Let’s get really to rumble! Actually, after dealing with chemotherapy, round one, I’d be happy with a lot less rumbling – rumbling here used as a euphemism for frequent vomiting and explosive diarrhea.
Everyone has their favorite holiday songs. You are understandably welcome to express your personal opinion about the selections below and the particular artists that performed them (as long as you realize that you are wrong if you disagree with me)
Christmas is a fraud. Let me be clear about my feelings concerning this cash-grab of a holiday right now. From my understanding of the olden days, the Christian church needed to offset Pagan rituals that occurred at this time of year and came up with a date that featured a lovely, squeaky-clean hero baby that didn’t drink, smoke or spit on public sidewalks.
Friday, July Something
Well dear reader, it has finally happened. After being unemployed since March 3, I have finally snapped my cap, gone ‘round the bend, bought a ticket for the Up With People Concert, and begun wearing traffic cones on my head as cutting-edge fashion. What I mean to say is that I’ve caught the disease reserved for the elderly, the insane and individuals without access to a Gregorian Calendar.
It was waiting downstairs.
As you probably have learned from hard-won experience, dear reader, the things that blindside you and alter the course of your life (and not in a good way), the horrific things, don’t come accompanied by a dramatic swell of orchestral music and terse lines of movie script. There aren’t any vampires coming in through the windows at 1 a.m. No, the horrors pop up unheralded on a sunny, ordinary Wednesday morning out of a clear blue sky.
Second Full Week, Unemployed
I warmed up the car this morning at 8:45, drove Rochelle to work, stopped into Wal-Mart for squirrel food, then straight back to my PC to file for unemployment claims, work on some writing, try and figure out how the hell to get a job, and see if Willie Raylan will mosey on downstairs to have another conversation with me.
Day, me say day-ay-ay-o
Daylight come and me wan’ go home
Day, me say day, me say day, me say day…Daylight come and me wan’ go home.
…As you already know, Dear Reader, I’ve been canned, sacked, terminated, booted, let go, boned in the ass, as they say. My former employer, the mayor, was decent enough to let me save face by submitting a letter of resignation in which I stated that I was going on to bigger, better things, like dumpster diving and geriatric male prostitution.
Recently (so recently, most of my co-workers are blissfully unaware) I have been let go, terminated, been hit by the Big Ugly Axe, sacked.
Dear Reader, for your amusement, while I am still giddy over the prospect of getting to stay home and confident about my ability to land another situation making more money and with more prestige and better benefits, I’ve elected to journal my experiences. I think it will be a fun experience and educational for other middle-aged men who will then be energized and encouraged to lose their jobs as well. Hell, maybe we can form regional and national clubs (like Skid Row in Los Angeles and the Bowery in NYC). At the very least, this will make a fun suicide note.
I’ve been silent for over a day about this. I know this isn’t necessarily a forum for such a horrid, sad topic. I don’t mean to bring you all down. But I feel that my soul has been crushed and I’ve been a victim of a brutal crime. It happened right in one of the so-called “nice neighborhoods” in town. I was the victim of someone that I considered a friend. A caring, decent woman that I trusted.