Unsticking the Craw

More TMS archival material.

I got a lot of things stuck in my craw this morning, so I'm just going to uncraw the hell out of a couple, folks.

I. I Am Apparently Friends With a Lot of 13-Year-Old Girls

No, not literally. I am not Gary Glitter; step back Chris Hansen. I just noticed yesterday that, judging by Facebook statuses, a lot of my friends, many of whom are my age and older, were filled with outrage that Kanye West interrupted Taylor Swift to praise Beyonce, or something like that at the Video Music Awards. Which means that a lot of my friends, many of whom are married adults with college degrees and young children, are watching the Video Music Awards.

Folks: an overrated pop star insulted another overrated pop star, and a third overrated pop star was involved. Genocide in Darfur never gets this kind of outrage. You are adults. You should really start caring about adult things, which I define as whatever the hell isn't on goddamn MTV.

II. Chicago Sports Fans Are Actually Worse Than 13-Year-Old Girls

I know it's only the lunatic fringe now, but the fact that immediately following Chicago's (non-blowout) loss on Sunday, certain Bears fans were already ready to run Jay Cutler out of town only strengthens my point. I mean, I'm used to my fellow Cubs fans being out on the ledge, but COME ON. Calm down. It was a loss. It was a bad day. Relax. And for God's sake: do not even pretend that Orton is better than Cutler based on one goddamn day. And it will only get worse if they lose another game between now and the Super Bowl.

I have never seen a whinier batch of fembots than the average group of fanatical Chicago sports fans when faced with an unexpected loss. And I know several Morrissey and Cure fans. Every time a highly touted player lets them down, Chicago is flooded with a sentiment of "bring back the mediocre journeyman with grit and hustle and scrap that couldn't win a damn ballgame either!" God, if one of the Cubs slap-hittin' cajuns actually gets traded, prepare for a collective, city wide crying jag.

Note: It is acceptable to be upset about losing Urlacher to an injury. That actually does suck donkey wang - although most of the people hand-wringing about this loss wanted to run him out of town on a rail last season. Crybabies.

III. We Are Creeping Closer To a Police State Again

Read this article, and this follow up.

If you still think Kanye West's behavior is worth wasting your outrage after hearing this story, then you can die in a fire.

A quick observation from my sickbed1

So, for the last two days or so, I have had have a pretty bad flu or an incredibly awful, almost biblically epic cold. And I'm taking (among other things) Theraflu² for it. Since I also have a scratchy throat, it's the Flu + Sore Throat version, which is some sort of spiced apple flavor.

My observation is this: this sore throat version has a narrow margin over the original flavor. The reason being that it does not taste like hot, mediciney lemon juice. Instead, it tastes like THE ABSOLUTE WORST HOT APPLE CIDER YOU'VE EVER HAD.

Goddamn, I hate being sick.


P.S. - If you're stalking me, don't forget to check my "101 things" list periodically. I will be marking them off as I do them. I've been making more homemade soup to combat this vile illness that afflicts me, so I'm down to 99!

---

1. I say "sickbed," but that's actually just where I belong. I am actually at work.
2. Which probably warrants a trademark or restricted symbol, but I'm too spacy to figure out which or remember how to make them.³
3. I do remember how to make superscripts.

Mandatory Addendum: Kvetching

How the hell could I write a Miscellany and not bitch about something? I must be slipping from lack of practice. Here's a couple of whinges for you, just so you feel complete:

Bitch the First

Monday morning, I realized I lost my CTA farecard, which means I have to use cash to ride the bus to and from work until my replacement card is mailed to me. That's annoying, but I'm not going to bitch about that in a blog (indeed, I haven't until today).

The weather outside is currently a "wintry mix" of sleet and snow. This is Chicago, so expecting it to warm up just because it's spring is asinine, so I won't bitch.

This is where the addition of straws gave my personal metaphorical camel a bulging disc: I have to transfer on my way home. Because I'm not made of money, I decide to walk from my job to Michigan Avenue (about a 10 minute jaunt, and not that unpleasant on most days - the bus ride takes all of 2-3 minutes without traffic). A ten minute jaunt through "wintry mix" (which is not as pleasant as it sounds - I imagine some sort of Chex mix with dried cranberries or something) by the lake in Chicago is roughly akin to spending 16 days in Dante's Third Circle of Hell. Especially when all you're wearing for warmth is a cable knit sweater (yeah, I look like the Old Spice Guy) and a light corduroy jacket.

Bitch the Second

So, I make it home in one piece, and upon entering the door, IMMEDIATELY smell piss. Sparky looks guilty. I do a slow burn. Then I look over and see it's on the "puppy pad." Sweet. No biggie, I'll just throw that out and---

Oh for crying out loud, Sparky.

He got about half of it on the pad. The rest? On the surprisingly hard to clean linoleum.

Welcome home, Jon.

Well, I should go...I now have to clean a chincilla and rabbit hutch. I leave you with the question rattling around in my head like a BB in a coffee can:

At what point did my life actually start revolving around the waste of small mammals?

EDIT: I just realized I totally pissed and moaned about the Carbon/Silicon show in the earlier blog, thus rendering the central premise of this blog a lie. Oh well, what are you gonna do, huh?

My Back, addendum.

Your're only as old as you feel.

I'm pretty sure this little piece of homespun crap is usually designed to help the elderly face their impending doom with a little dignity. But there's a flip side to this.

Today, I checked out a key to an 84-year-old contractor.

Who could probably have beaten me in a footrace.

Damn this ruptured Chiklis!





Oh, and Cletus J.: I added the offended numeral below.

How My Back Ruined My FOUR Day Weekend

Or, Even I Can't Blame the Dog For This One¹

Greetings from the Slogosphere! Though I have never yet gotten to the point of writing The Slog Manifesto, there is a reason for this blog's title. And it's hints are in the definitions on the corner of the page, and how they relate direct to My Sad Little Life.

Even barring the surprisingly common occurrance of Unauthorized Canine Fecal Matter in my apartment,² I am not known as either

• A particularly lucky person
• A particularly level-headed³ person when my luck is bad

In other words, bad shit⁴ happens me to a lot, and I like to complain about it.

I suppose I should "man up" and take charge of my own destiny. But no. In the case of my back, I think it's entirely fair to whine and moan like an 11-year-old that's just been told she can't get tickets to see Hannah Montana.⁵

As eagle-eyed Slogophiles might well be aware, I am 31 years of age. When I was about 26 or so⁶, I developed sciatica. Your mid-to-late-twenties is always a fantastic time to develop a lower back problem. Because, since youth is wasted on the young, why not just take it away from them, and give them a disorder that makes them feel like they're 78 years old?

Honestly, "sciatica" sounds like something your Granpappy complained about just before Mom and Dad made the so-called "tough decision" to ship him to some raisin ranch with a name like Sandpiper Estates or Pleasant Hill Cove. Maybe we could come up with a more "youth-oriented" or "Xtreme" name for it? Or name it after someone kinda cool? I'd much rather tell people I had "David Cross Syndrome" or "a Bulging Chiklis."

Where was I? Oh yeah.

Pain.

I has it.

Anyway, my sciatica has been an on-again, off-again phenomenon since then. Mostly off, as one of my Top Three Deadly Sins to commit is Sloth,⁷ so it's usually easy for me to follow doctor's orders and lay off lifting more than 20 pounds at a time. However, there comes a time in a man's life when he's sick of paying 108 bucks a month to store his excess crap. So Teh Aly-Baerz⁸ and I went on a trip to Public Storage this weekend, and sorted through the Lion's Share of Wolter's Library.

Other facts about me that I could share right now:

• I am a compulsive book reader
• I am a compulsive book buyer
• I am a compulsive book hoarder
• This makes me a jackass

So, I had to sort through roughly 700 pounds of Assorted Printed Material, deciding what to keep and what to give away to Goodwill. I managed to actually give away something like two boxes worth, which is a serious victory in My War on My Compulsions.⁹ However, the specific gravity of paper is high. Oh, so very high.

Before anyone says anything: I (mostly) lifted with my legs, I swear. The problem with that? Oh, the next day, when my legs were killing me and we had to move the boxes into our apartment. Because I then favored my legs. At the expense of...well, I think I've spelled that out enough.

Anyway, yesterday, I couldn't walk, and wasted some Paid Time Off to rest it off. I basically spent the whole day in or around the bed, pestering La Alejandra del Hombre Bueno and complaining. I was moderately better this morning, so I decided to cut off what was rapidly becoming The Worst Unplanned Vacation in History. And since you can't get heroin over the counter, in order to rejoin the work¹¹ force I had to take (to paraphrase Bill Hicks paraphrasing someone else) An Heroic Dose of ibuprofen this morning.

Interesting fact about ibuprofen: it's not a miracle pill.

So, the Slog Status Report for March 18th, 2008:

• I am in excruciating pain
• It is largely my own damn fault
• I have tried and failed to blame The Spark
• In retaliation, he will no doubt crap on something I love while I am at work
• I will be powerless to clean it up, as it took me over 5 minutes to put on a shoe yesterday.

Hope you liked this bitter, largely unfunny rant about My Defective Body. Next one will be less self-centered and have more Synthpop Stars and Mogwai Feeding Tips.

---

1. But Lord how I tried. I really did.
2. Located in stately Slog Towers ("You don't have to be Section 8 to live here, but it helps.")
3. I was going to put sanguine, but I suddenly remembered that I can't remember if sanguine means calm or belligerent. If only I had some way to look up words and their meanings. Oh well, back to writing about myself on the internet.
4. I still can't believe he shat the bed. THE BED!!!
5. I'm not sure who this is. But I'm following the time-honored old-guy tradition of making an attempt to appeal to the youth demographic ('cause kids love reading blogs where 30-somethings rant about how much Citizen Kane could have been improved by adding a scene with a young Bea Arthur and a Talking Rhino singing a show tune [and you KNOW it would have been]. Or at least they do when you mention some pop star and/or actress they like).
6. It might have been 27. I honestly can't remember much that happened in my life before last Tuesday or so. Every now and then I have to consult this blog just to remember what I'm mad at lately.
7. The other two? Gluttony and Wrath. I would have put in Lust, but honestly, thinking of Lust just makes me commit either Envy or Pride, depending on my current status. And Greed is pretty awesome as well. Really, all of the Deadly Sins are pretty good. But I try to stick with my Top Three for most occassions.
8. See my new line of "Loljew" merchandise, soon to be available at a cafepress store near you.
9. Up next: I tackle My Irritating Need To Put Footnotes In Blog Entries¹⁰
10. And after that? Randomly Capitalized Terms.
11. I admittedly use that term loosely (see "Seven Deadly Sins, My Top Three" above)

How My Dog...Addendum

So, yeah. I figured that post was the last I'd need to make.

But this afternoon, Sparky shat the bed.

Not metaphorically, like he inherited some baserunners and gave up the winning run.

Literally.

He. Shat. The. Bed.

That is all.

How My Dog Has Already Ruined My Three Day Weekend

Howdy, folks looking for pictures of the lead singer of Dead or Alive. I've decided to interrupt my long, slow descent into madness to spend 5 minutes talking about my night:

I'm taking tomorrow off from work to spend a delightful day with the official Slog Girlfriend,¹ Alexandra J. Bear, Esq. Which makes this my Friday, sort of. But I've got less exciting plans than usual today, mostly consisting of getting laundry done, and cleaning the floor of our "apartment."² I'm doing this solo tonight, because Ali has a special dinner planned with her family, deferred all the way from last Valentines. Somewhere out there, she is dressed to the nines, beautiful, and having fun. I am so glad for her that she was not here.

The floor needs cleaning largely because there are seven mammals living here.³ Two (our rats, Dante and Wilson) are safely housed in an aquarium. Two (our Rabbit, Blue and Chinchilla, McGreevey) are in hutches that are roughly the size of my old Lincoln Square "apartment."⁴ These hutches have cage gates, enabling both Rabbit and Chinchilla to hurl bedding, hay, food pellets, and feces upwards of 4 feet away from their homes. ⁵ Two are humans; our feces is usually confined to the proper receptacle.

The final mammal is our Class Five Free Floating Vapor,⁶ Sparky. The Spark is...well, he's my dog. I love him. He is not 100% house-trained. But he tries. Lord how he tries.

Anywhoo, after a particularly frustrating day and a particularly frustrating commute, I finally get home. I'm delighted to see fresh urine and feces⁷ on the puppy pad.⁸ Good dog, Sparky! Here's a treat! I throw out the pad.

So, I sit down to catch my breath for a second. After about 4-5 minutes of checking email, I take a trip to the restroom. Just as I get out, my brother calls me to ask a question about which season of Arrested Development he watched when he visited me a while back. We chat for 2-3 minutes, while I try to remember the answer (I think it's one, but I'm not sure). I'm a pacer, so I've trotted all over the house. In mid-conversation, I start to smell something. Is that...no, can't be...he just went on the pad. I must smell the garbage. Better take the bag...

Oh holy crap. Gotta go, Jarrod.

The dog, all seven-point-two pounds of him, has crapped...

EVERYWHERE

I mean...seriously, in five distinct places.

This was not here before my bathroom trip. But it is now.

And that isn't even counting where I STEPPED IN IT AND TRACKED IT ALL OVER THE ROOM.

My lazy Thursday night was transformed to a Lovecraftian Scene of Canine Fecal Horror.⁹ And, of course, Sparky picks now to try to run around the house. AUUUUGH!

I chase him back to the bed, whereupon he yelps like I'm beating him, even though I'm standing 10 feet away. That little fucker is trying to make the neighbors think I'm abusing him. Jokes on him, though. I live next to transplanted trailer trash. Probably couldn't hear us over the sound of beating his trashy, boozed up wife.

So, I spend roughly 25 minutes on my hands and knees scrubbing Dog Waste out of out Increasingly Worthless Carpet. I was hoping to be done with laundry by now, but it's still in the dryer. The Spark? Asleep. We made up. He licked my face with his oyster breath and I swore that I would still feed him tomorrow.

Anyway, I should wrap up this blog. I just needed to vent. I have about 15 minutes left on the laundry, and that's probably just enough time to see if Dr. Scotch can stop by and do some lab work.

Excelsior!

'Nuff Said.

---

1. Okay, that sounds horrifying. But Slog Co-Habitator is worse, and Mrs. Slog is a little premature.
2. I am required by law to put quotes around this, as "broom closet" would be more accurate.
3. That I know of.
4. I am required by law to put quotes around this, as "Vietnamese POW Tiger Cage" would be more accurate.
5. Or, halfway across the "apartment."
6. A real nasty one, too.
7. Did I REALLY just say "delighted to see fresh urine and feces?" Let me check. Oh God. I did. Pray for me.
8. Puppy is a misnomer. The Spark is actually almost four. He is middle aged. And he still pisses on the floor. I'm 31, and it's probably been 2-3 years since I pissed on my carpet.
9. Technically, this is probably closer to Kafkaesque, but I have the label, and I'm gonna use it.
   

Search logs.

I've seen a few other blogs comment on the paths people have used to find them. This is my contribution to the tradition. The only search query that ever ended up here, to date:

"Mrs. Deagle" Cats

This is it. If anyone used this to find me; congratulations. I love you.

EDIT: I just learned the woman who played Mrs. Deagle was Polly Holliday. Flo from Alice.

Kiss My Grits, Mogwai!

The oddest injury I've ever sustained.

I'm sorry for anyone expecting a re-run, but this is actual new content. For the past few days I've been suffering from a nagging injury. I've been hesitant to blog about it, but this is the single stupidest way I've ever hurt myself (which, if you knew me like I know me, is saying a lot). And that means I can complain about it.

On Monday evening, while attempting to blow my nose, I suddenly sneezed and tore up my throat.

Let me repeat that (we dig repetition here at The Slog).

On Monday evening, while attempting to blow my nose, I suddenly sneezed and tore up my throat.

And when I say "tore-up," I don't mean, "made a little sore."

I mean, "I started spitting up blood, and instantaneously made myself feel like I had strep throat."

If you are ever thinking about sneezing while blocking your one clear nostril and having your mouth closed: don't. Holy hell, I thought I was having an aneurysm. It felt as if my head inflated like a Tex Avery character. I was under the momentary impresssion that my brain had actually ejected out of the back of my skull.

Not to mention the lion's share of The Crap My Body Needed to Sneeze Out came though my tear ducts. That's right, in addition to my brain exploding and my throat feeling like it was full of glass shards, I ended up sneezing through my eyes.

I now return you to your regularly scheduled romp down Memory Lane.

MySpace Archive: My Brush With Death (Part 2 of 2)

(Or: Anticlimax On A Grand Scale)

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

My Brush With Death Comes to a thrilling conclusion today. SPOILER ALERT: I don't die.

Like most things in life, this was pretty dissappointing, huh?

Well, not for me. I was fucking elated.

[Originally posted on Wednesday, November 22, 2006]

Well, I DON'T have cancer!

Current mood: Fucking elated

This is what I don't have: Pancoast's syndrome. Also known as Superior Sulcus tumors. A relatively uncommon form of lung cancer whose stage II description happened to fit every symptom I have right now.

Thank goodness the murky potential tumor on my X-ray was just old scarring from my 2 bouts of childhood pneumonia.

I'm not going to lie. I was scared shitless for the past few days.

Of course, this means I still have ridiculous, unexplained weight loss and near-crippling pain in my right shoulder blade [I have since gained about 5 pounds back. And my shoulder does not hurt anymore. It's a Christmas miracle]. Not to mention something like 1200 bucks worth of medical bills with no insurance. But at least I have a higher than 2 out of 3 chance of outliving Jesus now [Pretty edgy, huh?].

Now that I have a second lease on life, I feel it's time to squander it on bourbon and McRib value meals.

You know what? I'm going to take time out of my busy schedule of Not Dying and Rehashing Old Crap to complain about the whole "McRib on Tour" marketing plan. I'm so sick of being McDonald's bitch every time the unholy goodness of McRib hits the Windy City (pretty much every December, making it as seasonal as Egg Nog and twice as WASP-y).

The only thing I'm more sick of than that is people telling me how nasty the McRib is. Yes, I've seen it without the sauce. Yes, I'm aware that it's not really "barbecue." I grew up in South-By-God-Carolina. I know barbecue.

But I also know the McRib is a fine slice of fast-food Americana, and I will not stand idly by during its mocking by some fictional straw-man reader. I just want to have it available year round, so I'm not at the mercy of Ray Kroc's ghost when I want pressed pork-like byproducts on an oblong bun.

Okay, enough of that odd cul-de-sac. Next blog: I forgive everyone for everything. Sort of.

MySpace Archive: My Brush With Death

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

Welcome to part one of my exciting two part series "My Brush With Death." It would have been a lot longer, had I actually said anything about This Particular Brush while it was actually looming in my brain.

Of course, at this point, I had no idea that I was About To Possibly Die At Some Point In the Near Future If Certain Things Turned Out To Be The Case. The fact that they did not turn out to be the case in no way lessened the Personal Horror.

In any case, at this point my mind was more focused on the Nameless Fear of the Unknown that is usually brought about by contemplating the flagship series in the Lifetime Network syndication lineup. The fact that, despite being on Lifetime, the show did not contain a Judith Light appearance should in no way lessen the Personal Horror.

I will be presenting this particular Archive with limited editorial interruption, as it is one of my personal favorites.

[Originally posted on November 7, 2006]

Well, I'm going to a free clinic (plus Golden Girls house)

I have finally crossed the line from everyday pain to ridiculous pain in my shoulder (did I mention my shoulder has been feeling like it's full of cold fire for the past month and a half? I probably should have), and need to see a doctor. But (and this is a huge but - I should up the font, but I'm just not that Pomo) [But I am NOW.], I am not insured. And I won't be for at least 2 months.

So I get to trek my sorry hiney [Did I really write "hiney" here? I guess I did. Shameful] to the free clinic today, whereupon I can mention this pain, the weight loss, maybe get some baselines done, and while I'm at it, what better opportunity to get a cotton swab up my urethra and maybe a prostate exam. Just to keep the dignity at an all-time high.

Also, if they've expanded their areas of coverage to psychiatric disorders, I should really talk to a therapist about my increasing inability to comprehend the geography of the Golden Girls' house. This is a problem I've had for years (I'm a Bea Arthur fan, like all good-hearted people - and no, it's not prurient, you sickos).

I hesitate to explain my problems with the House That Blanche Built, for fear of spreading my own neuroses about the Non-Euclidean, almost Lovecraftian dimensions of that abode of the 60-something damned to those who have been innocent of this nightmare. However, I will make a few observations (and I would love to be able to provide visual aids, but I cannot draw dimensions beyond what the human mind and the set department at Buena Vista can envision).

I assume the reader has a basic knowledge of the set of this popular show, a mainstay of the NBC evenings of the late 80s/early 90s and the Lifetime Network mornings, afternoons, and late nights ever since. I also assume a basic knowledge of stage directions (a primer for my rare non-theatre acquaintances: all directions are from the standpoint of a performer facing the audience - stage right is to the audience's left - and downstage is closer to the audience, upstage is away).

There are three major set pieces in the house: the Living Room, with its front door on stage right, open Lanai windows upstage, unused breakfast nook (a mainstay of all shows featuring an all-woman cast - I refer to my monograph on the cast flux in Designing Women, first published in 1999) and hallway upstage left, and stage left kitchen exit; the Kitchen, with its stage right door to the living room and upstage right door to the garage; and the aforementioned Lanai (which is apparently some sort of patio, but I have never heard anyone use the term outside of Golden Girls studies - in much the same way that I've never heard the words Oleo or Erne used outside of crossword puzzles). There are also assorted smaller sets, including bedrooms, a garage, and a front patio area.

Here are my issues (not all of them, I have limited time and space and will have to wait until I have time to compose a full-length academic study to go in full depth). I apologize if some of these statements overlap, but this is part and parcel of the nature of the beast:

1. The Front Door: From the exterior shots, the front door in no way resembles the front door/patio (not Lanai) area. Also, what is the Cabbalistic significance of the exclamation point-shaped gouge on the inside of the door? Is it the set design equivalant of a fnord? If you don't know what a fnord is, please do not ask. You are safer not knowing.

2: The Bedrooms (Part one): The hall leads straight back to the four bedrooms. They are evidently set two to a side. However, that would mean that the two stage right bedrooms exist in the same temporal space as the Lanai. This is impossible in three-dimensional space.

3: The Bedrooms (Part two): The first stage left bedroom (Rose) seems harmless enough, but I refer you to point 5 where the illogical non-recursion begins to haunt my nights.

4: The Bedrooms (Part three): What the Samuel Langhorne Hell is the deal with the paint job in Blanche's room? Even if not technically impossible, it's hard to wrap one's mind around the mentality of one who would find that acceptable.

5: The Kitchen/Garage/Rose's Room Conundrum: This is almost too hard for me to bear. If I break down and start ranting about Elder Gods and Things Man Was Not Meant To Know, bear with me. The entrance to the kitchen from what I presume is the garage is upstage right. However, the window behind the sink clearly shows this garage (where, you might remember, the GG's tried their hand at Mink Farming, with hilarious results) must be off further to right. But that's exactly where Rose's room is. But even beyond this fact, that also means, given the spatial relationship of the front door (no matter how it's interpreted) to the rest of the house, that the driveway comes in from the back and center of the home (a patent impossibility). Especially considering it is supposedly coming from the stage left side of the exterior. Auugh.

In closing: if this house were designed by Dr. Calagari, it's dimensions couldn't be less sane. M.C. Escher on a peyote-fueled Spirit Journey into the Navidson residence from House of Leaves couldn't conceive of a less likely arrangement of living quarters. I fear for the basic sanity of those poor aging, yet still active, women, struggling to keep up in a young person's world while being subjected to physical laws so different than our own.

To the 2 people who will likely be still reading to this point, thank you for hearing me out, and thank you for being a friend.

I wish I could have found a bigger picture of Bea Arthur as The Starchild, but that picture has apparently disappeared from the interwebs. It used to pop up on the first page if you searched for pictures of Bea Arthur. And yes, I have done a lot of searches for pictures of Bea Arthur.

Technically, My Brush With Death occurred in between this post and the next. So, once again I have built things up for no damn good reason.

MySpace Archive: The Unemployment Saga, Part the Fifth

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

Please, feel free to start from the beginning and move forward in roughly chronological order, as I am not trying to give some sort of Pinter-esque unfolding of the plot. I'd paste the link, like I have in previous entries, but Jesus, it's not like it's from like 50 entries ago. Just scroll.

Due to the intricate interlocking nature of my carefully scripted life, the first entry also doubles as a foreshadowing of the approaching sequel to this award-avoiding time waster -- MySpace Archive II: My Brush With Death.

[Originally posted on 10/24/2006]

Well, I'm suffering from full-blown hypochondria


Anyone who knows me well knows I am a bit of a nervous person. I'm skittish. I jump at small things. Actually, I fit the standard DSM IV diagnosis for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder pretty well (specifically Criteria B1, B4, B5, C1, C2, C5, C7, D2, D3, and D5). I think I was originally going to try to say something witty here, but honestly, I'm reasonably effed-up, and looking up the DSM IV criteria didn't help me stay on topic at all...


But deep inside myself, I'm usually tranquil over health issues. I'm not one to worry too deeply about the physical well being of my body. Sure, I get frequent headaches, and I have sciatica, have a history of benign polyps, get a 2-month cold every winter, etc. But nothing has scared me deeply about my long-term viability as an organism on planet earth.


Until I started looking great.


Reread that. I'm looking as good as I've looked in years. So of course, something must be wrong, right?


When I turned 25, something happened to my body. Something that permenantly changed my self preception. I lost my metabolism. Anyone who saw me (or even has seen photographs of me before that time) knows I looked like a scarecrow. I ate and ate and never gained weight. I was 30 pounds underwieght without any effort on my part. But that all changed in the summer of '01. I gained 45 pounds in a matter of months, and gradually ended up (by this March), weighing 211 pounds. I felt like the Michelin Man.


Over the past (maybe) three months, however, I have started losing weight. Dramatically. And this weight loss has been almost entirely without provocation. I haven't significantly changed my eating patterns (I am a slave to my appetite), and I sure as hell ain't exercising. At first, I figured "Okay, I'm single, I'm eating less, etc..." But I know for a fact that I lost at least 35 pounds before the last time I've used a scale (a few weeks ago). And since then, I've needed to add yet another hole to my belt (which now extends all the way to the loop on the side). So god knows what I'm weighing now. [Good news: I've gained 10 pounds since I wrote this. Yay...]


Anywhoo, I've got a severe paranoia going on, as I've lost at least 18% of my body weight [Yes, I actually did this math] without trying. Of course, I have no insurance and no job (see almost any other blog I've posted). And the free clinic hasn't returned my calls.So to recap: fat and ugly - must be fine. Thin and attractive - terminal case. Thanks brain. You're the tops.

Stirring, huh? It only got better later that day.

Well, I'm burnt out on sending resumes

My second bitchfest of the day:

I've sent what feels like thousands of resumes out today. The actual number is probably closer to 15 or so, but I'm talking subjective feelings here. So I sit here in my friend's [To anyone new to my universe, this friend was my then future, now current girlfriend Ali. At the time I was in massive denial about the impending relationship that was fated to occur] apartment (did I mention I don't have internet access at home?) frantically checking craigslist, the chicago reader, et al in the desperate hope that one of these will click soon. I'm starving and about to take a lunch break, but of course, it doesn't matter what I eat, I will continue to lose weight until I look like an unwrapped mummy.

Thankfully, my dad is mailing me a check to cover my rent. I'd like to point out that I would rather scoop my nipples out with a melon baller [rejected in draft format: "eat my own genitals with a knife and fork"] than ask my dad for rent money. He's an adjunct college professor who just lost 50% of his courseload this semester (because some freshly minted PhD with no real world experience is obviously going to be better at teaching business and management than a man with a Masters degree and over 30 years of industry experience both firsthand and consulting). He doesn't have the kind of money to toss to his 30 year old unemployed son. But he does it anyway, bacause he's my dad. Of course, I told him I got my hours drastically cut, not that I don't have a job. Because why be honest with your family? [So, my dad later discovered my MySpace blog (soon to be archived here). He hasn't mentioned this yet. Yet.]

But enough about that guilt-filled cul-de-sac. I'm mainly just writing to say that I have been extensively applying for jobs online all day (with a few 5-minute breaks here and there), and I am burnt out.

Somebody better hire me soon. I need a rest from job hunting. It's far more tiring than just working myself to death ever could be.

From the clarity that only gainful employment can bring, I can honestly say I'm not sure that's true.

The Unemployment Saga concludes here, as I managed to secure some temping
jobs. My Brush With Death begins in earnest next post. You lucky devils.

MySpace Archive: The Unemployment Saga, Part the Fourth

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

It occurs to me I probably should have labelled these all as "Fits," a la "The Hunting of the Snark." Fit the First, Fit the Second, etc.

Nah. In retrospect, that's super queer.

Well, if you want to start from the beginning, I recommend going to the pretentiously named Part the First.

[Originally posted on 10/20/2006]

Well, I'm feeling artistic, yet inert

Current mood: Artistic, yet inert (God, I'm clever)

As with most previous times in my life, the nearer I get to rock bottom, the more likely I am to actually do something artistic in my life. Right now I'm actually feeling damn creative. The only problem is, I really need to be looking for work (on account of I'm still roughly 550 bucks away from having a home next month [Don't worry - I made it. Sorry if that killed the suspense]).

Actually, that's not my only problem. I also happen to be having a glut of ideas at present, and conflicting desires about what to focus on. I have a full length play that is so damn close to being finished (it damn well better be after hanging around my neck like a two-act albatross for the last 5 years), another full length that just needs a bit of focus to be kick-started into existence, a tremendous idea for a comic (GRAPHIC NOVEL, DAMMIT - no, wait, I actually prefer the term comic) that needs to be explored, a pretty good idea for a particularly cathartic "comic" story that I should probably write and illustrate just to clear my head, and about 10-20 throwaway ideas that I could probably develop further if I could sit and think about them.

Basically, I'm so overloaded with ideas and projects that "could be," that I'm having intense problems making one of them be the one that is (say that 3 times fast).

So instead, I dick around on the internet. Huzzah.

In the interest of full disclosure, I added a period at the end of that lusty "Huzzah."

In the fuller interest of further disclosure: I never accomplished any of the things I listed there. But I've got a whole new list of things I ain't never done did yet to tackle at this point.

Still make plenty of time for dicking around on the internet, though.

The nearly illegible artwork on this entry (click to actually see it - apologize for the shitty color job - it was rushed, and my trial period on photoshop expired) has absolutely nothing to do with any of the projects listed in any way shape or form, and is only up to confuse people. You're welcome.

MySpace Archive: The Unemployment Saga, Part the Third

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

This is the third (well fourth, but I'm not picky) post from the dark days of my own personal unemployment hell. Not to be confused with my own current personal employment hell. It includes a naked and blatant appeal for cash - something I do less of than one might think. It also includes a naked and blatant Chihuahua-esque creature - my hideous little dog Sparky . I think it's also his first appearance of many in the Wolter-related blogosphere, but I'm too lazy to double-check that.

[Originally Posted on 10/18/06]

Well, I'm about to interview (Save MY house, not Screech's)

At a temping agency. How great is my life?

I need some money real fast. November is right around the corner, and I have precisely Jack + Squat to give the landlord. Which could put me and my delightful little dog-like animal buddy Sparky out on the mean streets of Lincoln Square.

Anyone out there feel the need to just mail random checks to a guy in Chicago? Or hell, I could get a paypal account, if that's easier. Actually, I already have a paypal account...I think...I should check on that.

You don't want poor little Sparky out on the streets. He's at least 3/4 chihuahua, and is balding, twitchy, and irritable as is. If he's cold as well, I'm going to be nursing ankle scars for the rest of my life.

And unlike Screech, if you save my house, I promise you DON'T have to hear my crappy stand-up.

Remember that "Screech House" debacle? That sure dates this piece. Man, if Dustin Diamond were beaten to death with a tire iron, would the world be a better place? Probably not by much. But, it's worth a try.

By the way, I actually got an offer from an "online friend" of mine in Germany of a little financial assistance. I actually turned it down, but I was touched to know that, barring some unpleasantness c. 1933-1945, there are some mightly decent folk in the Fatherland.

It turns out I do have an active Paypal account, so if anyone still wants to send me money for no reason (really, I'm fine now - I have a job that makes decent money), feel free to let me know.

The Jobless Insanity continues soon!

MySpace Archive: The Unemployment Saga, Part the Second

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

We continue with the pulse-pounding excitement that readers may have waited literally minutes to enjoy (assuming they somehow staggered over here from an incredibly misleading porn search).

I strongly recommend viewing this heart-throbbingly turgid epic from the beginning. Which can be found by scrolling down, or if you're hugely lazy, clicking here.

[Originally Posted on 10/16/2006]

Well, I suppose I just moved from "Quit" to "Fired"

Current mood: aggravated [Okay, I guess I'll leave this in - it's a pointless MySpace thing that puts an inappropriate symbol next to a term that it in no way relates to. I forgot to copy the symbol, but it was probably pretty lame]

I was told not to come in today by phone yesterday. So, instead of allowing me an official two weeks of paid work while I look for another job, I was fired.

Is that even legal?

Ack. I swear, I have never met a worse manager in my life. And my life has been a near endless succession of either cruel, incompetent, or completely bollocking crazy managers.

Hungry for more? Good news! I actually posted twice that day!

Well, the high point of my day is getting a mattress

Current mood: optimistic [Optimism apparently makes one's eyes orbit erratically in their sockets. While having jaundice]

Yeah, that's right. A mattress.

No more sleeping on the floor for the Jonmonster. After almost 2 months, I finally gathered the wherewithal and money to sleep on an honest to god, sort of bed.

Okay, it's still just a futon, but it's a NICE futon. And nothing can take that from me. Unless the dog uses it for a bathroom.

I'm going to try not to think about that.

I never fully succeeded in not thinking about that, by the way.

Update: I still think that manager was a fucking moron.

Tune in next week for more [insert appropriate body part, hyphen, adverb combo later] adventures of Wolter in Unemployment Land!

And, of course, "next week" could mean in five minutes or five months.

MySpace Archive: The Unemployment Saga, Part the First

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

We begin with the thrilling and spine-tingling adventures of Wolter as he leaves his incredibly crappy job to brave the waters of unemployment.

[Originally posted on 10/15/2006]

Well, I quit my job yesterday

I don't want to go into too much detail; suffice to say I am not apologizing for being pissed about losing a shift because I was five minutes late due to Chicago traffic.

So, the upshot of this is I have moved (all through conscious decisions of my own) from being fat, complacent, employed, and engaged, and living in a spacious one bedroom apartment a block south of Wrigley field to being nervous, jittery, unemployed and single in a studio in Lincoln Square that is roughly the size of the Elvis commemorative stamp (sorry Fat Elvis - I rooted for you all the way). That I have no idea how to pay for next month.

At least I've lost 30 pounds.

There. That was fun, wasn't it? By the way, that apartment was a colossal shithole--even by my standards. The best I can say about it is that at no point when I lived there did a swarm of locusts devour my wardrobe. That's saying something, I guess.

Tune in very, very soon to find out how this soul-searingly important part of my life ends up!

An entry just to test everything.

This is more of a test to see if I still remember how to post on this thing. One day, I may actually have a real blog entry, but it's highly unlikely.

This was actually written at about 10:45 on Thursday. It's an account of my glorious morning:

1. When I left the house today, it was 1 degree F, with a windchill of -16. By the way, I live right by Lake Michigan. Chicago is fücking windy, I don't care what people say.
2. The traffic was so bad that I was 25 minutes late for work. I left at a time that normally gets me there 15 minutes early.
3. On the way in the building, I dropped my keys. Upon picking them up, I TORE MY PANTS FROM ABOUT THE TOP OF MY ASS CRACK TO MY TAINT.
4. Well, thank goodness one of our maintenance people is about my size. Borrowing a pair of Cintas work trousers (with only a small grease stain), I walk down the the cleaners on the first floor - who (supposedly) do repairs.
5. Oops. Turns out that the only person there doesn't know how to sew.
6. Thank goodness there's a sewing kit in the convenience store downstairs. Thank goodness after 4 attempts, I finally passed my costuming class in college. Too bad I barely passed it on what I suspect amounted to social promotion...
7. It's fun to hand sew pants at a reception desk. Especially answering questions about "what happened to your pants?"
8. Did I mention that I'm going straight from work to meet with Ali and her parents for dinner, then to watch "Wicked?" So I'm wearing my nicest pants. I think I forgot to mention that.
9. Around the time I'm finished, I find out from someone in maintenance that the woman downstairs knows how to fücking do that, she's just lazy.
10. Anywhoo, my pants are fine. But so far, the tone of my day has been less than encouraging.
11. 5 minutes ago, I finally regained feeling in my toes. Did I mention it's cold today? It's cold today.

I suppose it's strange to save what is essentially an out of date complaint. But anyone who knows me knows how much I love to kvetch.