new world.

Posted on August 10, 2011 | 8 comments

On Monday the tractor-trailerin’ began.

I know this is making Miss Carol crazy ’cause she can’t figure out why I’m even doing this because, honestly? I’m not so sure, either.

It’s just something I’ve always wanted to do.

Driving a big-rig, blasting all alone down a lonely highway, hauling 40 tons of whatever with the music cranking and heading for a far-off horizon? How cool is that?

You know, as an idea, anyway?

But Monday was a bit of a wake up call. I never thought or dreamed that truckers-to-be would be rocket scientists or even marginally hip or cool. And, I’m not saying I am and I realize people are products of their upbringing and whatever, but, hey. Whoa.

Our class of 12 squeezed into the little classroom and while our instructor started reading the manual to us I looked around and listened and after three days I’m wondering what it is I did.

There’s a coupla scar-covered guys from Ghana that I’m not sure can write english. You know, like I can.

There’s this one spooky dude that I just hope I’m not ever riding with.

There’s another huge guy covered in tattoos that actually looks pretty harmless. Except, maybe to little kids.

There’s two guys who’ve decided to be my bestest buddies and want to talk to me all the time and tell me what to do. I hate them.

There’s a guy who’s already spent a YEAR at the school studying diesel mechanics and has decided that THAT school didn’t, and couldn’t, teach him anything. He’s very angry.

There’s this one bird-like looking kid that just seems really nervous. I’d actually like to talk to him.

There’s this one big black guy who has NEVER driven anything with a clutch. I’m not quite sure what he was thinking.

And then there’s these two ex-Navy dudes just looking for anything to do now that they’re out of the service. They seem a little lost.

It’s an interestingly new world I’m in. I like learning new things, especially stuff like this that is SO outside my comfort zone and while I think everything’ll be cool, the overall feel is testosterone fueled toughness.

Man.

I just hope I don’t get beat up.

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Posted in doggy tractor-trailerin'

like, life?

Posted on August 8, 2011 | 7 comments

So I’m finally sitting on the beach late on Sunday afternoon after working forever and I’m watching the waves and I’m watching Miss Carol nap and I’m wondering, WTF?

Is this beach life thingy all it’s cracked up to be?

I mean, during the “nice” summer months when the beach is supposed to be the place to be, it’s so frickin’ hot you can fry eggs on your cooler. No wind, no breeze, just relentless heat and unrelenting humidity.

Add to that the daytrippers and tourons, and shit dude, sitting packed on the beach cheek to jowl with thousands and thousands of pasty-ass strangers is not really high on my idea of fun.

(Which, by the way, brings up something totally different- how is it that in AUGUST white people can still be sooooo white they start to burn just sprinting from their cars to their condo’s? I mean, I know not everyone has a beach, but surely everyone has sunlight, right? Are these people captives or something?)

Anyway.

So then the sultry summer season ends and it’s time for hurricanes and their endlessly wearisome, worrisome, constant weather tracking and boarding up of windows and writing of names and SSI#’s on arms so officials can positively identify our bloated dead bodies when we wash up somewhere, sometime, after the storm.

Whew. Then.

Frothing and snapping right on the heels of the hurricane fun is Papa Winter with his constantly icy winds and rain whipped nor’easters and sometimes, lately, even sleet and snow. At the beach? I love you Papa.

And then the spring awakens with her flirty lightness and we’re deluged with soaking rains and flowers that try but drown and die. And then we’ve made that short trip around the sun and it’s right back into another sweaty summer.

Fun, right?

So I sat there and I tried to think why? Why do we stay? Why do we endure season after season? Why not move on to some place where the weather isn’t so viciously predatory- maybe like a quiet lake in the mountains or somethin’.

Oh shit. Wait a sec.

I remember now.

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Posted in doggy diarrhea, Uncategorized

very. funny.

Posted on August 5, 2011 | 9 comments

HEY DICKHEAD THAT HURTS, Cutter yelped when I jerked his leash.

He’d stopped and planted and lifted his leg for the bazillionth time and I was over it.

C’mon dudes I screamed, can’t we just WALK?

I’d jerked him along ’cause I was totally over walking them. I was worn out and tired of the two-a-days. What sucks about walking un-neutered male litter-mates is their need to pee on everything. Really.

No, wait. What really sucks is walking un-neutered male litter-mates on trash day when every. single. driveway. has a target.

No, um, wait. What REALLY sucks is walking un-neutered male litter-mates on recycling trash day when every. single. driveway. has TWO targets.

NO, WAIT-THERE’S MORE. WHAT REALLY REALLY sucks is walking un-neutered male litter-mates on recycling trash day when every. single. driveway. has TWO targets AND it’s an August afternoon when the temperature’s 200 degrees with 200% humidity.

So, yeah, my temper mighta flared. A little.

Anyway.

After the flare up we settled and we’re walking along and this woman came off the beach and turned towards us and Cutter kinda nudged Tug and I saw it but I didn’t get it until it was too late.

As we passed the bikini-clad woman Cutter lowered his voice, trying to imitate me, and said NICE BOOBS BABE.

Tug snuffled Cutter in the ear with his nose and they were both snickering and giggling like retards. Good one he said.

The woman just glared at me.

We got about twenty feet away from her and I said I fucking hate you guys, ya know it?

But I was grinning. It was back to being good.

9 Comments

Posted in doggy dickheads

Stuff.

Posted on August 3, 2011 | 4 comments

I was working in a part of the hospital today called Transitional Care which I’m thinkin’ might be a fancypants name for torturing old people.

‘Cause that sure is what it seemed like they were doing. Most of these old geezers were having a tough time just sitting in their wheelchairs and breathing. And this super scrawny woman and her sausage squeezy fat-ass accomplice were making these old farts move around and walk ten feet or so before collapsing.

And I thought, shit. I never, ever want to be here in their shoes. This is gonna sound awful, but. Working around those people didn’t make me feel for them, didn’t make me want to help them or sympathetically hold their hand and empathize with their plight.

It made me wonder why.

As in, why, would anyone clench so white-knucklededly to such a dismal, drab existence? Why keep gripping and pedaling the bicycle wheel like a hamster waiting for the therapist to give you a break and tell you how good you’re doing? Why keep sitting in a room ringed with similarly old people, wondering who’s next up for the walk around the room or maybe the final walk with the hazy flowers?

I know I’m still young enough to boldly say I’LL NEVER END UP LIKE THAT, to think that I’m brave enough and committed enough to the Papa Hemingway out to never be wheezing on a physical therapy mattress struggling to do a leg lift.

I hope.

Sorry for the downer.

But, and hey, on other news? I pay tuition tomorrow, sign the rest of the papers, and start training on Monday to drive a big rig. It’s a big step, Junior.

I wish Miss Carol was more behind it and more enthusiastic. but.

4 Comments

Posted in doggy diarrhea

Tattoo you.

Posted on August 1, 2011 | 4 comments

I have a ball cap that reads “Scars Are Tattoos With Better Stories”. I like that hat ’cause I generally believe this to be true since most tattoos are generally the result of something that seemed like a good idea at the time and scars tend to be something else entirely.

But’cha know what? I was walking down one of the main thoroughfares of the hospital last week and I ended up stalled behind a radiologist leading this frail little old lady down the hallway to MRI. Teeny and tiny, she was probably all of 80 lbs. sopping wet.

As I got closer and tried to pass them I noticed that this frail little old granny lady had blurred, bleary, tired old tattoos on her arms and legs. And I was like, wow, that’s weirdly interesting. Then she accidentally dropped her crumpled pack of cigarettes and when she bent over to pick them up, her ill-fitting KISS t-shirt drooped away from her scrawny chest and I saw she had tattoos on her shriveled up old lady boobs too.

Ewww. I WAS SO NOT LOOKING AT HER BOOBS, OK?

But so anyway.

So I passed them by and moved on with my life and presumably they moved on with theirs but it made me wonder- what kinda strange and possibly interesting life had that little old lady led that had resulted in all those now indistinct blue-black blobby tattoos?

Maybe sometimes tattoos can have a good story too, ya know?

I mean, c’mon, who doesn’t wanna know HER story?

Don’t lie.

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Posted in Uncategorized

Dueling Moms.

Posted on July 29, 2011 | Leave a comment

Miss Carol and me have been having a time lately with our moms.

I’d love to say I’m this tough guy that doesn’t care, that scorns softness and fragility, that says- hey it’ll work itself out, that grabs another beer and pushes out down to the beach and gazes fondly out at the bikini babes tanning in the late afternoon sun whilst sipping suds and thinking blandly.

I long to be that guy.

I do.

But I can’t.

So, yeah.

Miss Carol and me’s moms are having differing and probably progressively downward spiraling problems that will, I am sure, chew into my heart and what little free time I might have dreamed of having.

But, ya know?, I love them both.

So as much as I want to be the frothy-beer-swilling-bikini-watching-total-denial-thingy-dude?

I just can’t.

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Posted in Uncategorized

So I did it.

Posted on July 27, 2011 | 2 comments

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?

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Posted in doggy diarrhea

Shit and goddamn.

Posted on July 26, 2011 | 4 comments

This was gonna be one thing and then it became another.

I was gonna rant and rave about the Little House of Horrors and how it was such a piece of shit to work on and most probably bitch and moan about how much it blows to build a Little House of Horrors.

My life sucks, right?

And then I saw that Amy Winehouse died and I don’t know why but something kicked in, and kicked me in a way that was surprising.

I actually feel sad. Really sad. And I don’t know why. I wasn’t a huge fan, just a guy liking her music.

And Miss Carol too.

We can’t quite figure it out, but it hit us like a bullet that somebody with all that talent burned out that fast.

Or maybe that’s why they do.

Maybe it’s all they can do.

I’m at a loss. I don’t know why it fucking bothers me so much. But it does. I wish I could puzzle it out but I can’t.

Thinking of Amy makes me sad.

Fuck the stupid house.

4 Comments

Posted in doggy dreamhouse?

My Tug.

Posted on July 22, 2011 | Leave a comment

I was sitting and whispering to myself that I was working and that I was actually getting something done, when Tug came into the Me Only Room and plopped down.

I swiveled to face him.

So, he said.

Tug’s always deep and solemn and he looked at me deeply and solemnly and said- you gonna do this?  And he shifted from paw to paw.

Do what, I said.

You gonna take this tractor trailerin’ course and leave us? he said.

Don’t seem right he said.

And then he sat. Waiting. Panting slightly and looking around like dogs do.

Dude, I said, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just trying to think ahead. I’m just thinkin’ it might not be a good idea to get my CDL.

Hmmm he growled shifting and focusing.

Have you thought this through? he asked.

Whaddya mean? I asked Tug.

He paused and licked himself and then he said is this escapism?

And I said in a small voice. Maybe.

He stood up and shook himself out and said- you’re a turd.

And then he ambled off.

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The run ends.

Posted on July 20, 2011 | 1 comment

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.

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Posted in doggy diarrhea