MAY DAY 2007

Once again it's nearly that time of year when anarchists and communists get together to celebrate the last victory of the working class - The 8 hour working day.

I am unemployed currently, so I don't have much right to gripe about capitalism these days. But in true Bukowski fashion I must celebrate my refusal to work. I won't even write a new post. I am just going to repost a blog entry from when the "Man" used to be able to keep me down.

My work blog for Labor Day 2006

Long Live the Revolution!

I only celebrate 2 religious holidays a year. May Day and Labor Day.

I will be working my religious holiday this year. I don't work Mondays normally, so I didn't think to ask for it off. So of course I get scheduled on Labor Day.

"I just treated it like any other day."

That's what the boss said when I asked her about why I was working on the only day working people shouldn't have to.

Of course you did. Why not? I thought.

Just like I treat the fact that I have been disfigured* and disabled** as just a "regular part of working for the capitalist pigs."

Lucky for me though, this is PalmGhetto. So a regular workday here is never just another "regular workday." Instead of spending my holiday trying to chant pro-union songs all day (I don't know any lyrics), I can spend the day trying to avoid white trash conversations at my lunchtime locker.

The following conversation is not verbatim:

After informing me that the "Bitch in the register next to me better watch her ass" because "she is talking a lot of shit," I overhear the middle aged cashier on her cell phone telling her drug buying prospects that she "had a little something if you are interested."

I try to change the subject from violence and drugs to my aching back. Crazy cashier girl busts out with her "tabs" and asks if I need any. I politely decline and mention I'd rather continue to vomit up my own blood from taking all that Aleve instead.

* I hesitate to place a picture of the hideous scar on the lower half of my thumb which I received from scraping it against the trash can bin.

** I've been vomiting liters of blood from all the Aleve I've been taking for the back pain I incurred whilst mopping an entire bakery floor with a kitchen sized mop.

Today's Fan Letter to Steve Nash's Wife is called "The NFL DRAFT"

Dear Mrs. Nash,

I just wanted to compliment you on your demeanor. I've noticed that whenever you are in the spotlight with your husband you behave yourself. Do you think public displays of affection are OK? You must. I mean you don't even have a problem speaking Paraguayan in public. But somehow you pull it off. I guess it's all about class. You've got it. Some don't.

I bring it up only because you probably saw that ugly display put on by that super tramp Lindy Slinger. She totally got caught by some bloggers "rolling" her eyes when Brady tried to kiss her. In addition, she basically set her man up for a pummelling by the Miami Dolphins when she opined that "Brady can't wait to face the Dolphins or any of the teams that passed on him. "

I won't point out the logic of getting angry at someone who doesn't owe you anything. Teams can choose whoever they want. Don't piss of the defenders who are going to be trying to decapitate your man. But you already knew that.

(Want more fun with Lindy? Try my post at the Need of the Few & Self Help!)

Why can't you just start writing something, ignore the email that says you are boring, she never read the book you lent her anyways.

Writers are supposed to write. That's what they do. When they are not writing they are not being themselves. Writers don't have to be good. Most are not. And none of us will change the world. Marx was wrong about that too.

I know I am not going to change anything about the world by writing these few sentences. Other that the fact that for the first time when you click on my blog you will notice that it has changed a bit. That I did something for a change.

One of the reasons I am not writing is that I am not doing anything. I also think that it is pretty pretentious to call this writing, or to call myself a writer. I'd like to be a writer one day. And the only way you can ever get there is by writing everyday. By trying to improve.

It makes no sense to make atonement this way. By not writing. Idiosyncratic self punishment instead of action. A deep character flaw of mine. I wished I hadn't told you that. Because unless you knww me personally you might not have ever guessed it. Too late, now you know.

Thanks Amber and Dr. Stephanie for the encouragement to write.


In news of the Awesome. I had a student journalist contact me about my "cougar" post. She wants to include some quotes and stuff in a story she is doing on the subject. Did I mention that the student might be the hottest chick ever? Oh, I guess I just did.

things are happening to me. I am just not posting about them,

I met my other blog g/f Miss "Knows it All." I missed her getting real drunk. But as a friend of mine told her, "You looking skinny girl." *

Kinda like Miss Ex Kevin Federline.

All I know is it was freaky to meet someone I only e-chated with. Not freaky in a sleep-with-sheep-kind-of-way, just freaky regular.

I met another Cougar. Her name was Katrina. We called her the "Hurricane." Best nickname ever.

I am avoiding at all costs updating this blog. I have no idea why.

* My message to Knows it all

It's like somehow I don't make the cut. I don't warrant a mention. That meeting me was some how anti-climatic for you. I blame you for that. I will take no personal responsibility whatsover for your feelings.

But I hope that you will. I hope you come to the understanding that meeting me was the first day of your real life. That all was false positive until that fateful day.But I always hope in vain. The human spirit is fragile and weak. It always lets me down. I should not rely upon it anymore.Instead I should just strap myself on board a backpack bomb of some lonely middle eastern terrorist at banana republic.

Kaboom Banana Republic. Kaboom.

This is not the novel I am not working on. I don't know when that novel is coming...

Arabic music played on the computer. I sat reading an e-book from the local library. I had decided to stop writing in this stupid blog. I was going to write a novel maybe. That way no one would have to read any of my dribble.

I tried breathing through my nose, but I was congested. I sat on the toilet to pee.

I saw the beer can only after it whizzed by me. Close enough to my ear that it buzzed at me as it flew past. Like it was warning me. Telling me how lucky I was. That it coulda fucked me up.

I looked up and saw a truck drive past me. Two yahoos laughing in the back, daring me. I looked around and saw a stone. I picked up the rock. In my hands it felt powerful. I felt like David. Slingshot ready. I cocked my arm back. I'm a good aim. The car was speeding away, but it wasn't out of my range just yet.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

It was a female voice. The voice distracted me from throwing. The car was now out of my range. I still had a tight grip on the rock. "I'll take care of it for you." The voice belonged to a policewomen. She had seen the can and was busy scribbling down the license plate and a description of the car on her police pad.

"You think you could drop the rock for me?" She was attempting to ascertain my threat level. Her tone indicated to me that I should drop the stone. Quickly if I wanted to remain on the "victim" side of things. Her eyes stayed focused on my hand all the time she wrote.

My eyes were stinging. I was imagining how my rock would have hit that fucker in the middle of his head. He probably would have fallen out of the truck bed and landed on the asphalt. I was still clenching the rock when the word "rock" finally registered with me. I looked down at the rock and let it drop. It hit my foot with a soft thud and rolled off in to the street.

"I am gonna need a statement from you. And I'll need you to fill out a form if you want to prosecute." She tugged her hair blowing in the wind behind her ears. An adorable habit in a woman. "You do want to prosecute don't you?" She emphasized the "you" because I didn't seem to be responding much to her.

"You bet I do." I told her.

Kim Dillion stole my heart and 400 dollars of clothing from Dillard's

I have a strange obsession with local TV news anchors. Maybe you remember I tried making that News Anchor Celebrity Blog . I had plans to join up with local bloggers around the country to blog about TV news personalities. I am just full of great ideas like that.

I spend my nights losing sleep wondering why Sean McLaughlin is no longer on the Today show. He had to crawl back to Channel 5 in Phoenix after failing in the Big Apple. I think it might be because he's so skinny. People like their morning weather guys to be fat and jolly like Willard Scott.

All of which brings me to my point. Kim Dillion a local TV weather girl was found guilty of stealing 400 dollars worth of clothes from Dillard's. This is just my personal opinion, but I think we should go easy on her.

TV personalities are not paid what you expect and they have to buy their own clothing. Imagine the pressure of trying to buy a new outfit everyday. It's enough to make you take pills so and forget you have to pay for all those damn pencil skirt outfits.

You must go read the comments from a local columnist. This thing is being dissected like it's the OJ trial.