High Tech Mortality

Every time I type every time I type everytime because everyday throws me off. Confusing English aside, every time a new iphone comes out, I wonder about diseases. Not from disgruntled Chinese workers putting herpes in the earhole or the ghost of Steve Jobs giving us ipolio. No, it makes me wonder how so much useless and amazing shit can be stuffed into such a small package, all for $199, and yet billions of billions (I think that equals trillions. I’ll let you math nerds figure those numbers out) of dollars can’t cure cancer, or anything for that matter. I know that sounds all high school philosophical, and something you might hear a beauty contestant say to prove her shallowness is only skin deep, after doing a baton twirl in a two piece. But, it is a valid point.

The iphone factory struggled to find their way, after they dropped child labor.

The iphone factory struggled to find their way, after they dropped child labor.

 

When I was kid I heard about chemo. I’m thirty five and I hear about chemo. I’m sure there is a bit more advancement, I’m no gynecologist. If we’re going to stick with my iphone analogy, it would be the equivalent of us all carrying around rotary phones that will need to be plugged in but hey, they got caller ID.

The newspaper said next years model will have a flashlight.

The newspaper said next years model will have a flashlight.

If any of you are the betting type, I’ll make a wager. I bet my sweet ass that they find a cure for Ebola. Wanna know why? It has quick pace. You’re dead in weeks. No profit in it. I bet the cure will cost as much as one of those fancy Ford Fiestas everyone’s been all hyped up about, but, it will cure it by God.

"Just give us the keys, and the Ebola will go away."

“Just give us the keys, and the Ebola will go away.”

Conspiracy theories aren’t my cup of tea. I don’t believe the world is being controlled by a shadowy group of power bankers and Jay-Z. What I do believe in is the trail of money in which all decisions are based, in regards to things that cost money. What a cluster fuck of a sentence that was. Sheesh. (Authors note: Learn to formulate a thought before typing.) Where there is a want or need there is a hope for reliance, where there is reliance there is hope for long term profitability. Remember that when you sign up for your two year contract on your new iphone 6, and pray the damn things don’t give you cancer.

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Squeeze It Out

I’ve been having a hard time with life lately. How many blog posts have started with some variation of that statement? Too many, I’m sure. Stating you’re having a bad go of it will allow for numerous short term benefits. It stands to reason, many will choose to begin with such buffoonery. I’ve come to realize, half the world would cease talking if self loathing was prohibited. Sympathy and attention are top candidates for most common reasons to talk online. The downside, is people either don’t give a turd, or your personal information is used to boost their feelings about their crappy lives, while reserving the right to judge you, going forward.

My only wish is to have a laptop with a hug & tissue dispenser.

Tissue dispensers installed on PC’s would make the world a better place for all of us.

The best course of action is to shut the shit up and don’t let anyone into your hell. Form resentments and an addiction. Become a bottled up shell of yourself and purchase a firearm. Tell your loved ones it’s for safety. Use the china set you inherited from grandma for target practice. Cry. Write poetry to your furniture. Get a cat. Name it Happy and forget about it.

I had feelings once. Now all I have is spotty wi-fi and this damn cat.

I had feelings once. Now all I have is spotty wi-fi and this cat.

Screw that, get the poison out, and let it go. Proper ventilation is required. Take caution! The lines can get real blurry between venting, complaining and psycho. Keep it decent! Calling Obama ‘Hitler sans sunblock’, in the comments section of an NPR article, or  sending naughty pictures of your no-no area to your exes new boyfriend, or screaming at the top of your lungs at an empty children’s playground at three in the morning, are not ways to alleviate the strangulation of your innards.

The toxicity that has been getting me all jammed up over the past couple of weeks is a common theme in my piss poor attempt at living; The dark hole of despair I call purpose. I’ve gone through more “WTF is this shit?” moments than Avril Lavigne’s record label. Finding meaning in an unremarkable life is hard whenever you grew up thinking you’re supposed to be the next John Connor or perhaps even Karate Kid. What you don’t tend to think about is even those two had to deal with the monotony of getting through a random Tuesday. Plus, being the Karate Kid was cool and all but eventually you gotta grow up, and Karate Man sounds sad.

Martial arts leads to wearing chopped up trash bags and your dear moms bracelet, while playing Steppenwolf covers for cheeseburgers.

Martial arts leads to wearing sleeveless trash bags and the  bracelet you stole from an old lady , while playing Steppenwolf covers for cheeseburger money.

I’m well over the fact that I won’t be chosen to save the world or be able to kick a douche in the face for the pride of my janitor mentor. But, I still have those random Tuesdays to tend to. We’re told that we’re special and downright important ever since sperm. While that’s all well and good in a pretty little world called fiction, it makes for a lifetime of unfulfilled expectations and disappointments in the real world. If we’re so great, why does maintaining a consistent flow of contentment seem to be such a motherfucker? I could go on about the nonstop barrage of outside influences telling us how much we should be happy but suck. Everything from Facebook, to your Aunt’s insistence on making it clear that your cousin is a god damn genius, slated for sainthood and a solo on the next season of Glee.

I go through these patches. They happen. I’m jealous of the go-getters and the simpletons. A few months ago, I had a conversation with a good hearted but simple minded individual. We worked together and he had shit to say.

Peter: You ready for lunch?

Me: Whenever. I don’t really care.

Peter: You don’t ever think about lunch?

Me: *confused by the question* Sometimes, I guess.

Peter: I think about lunch all the time. *stares off into the distance*

What do sandwich mean?

If all we did was eat, no one would ever be sad.

It was one of the better conversations I’ve ever had. While my first inclination was to laugh and shake my head, the heaviness of what he said caught me. I’m over here, worried about fifteen thousand things I can’t control, ten million things I can’t understand, and one or two things I have a grasp of but can’t settle on. And, he’s in deep with lunch. His philosophical dilemmas were based on hunger. His stomach did the thinking. Gifted bastard.

Gratitude is the real answer. You gotta make sure it’s genuine though. A homemade batch of Stockholm Syndrome can sneak up on you if you’re not careful. Next thing you know, you’re praising Jesus for a wife with grooming issues, a boss who pinches your buttocks, and a dog who humps your elbow but hey, at least someone finds you attractive. Nope. The gratitude must be things really worth their weight. The moment, right now, where you’re breathing and somewhat alive. Another day to prove your worth to yourself.

Release the poison and concentrate your useless energy on the wondrous. Gravitate towards the blessings, and the contentment will ease in behind. Life might suck but it’s yours and it’s fucking marvelous, by God.

 

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No Flow Whatsoever. Part I

I got a herpes breakout happening on my lip right now and I have a photo shoot tomorrow! Ugh!
I don’t have a photo shoot. LOL. I live in the desert, dumbass. I do have this lip herp thing going on though. 😦

On Monday, while I was doing my rounds around the perimeter of the house, checking for freeloading rabbits around the garden, a 4 ft. Bull Snake caught my eye. Ever since I was bit by a 6 inch baby python in a pet store, back in 97′, I’ve had great trepidation in regards to serpents. Luckily for both of us, he hauled ass in the opposite direction. I was heavily armed and ready for whatever. I followed him, from a good distance, until he made his way into my house. He found an open spot between the siding and the walls. We have a 4 ft snake living with us. Cris named it Bully Wooly. I’m trying to figure out how to adhere a mattress to the roof.

I hadn’t slept much for the past week. I tried every trick in the natural handbook. Such as deep breathing (panic attacks), relaxation techniques (lead to compulsive masturbation), sound machine (Who on earth sleeps better with the sounds of a rainforest? Are there tribesman out there in desperate need of sounds from home? Does Sleep Number now make hammocks from bamboo and the bones of adventurers?), dark room (see relaxation techniques). All in all, it’s been a trying time. Last night, I finally gave into science. I took a Trazodone. Pills and I are not friends. The laundry list of side effects I’ve had read like the fine print of an asbestos factory employee manual. Good news! It worked. I slept. I slept for 13 hours. Thank you, big pharma and depression!

 

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Length And Satisfaction

Word count in a blog post of my sort is perplexing. I tend to write to completion, FTW. After spending a good chunk of time (10 minutes) reading others blogs this morning (2pm) I realized what an ass beating it is to keep caring past about 300 words. The author better have some profound doo doo to say to keep my interest. Being the introspective, personalize everything because I’m an only child with a confusing cocktail of low self esteem and self importance, guy that I am, I decided I better be aware of length.

I’m tempted to stop this post right there for emphasis.

Nope.

It comes down to goals for your blog. I’ve already chosen the hardest blog type to pique interest, much less make a dime. According to my research, I’d have a higher shot at success doing a “How To” blog on urinating in Spanx, than doing a humor/personal life blog.

Let it go, gurl! Let it go!

Let it go, gurl! Let it go!

My goals are attention and vindication through articulation via the written word . Not unlike the 18 year old who moves to California to achieve her low budget porn dreams, I crave life validation, if you happen to have your pants around your ankles while reading this, all the better. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope this parlays into a regular gig writing for a big time publication such as Field & Stream or Good Housekeeping. I have dreams. I’m also a realist. The odds of anything, beyond my nervous flatulence questions addressed to ‘Dear Abby’, getting published are about the same as Rick from ‘The Walking Dead’ nailing a Southern accent.
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I’m learning on the fly here. Getting to know what people want to read, and how long they’ll hang around without prison shanking their dog, is a recipe I’m yet to master. The other worry is selling out…..I’m over 300 words, nobodies here. One time, I got my junk stuck in a vacuum cleaner. And still, no one knows.

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I Worked On A Peanut & Cotton Farm For Two Weeks

Working on the farm, for the first time since I was eighteen, was a success. I didn’t die. The hours are long and the pay is on par with wages of non pirates in Somalia. But I do it for the experience and the bitches.

Day one, I sprayed herbicide all over the place. The spray rig drives itself via GPS and some sort of wizardry I’ve narrowed down to either magic beans or prayer circles. Farming has become a highly technological field and in the process has stopped using slave labor. Who knew?

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Starfleet has acquired John Deere in what’s being called a “real coup” for the intergalactic upstart.

The amount of skill required to do farm work would shock the average city dweller. Most urban jobs are one or two skill intensive. Sales? Talk people into buying burden. Computer Tech? Fix glitches caused by people who spit in the face of NSFW. Chef? Make other peoples recipes and feel like a rebel when you go heavy on the cumin. Of course I’ve downplayed the work of others to boost my case for farmers.

Farmers fix every goddamn thing because all of it will break and break hard. Weld it, nail, glue it, duct tape it, whatever it takes to keep moving. Driving a tractor for 12 hours straight is considered downtime. Selling product to an obscure buyer who will back out at the last minute or renege on a deal in an effort to get the crop at a lower price is commonplace. Weather of all kinds can erase the past weeks work in a matter of hours. Weather will make or break you. Too much rain, you’re screwed. Too little rain, you’re broke. The rain must be spread out and time perfectly.

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The first job I was stuck with, after they baited me in with the spray rig built on alien tech, was seedman. A great job if you can get it…. in the porn industry. As far as farming goes, it’s bitch work. The seedman will park his ignorant self in a pickup truck pulling a flatbed trailer loaded with five pallets of seed. The pallets have roughly forty eight bags of seed each. The bags weigh fifty pounds apiece. He will open up bags and align them along the edge of the trailer in eager anticipation of the tractor drivers need for fill up. He will then open up the planter boxes on the planting implement, swiftly fill each box while trying not to spill seed or fall to his knees while screaming to whatever deity he wronged to deserve this lot in life. The temperature hovers around a hundred. Air conditioning isn’t part of the benefits package either.


aaftd
The next step after shooing the driver away is to burn the empty bags of seed. Starting fires while sweating your tits off makes for pleasant feelings. After the bags have been burned and no pasture has caught fire (it happened twice), he’ll take a fifteen minute break, of which he’ll spend eight cussing and seven hoping the tractor blows up. The day will average out at 14 hours.
Here are a few pictures of my misery and it’s tools.

More, Keg, more. Don't shiest me, you lazy bastard.

More, Keg, more. Don’t shiest me, you lazy bastard.

A standard planter runs between 8-12 boxes. The farmer custom made a 16 box because he's an efficiency queer.

A standard planter runs between 8-12 boxes. The farmer custom made a 16 box because he’s an efficiency queer.

The wind picks up randomly which throws flaming bags screaming in whatever direction the wind is blowing. It's hell on s'more prep.

The wind picks up randomly which throws flaming bags screaming in whatever direction the wind is blowing. It’s hell on s’mores.

On occasion I’d have to go do a menial chore such as picking up parts from John Deere. I’d live for those. I’d get to drive a truck with A/C. I’d leg wrestle a high functioning leper to get the chance at cool air. I felt like the one person who got away from the villain in a horror movie. I’d laugh manically and think about all the things I’d do with my new lease on life. Such as learn how to use Twitter, pen a letter to Robin Thicke asking if he understood wrapping girls in plastic makes you sketchy but kudos on turning the final steps of a well thought out murder sexy, form a drug addiction and blame it on my time farming, play one on one with a little person, ride topless in the sidecar of a motorcycle driven by a burly biker and stare down EVERYONE, and lastly I’d sleep until my depression healed itself. The feeling was short lived. For prides sake, I’d return and submit myself to the torture normally reserved for ones with low education or questionable citizenship. I had to complete it. Quitting is for people with better things to do.

I stayed on as seedman for about ten days. The Farmer eventually moved me to tractor driver ,which was a horrible decision on his part. He immediately regretted his talent evaluation skills after watching me drive like Amy Winehouse on a sad day. I got scolded. It was uncomfortable. He apologized after he realized that the tractor was improperly weighted. I was embarrassed and pissed off. We moved passed it. I only worked a few days after that. Hell, maybe we didn’t move past it. I wasn’t fired but planting season was coming to an end, and my bitch skills weren’t needed.

I learned more about farming than I ever thought possible and I left with a gratitude for the amount of work it takes to bring raw materials to the masses. If you ever have the chance to work on a farm, do it. You”ll regret it and be glad about the experience all the same.

P.S. Side story
One day, we were blessed with a land owner spending the whole day watching and evaluating. He was in the medical field so his expertise on farming was astounding. I snapped a picture of him. I was about ninety percent sure he was gonna pass away right in front of my eyes. His breathing was labored, and bending over took the effort of running a 16K on horse tranquilizers while wearing a bee keepers outfit.

He ingested enough booze in is day to keep Coors Brewing out of the red.

He ingested enough booze in his day to keep Coors Brewing out of the red.

I feel a bit mean by posting that but I can’t stand meddling with an air of superiority. He was nice in his own way. He also thought he was greater than the people working. He shouldn’t have done that.

 

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The Fridge Won’t Fill Itself

Cris and I went grocery shopping yesterday. We have to travel a decent distance to receive reasonable prices on goods. The journey for budget pretzels is about an hour round trip, and is lacking in scenic views, unless you find visual serenity in the world of sheet metal buildings.

building2“Look at that one, Martha!”

Upon arrival at our destination, Cris needed to take a wiz. I stood at the front of the store, cart in hand, looking like a child who’s mother had given up on the traditional views on raising your own children. I pretended to be interested in the new brand of Sriracha Pringles, praying no one would notice my fear of abandonment by way of the tried and true method of break-up “I need to take a wiz”. I’m left leaving the store with no girlfriend, no food and no answers. I waited just long enough to create a profile on match.com, before I see Cris eyeing the produce. She had hoped to meet me there because true love.

grocerystorelove“If you like our sensual strawberries, you’ll love our lettuce panties.”

When I reached her, she was distraught. The look of worry made me realize that she missed me as much, if not more than I missed her. I told her I loved her, and quickly stopped composing my About Me section on okcupid. She stared me straight in the eye and said “The women’s restroom smells like a pile of rotting vaginas. You, as a man will never have to deal with that.”. I concurred and knew the grocery bill would be substantially lower because I no longer wanted to eat, ever.

Through nothing but sheer will and determination were we able to complete the shopping list. Between her dealing with the stench of unclean women and my new found interest in the same sex, we had a lot to sort out.

Our checkout lady, cashier person was our final challenge. I had stepped away to look at something when the initial scanning process started so I don’t know how it came up but I heard her mumble something about Dallas.

Cashier: “Dallas must have like a million people. Maybe more!”

Cris: *defeated* “Yes.” *smile*

Me: *blank stare*

Cashier: “Dallas Cowboys! I don’t like em’ but some people do.”

Me: *defeated* “Yes.” *smile*

Cris: *blank stare*

We wanted to run out the store but instead we lightly jogged. Driving home was as exciting as the ride there.

sheet2-022“I can’t stand all this beauty, Martha. Look at it.”

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A Rehab Story

Spending time in an adolescence rehab facility will give you stories for a lifetime. It’s like summer camp for fuck ups and future felons.(They should have put that on the brochure and I wouldn’t have gone kicking and screaming.) Taking a bunch of rebellious drug addicted teens and removing their only source of happiness, leads to giggles of the strangest variety. The place I was sent was an extra special type of bat shit crazy. It was a converted dude ranch. The place was built to resemble an Old West town. Trippy shit. We had horses, the whole nine. Almost all of us were city kids detoxing on a Tombstone set for clowns.

Phillip was the new kid, full of life and not a shred of innocence, although, you couldn’t tell it by his looks. A curly headed, pasty white 14 year old just trying to make a name for himself. He stood about 6’2″ and weighed close to 250. He was big for his age.


“I’ll eat this locker for a bump.”

I can’t say I knew Phillip well. Phillip didn’t last long enough for us to get a good grip on what made him tick. If I had to guess, I’d say Tetris and date raping himself randomly.

We knew Phil had a temper, he’d get worked up and get sent off to the Lock Treatment Unit or LTU. The LTU was a shed of sorts with massive metal doors that took 1000 lbs of pressure to open once they were locked. The building had four parts. Two housing units with three sleeping areas each, a holding area, and a middle section that was plexiglass and held a staff member. You had your clothes taken away and replaced with white scrubs. It was demoralizing in a “Hey, this is what I’d look like in Huntsville!” kind of way. I’m pretty sure that was the point. Phil was on his own kind of high. He seemed to enjoy the place. I hated it. Once, I was there for about five days and by the end of it I was stark raving mad. Nothing made any sense. The only thing I had been allowed to do was read the AA books and stare at pink walls.

The LTU is where the genesis of this story really begins. Phil had been sent there, yet again, for God knows what. We all knew who was in the LTU at any given moment, even though it was outside of our boundaries. All of the staff had walkie talkies, and as soon as someone was put in, we’d hear it over the radios. Phillip couldn’t have been in the LTU for more than an hour when an S.O.S type of call went out over the radios. “Phillip has escaped the LTU! All staff! Phillip has escaped the LTU!”. At the time, I was having my lunch in the cafe. The cafe was on the main strip of our little Deadwood type of hell. It had massive windows overlooking the main courtyard. All of us future winners looked at each other in amusement because to our knowledge this was the first breakout of the LTU. We had all tried, only to be beaten into submission by hard plastic and strong magnets. Turns out, the main LTU door had been left slightly open and Phillip carpe diemed that shit.

A minute or two passes and we pretty much went back to eating because young drug addicts and short attention spans are the ying & yang of bleak futures. To our shock we hear a loud thud emanating from the front of the cafe, by the windows. I whip my head around to see Phillip in his underwear, with the largest grin I had ever seen. He had thrown his large body onto the glass, face smushed into it, arms in the air, and a beaming pride that I imagine any prison break participant would give a stamp of approval. Within a few seconds, we see a male staff member try to tackle poor Phillip but he bounced off and Phillip kept running. We ran to the window to see the whole staff chasing Phil in his tighty whities. It took about five grown men to subdue the man child. Phil was smiling the whole way down.
“Where’s your God now?”

Phil was transferred to a local mental hospital and we never saw or heard from him again.

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