mignon was fantastic.) But I sure as hell didn't take up the mic.

Sigh.

I had hoped that Karaoke Night would feature a handful of bad singers (a group to which I belong) just having fun. Had even one horribly tone-deaf person gone up to sing, I probably would've kept my resolution. Yet every single patron who went up to serenade the bar was good. Not exactly American Idol quality, but still. I didn't want to be the only vocal leper.

The bartender was nice. We talked a bit and she told me that if I really felt the need to sing, to just go up there and let loose.

"Some other time perhaps," I said.

So no karaoke. I was defeated by my own fear.

But I'll do it someday; I'll do it.

The loser now will be later to win.

And the song of the day:

Cause for Unhappiness & Song of the Day

A few minutes ago, I received a call from The Store informing me that my hours have taken another whittling. Well, that certainly removed the skip from my step.

I think I'll go out and pour some Liquid Happiness into me. It's Karaoke Night at some tavern in Middlesex. Maybe I'll stop there and belt out a tune or two. I'm horribly shy and can't sing worth a goddamn, but one of my numerous New Year's Resolutions is "PARTICIPATE IN KARAOKE." That was one of my Resolutions for last year, and I failed to muster the courage to accomplish it. Maybe tonight that'll change.

Song of the Day is "Punk Rock Girl" by Dead Milkmen. Maybe this'll be the song I sing.

Cheney and Song of the Day

The Daily News reports that former Vice President Cheney -- that Dick -- spent a great deal of his final days in power attempting to procure a presidential pardon for "Scooter" Libby, who served as his chief-of-staff from 2001 to 2005. Libby was convicted for lying to a federal grand jury about his role in "Plamegate" and, in June 2007, sentenced to thirty months in prison; President Bush commuted the sentence less than a month following.

However, Bush didn't cave in to Cheney's pestering for a full, free and absolute pardon for Libby. "Oh, please, George, it's a just small favor! It's not like I'm asking you to invade another country which didn't attack us!"


Cheney had to attend Obama's Inauguration in a wheelchair due to a back injury, presumably gained after slipping on the blood of a kitten he bludgeoned to death.

So now Cheney's peeved at Bush and probably won't be inviting him to his undisclosed location for Christmas.

Cheney, Cheney, Cheney -- the guy's like a Bond villain.

BOND: Do you expect me to talk?
CHENEY: No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to go fuck yourself.

Let's raise our glasses to the oil-hungry former vice prez, crushed 'neath the weight of his own hubris. He shot for the moon, and all he hit was a lawyer in the face.

Anyway, the Song of the Day is one which should replace "The Star-Spangled Banner" as our national anthem. Ludicrously enough, it was also George W. Bush's campaign song in 2000:

Tonight is Get-Matt-Drunk-And-Possibly-Laid-By-Loose-Women-Yes-Plural Night

Yup.

And on that note, the Song of the Day is Snoop Dogg's "Gin and Juice":

Hail to Some of the Chiefs

Today is Presidents' Day.

C-SPAN recently asked sixty-five historians to rank the Presidents of the United States. At number one is Abraham Lincoln, The Great Emancipator.

Second place goes to George Washington, The Father of Our Country.

Coming in third is Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who did to government what Twinkies did to Marlon Brando. And he was an outstanding wartime leader.

Ronald Reagan ranked at number ten. According to lore, he cut taxes and government spending while balancing the budget. He also single-handedly ended the Cold War. He died on June 4, 2004, but on the Third Day he rose again, ascended into Heaven, and is seated at the right hand of the Father yada yada yada. I was talking about the Reagan legacy with some friends recently; they think he was a great president in the way that ketchup is a vegetable.

Coming in -- or rather coming on -- fifteen is Bill Clinton, who is more worthy than Reagan of the Great Communicator and Teflon President sobriquets. Unlike George Washington, he put the wood in someone else's mouth and lying about it under oath nearly got him booted out of office. He presided over eight years of peace and prosperity and left office with a high approval rating.

George W. Bush came in thirty-sixth on the survey, below Richard Nixon and Rutherford B. Hayes. Hmm.


It's too bad that sentences weren't the only things mangled by this twelve-short-of-a-dozen wannabe cowboy.

Man, Bush really fucked up this country.

President Obama has a lot of damage to rectify. In celebration of Presidents' Day, I've been re-watching his swearing-in and inaugural speech. I've also been watching clips of Chris Matthews, host of MSNBC's Hardball, talking about Obama. Matthews is seriously obsessed with the man. His praise for the President has become indistinguishable from Obama Girl's, haha.

Song of the Day is FDR's campaign song:

Song of the Day

Ugh.

Less than thirty minutes after clocking in, I had to deal with a hideous, corpulent customer with a noxious attitude. I sympathize, though; after all those fights Michael Vick forced her to participate in, I'm not surprised that she's so abrasive.

I have a headache and there are over five hours left to go in the day.

I have five carts packed with books to shelve.

Furthermore, I'm feeling depressed for reasons which I won't elucidate.

Anyway, the song of the day is "Today" by the Smashing Pumpkins. I'm not sure what it makes me want to do more: slit my wrists or get some ice cream, haha.

VD and Balls

Valentine's Day.

I was going to get my sweetheart a box of chocolates, but I refrained from doing so considering a) my sweetheart is trying to lose weight and b) my sweetheart doesn't fucking exist.

Anyway, I had another irritating day at work, but I at least got to wish my big bro a Happy Birthday in person and finished sorting all the boxes in the backroom.

The customers really trashed the place tonight. I hope the person who left that stack of Mexico travel books by the chairs for me to pick up after accidentally drinks the water while he/she is there. I hope the person who cluttered up the NCLEX books never attains that nursing degree. And to the person who left that pile Bibles in the cafe: WWJD? He'd put the damn books back.

You know, I'm thinking of picking up a book from the football instructional section. I bought my very first football a few weeks ago, and am trying to learn what I was too uninterested to learn as a child.

I can't throw worth a damn. As my friend said: "You kinda suck, man." I expect girls will be taunting each other: "Haha -- you throw like a Vince!" But they can laugh. I'll improve. I don't quit. I'm tenacious. And more often than not, V ends up on top.

Photo taken from www.tyrandall.com

Anyway, I'm planning to catch the first showing of the Friday the 13th remake with my cousin tomorrow. In the slasher movie world, all the people who get high and laid get bumped off. So that's why I'm not depressed about another Valentine's Day flying solo. If I was to transport into a slasher movie right now, I'd be one of the survivors. And it's off to sleep.

PS -- And John:

> >

Sighs and Cheers

A rather shitty day at work.

My duties as a member of the Inventory Process Team (which some of my co-workers redundantly refer to as the IPT Team) entail, among other things, sorting the books, games, and other paraphernalia onto their respective carts and shelving them. Didn't accomplish much of that today due to numerous calls to back up register and the high volume of customers, some of whom were quite pissy, seeking assistance. This one guy was pestering me for help so much that I was surprised he didn't ask me to hold his dick for him when he went to take a leak. I was also assigned the task of having to move several sections of books.

Oy.

Oh, and today was also the second of the three AARP Appreciation Days. Any AARP member receives a 20% discount of most items at The Store and our Sister Stores throughout the country. I love that -- AARP Appreciation Days. Gee, guys -- thanks for being old!

THANKS FOR BEING OLD, SIR!
(He also happens to be a war hero. I don't recall whether he fought for the Confederacy or the Union, though.)

And speaking of old: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MATTHEW J. FALLON, my honorary big brother, who turns the big 30 tomorrow! Yes, you're the strangest and arguably most psychotic person in The Store; I've recently flipped through The Book of Revelations to see if there is any mention of Satan coming to Earth, putting on a black flat cap, and calling himself "Matt Fallon." You have the stoicism of a Mafia hitman (that's the Italian in you; the fact that you constantly threaten me with physical harm lends credence to the hitman thing) and a devastating wit (that's the Irish in you, I guess; Tiocfaidh ar la and all that crap) of which I've often been the target.

Joshing aside, you're a fucking awesome chap, sir. Thanks for helping me a better worker; we've spared Mr. Murphy a few aneurysms, eh? He probably doesn't regret coming into the Matrix as much anymore. And thanks for helping me be somewhat less awkward. The way I eat isn't "frightening" anymore, right? I eat "like a human being" now, do I not? However, I think you gave terrible advice at the bowling alley: "Just go up to her and whip it out." Yeah, right.

It didn't work the first time I tried it:

Once again I apologize for any mortification engendered by my drunken ass that night at The Office. I hope this doesn't mean we can't hang out anymore. Thanks for being cool about it and even bigger thanks for perceiving that my mind wasn't stable enough to master my automobile on 22 that rather chilly New Year's night.

I'll probably bawl like a little bitch if you ever leave The Store. So don't. At least not until I'm gone.

Cheers! And, of course, if you ever need anything, let me know.

From Charissa's 2008 Halloween Bash. After weeks and weeks of pestering, I finally acquiesced to playing Short-Round to his Indy.

The first in what is apparently a series of drawings featuring me encountering superheroes and supervillains. You're quite talented, Mr. Fallon, I do hope your continue to pursue your dream. Furthermore, I'm honored that I could inspire in some way, haha.

200 years

Oh, and Abe Lincoln was released from his mother's womb two hundred years ago this day. Perhaps in tribute, I'll start reading one of the two hundred books about Abe Lincoln released in bookstores so far this month.

Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p5mmFPyDK_8

Stuff That's Been on My Mind

I don’t own a portable digital media player. On the days that I intern in Harlem, NY, I bring along my stepfather’s Discman and some CDs. Last week on the subway, heading back from 125th to Grand Central Station, I took out the Discman from my jacket pocket to supplant Tom Waits’s "Rain Dogs" with Green Day’s "Kerplunk".

As I was about to slip on the headphones, this middle-aged guy sitting next to me saw the Discman, chuckled and said, “Whoa -- they still make those? Those’re, like, antiques now! I had no idea they still made those!”

Yeah, they still make breath mints too, motherfucker.

I think I’ll stop by the Best Buy in East Brunswick this Saturday or Sunday and finally join the Pod People.

While I'm there, I can gaze upon all the pretty computers and cameras which my ass can’t afford -- at least not at my current income. I work at a bookstore for slightly north of minimum wage. My parents and relatives often tell me, “You’re a college graduate! Why’re you working there?” I have a degree in English, guys! For someone with an English degree, working at a bookstore for slightly north of minimum wage makes me a success story.

The average English degree graduate.

Maybe I should try authoring some crappy romance novels for end's meet. Crappy romance novels sell big. Not a week goes by without some homely middle-aged woman coming to the register with two or three of those damn books. Some of these women have facial hair which puts mine to shame (then again, I don’t have much; Mr. Fallon calls what I have a “crustasche” ). Not to be mean, but perhaps if these gals picked up a Gilette razor every now and then, maybe they wouldn’t have to live vicariously through Princess Gwendolyn or whatever saucy, big-bosomed wench occupies the pages of that potpourri-scented feces posing as literature.

Maybe I should write novels aimed at teenage girls. Like the Twilight or Clique series. All I know about Twilight is that it focuses on the love between a girl and a classmate who happens to be a vampire. I don’t know why the vampire, for all his supernatural powers and relative freedom, would want to attend high school; I presume the thrill of geometry class. Or maybe this immortal is also an idiot and is literally repeating tenth grade for the hundredth time. At The Store, we have a shitload of copies of these books; we could make our own Stonehenge out of them. The Clique series, I know even less about. From the covers, I gather it’s about a group of popular, attractive, skanky teenage girls. The newest one was released this past week, titled P.S. I Loathe You. Previous titles include Bratfest at Tiffany’s, Invasion of the Boy Snatchers, and Dial “L” for Loser. Suggestion for the next title: “V” for Vaginitis.

Maybe I should write a fun children’s book like Diary of a Wimpy Kid. The latest installment is titled Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Last Straw. I’m guessing that’s the one where the wimpy kid finally starts firing an Uzi in the hallways of his school.

Or maybe I’ll write a positive-thinking, bullshit metaphysics book like The Secret, which states that if you want something -- like really, really want it -- then you’ll receive it. Law of attraction, it’s called. Note to Rhonda Byrne: Hillary Rodham Clinton wants her money back.

Ah, maybe I should do what everybody expects a guy with an English degree to do: TEACH. Like go into the 'hood and teach thugs how to love Shakespeare and shit. Yes, Tyrese, Richard III was one of da original gangstas! I could write about those experiences and hopefully have the memoir adapted to film.

But I don't think I'd make a good teacher; after a week, I'll probably be the one who ends up firing the Uzi in the hallways.

Anyway, it’s off to sleep.