Monthly Archives: July 2011

As marginal as it sounds, as fuckuppery as it seems, as totally asswaddy it might be, I did it.

I signed up for the tractor-trailering course. Miss Carol’s not totally happy, but she’s not totally sad either, so we’re working it out.

It’s not like I’m gonna close up my little company but the trucking is something that’s been calling me, an insistently constant tug urging me on with it’s relentless siren song.

So.

Deep breath.

I go for my DOT drug test and DOT physical later this week and start the course August 8th. Two months of tractor-trailer training while keeping my company going and finishing The Little House of Horrors.

I’m stoked.

Why do I do this shit?

It had to happen.

I’d been on a roll. Every damn book I picked up was flipping amazing. My creds were dashed, but I was a happy dude. LALALALALA and EVERYthing is worth reading, right?

Then I crashed into Bangkok Babylon.

What a piece of crap.

I mean really.

Author Jerry Hopkins is an aged Rolling Stone correspondent (aged being the clue word) and Bangkok Babylon is basically a collection of stories about how cool his equally aging bar-fly friends are (not that I have a problem with bars) and how they’re all soooo cool to be living in Bangkok with their asian wives who’re half their liver-spotted ages. (Noooo, I don’t have a problem with that either)

My problem? Every glinty vignette is the same. Check it- MR. blah, blah was a rebel who never finished high school or college and then MR. blah, blah struck it rich ’cause he’s cool and hooked up with me and my creaky friends and then MR. blah, blah found nirvana in Bang-fucking-kok.

It gets really old, really quick.

I was reading this narcissistic screed this weekend, thinking maybe of throwing up in my mouth or maybe just tossing the piece of shit into the ocean.

But I didn’t have anything else to read.

Not even a McDonald’s happy menu.

It would have been enough. The menu, I mean.

So I bore down and finished, but dude, Bangkok Babylon sucks. Don’t waste your time. I wish I could get mine back.

Time, I mean.

So hey. I was all ready to go tractor-trailerin’.

I was primed to climb up into the cab of 40 tons of rolling thunder and head out down the highway, the breeze blowing like freedom through my hair.

Oooo. baby, baby. I was soooooooooo ready.

I’d thunk about it and thunk about it and finally figured out a way I could do it out without having to shut down my company and risk loss of income. I’d talked to the CDL (Commercial Driving License) course instructors. I’d read a bunch a blogs and websites about the trucking industry. And of course, I’d looked at all the trucks I’d love to buy and drive all over the country. Did I mention the freedom blowing? The hair?

I’d decided. I’d even blogged that it was a done deal and I was doing it.

And then a little teeny tiny detail I’d somehow overlooked, forgotten, poked it’s shitty little head up.

I forgot to tell Miss Carol.

Whoops.

I have this weirdly narcissistic thing that happens when I do stuff like this-I just assume everyone around me knows what I’m thinking about and is insync with me and all my hopes and dreams.

Call it clueless assholery.

So when I dropped the bomb on Miss Carol on Friday night, her face crumpled and then she got out of the hot tub and then she got pissed.

You are such a fuckhead she said. WHEN were you going to tell me? she shrieked.

Tonight? I ventured?

(um, did I mention clueless assholery?)

So anyway.

It’s always fun being married and we’re working it out and I still think I’ll be driving one of those big fuckers in the next month or so.

But, man, Miss Carols’ just a little ticked off.

Hooboy.

I normally try and post just three times a week ’cause regimentation loves uniformity.

Or is it the other way ’round?

Anyway.

I was just sidling along, doing nothing until I read this and HAD to link  to it for y’all. It’s just TOO fucking funny. Check it out. The “Got Milk” folks have rolled out a new marketing campaign tying calcium deficits to increased PMS in and amongst our womenfolk. Seems you babes should’ve been drinking more milk. Who knew?

And dudes? It seems like maybe it was never our fault. Everrrr.

Yessssssssssss.

Billboards have sprung up all over California showing confused, bewildered men holding out offerings of cartons of milk with taglines like “I’m sorry for the the thing or things I did or didn’t do” and “I’m sorry I listened to what you said and NOT  what you meant” and “I apologize for not reading between the RIGHT lines”.

Bwaahhhahahahaha

I don’t live in California, but it sure does make me want to ’cause it’s just so flipping hilarious.

Right?

And of course the chick groups are criticizing the campaign calling it the usual stuff and saying it portrays men? as victims of PMS like that’s something new?

um. helloooo?

Anyway.

Check out the website if you can. The pearlescent gem includes a “current global PMS level”, a “video apology enhancer”, a “mistake verification system”, and a “puppy dog Eye-Zer” to make you more apologetically adorable. Or adorably apologetic.

Good stuff.