Blogger Versus Fascism

I spent the last twenty minutes doing mundane things that have nothing to do with my job. I cleaned out the email box for my eBay empire and Wordpress blog. I noticed that I had received over 100 comments concerning such related topics as foldable bicycles and hot Asian anal. The spam is atrocious. But here, here in this little corner of cyberspace, where no one watches, where no bots come through to plaster promises of a five foot tall Asian scream queen guaranteed to love whatever I want to do to her, I feel content.

It's not that I don't like getting the occasional comment (KIM). But I also enjoy just being able to write about stupid things and stupid ideas and not have to worry about someone I know going off and telling someone else I know what I wrote. That shit will either get me into trouble at work or with the wife, then I have to delete a blog and move on, silently and scornfully, until I can't take the ricochet of my own thoughts bouncing in my skull, faster and faster, until I want to shout to the heaven's and curse God for my own monstrous and twisted ideas.

Wedding plans progress. The bride is really gung ho about the whole process and we have been working on wedding invitations all week. I have been addressing them all by hand. It took me two and a half hours on Saturday to finish my side's invites. I finished her side's last night around 8 o'clock. I understand the sheer solemnity of the sacrament of marriage, but I don't understand why every stamp on every fucking invitation must be just so. But still, she puts up with a lot of my sheer slovenliness, so I have to cut her some slack.

The book progresses. I have a grand total of 8 and a half hand written pages. The idea is still in my mind, but writing is very, very time consuming. It is difficult to find the perfect, or near perfect, words and then string them all together until is sounds like a bunch of Gregorians singing about fiction. Meh, blogging is easier and I hardly ever do that.

And now, some useless fluff to up my visitor stats:

Luke Wilson tried to kill himself because the Scientologists told him to. Nuff said.

Seriously, though. Things are very odd here. The fiancee cannot find a job she likes, I am stuck in perpetua in a dead end job, unless I want to move further away from the fiancee's family, which will never happen. Our house is tiny but livable. She joined the Church choir to deal with her stress, I polished off a bottle of Reisling and a six pack. It's going to be a hell of a wedding...

The Full Swing of Things

I think that I have pinpointed the cause of the depression and nightmares that have been plaguing me these last few weeks. I am under stress at work (which I can totally see the irony since I am sitting at work right now blogging) and things are heating up with the wedding plans.

All hell is breaking loose at the job. I spent last weekend hanging out with my Dad's side of the family to celebrate my parent's 40th wedding anniversary. The bride did not come, because she had agreed to go to a wedding in Minnesota long before the plans for the Anniversary party were made. I had to explain to fifty people where in Iowa we were going to get married and when invitations were coming out. I told them sometime next week. The package with the invitations just came today. Tomorrow, we are going to get our engagement pictures taken. The weekend after Labor Day, we go up to finalize hymns and make the last addendum's to the rest of the Church music. I need to get measured for a tux and order groomsmen presents. Everything has to be done now (at least I think so) so that we don't have to worry about a thing in October. Fuckity fuck fuck!

But wait, that's not all. We have 425 people on the invitation list, of which we know for a fact that 350 are definitely coming. The reception hall only holds 310 people. My boss is in her cubicle crying because her boss is trying to take all work away from her, basically denigrating her to the role of a servant even though she is more qualified to do her bosses' job than her boss is. I fucking hate politics and nonexpandible places. I kind of just want to take an epilady to my nethers until they are smooth and slick.

Invites have arrived. If you're not doing anything on November 3rd and want to hang out in Northeastern Iowa for the weekend, drop me a line.

The Front Has Moved In

Yesterday marked the second day of classes. It also marked the culmination of all that is wrong with putting complete retards in control of every aspect of a Law School. Who made the mistakes? One person. Who got their asses chewed? Me.

A few good things did come out of yesterday. I had a couple of professors stand up for me while I dealt with the torrent of angry students wanting nothing less than a pound of my flesh and a gallon of my blood (and to get into a class that has been closed for three weeks). I also managed to pay all the bills that I had, stacked up over the past month and a half. It is always good to go home and not have to light thirty-seven candles and a can of sterno just to cook some baked beans for dinner. But besides that, the day lasted forever. Students came in every five minutes, either completely lost or completely pissed. I battered them away, answering questions I knew the answer to but had no right answering, until around three o'clock.

It was then that something deep inside of the recesses of my brain snapped, and the world turned itself upside down. I started answering questions with the wrong answers, I started raising my voice to a louder pitch than I was getting yelled at. I almost threatened bodily harm on someone, with witnesses. Luckily, my boss stepped in and told me to cool down, but hell, I hadn't been that angry with someone since my brother pinned me down spread eagle and spit tobacco juice in my eye until it stained the carpet (oh to be eight years old again). I ended up stabbing my brother with a Swiss Army knife for that transgression, imagine what I would do now that I am an lumbering juggernaut of raw man power.

My sister sent me this email to cheer me up. It was one of those "Forward this to ten people or you will lose your left testicle to an angry swarm of militant feminist custodians" but, you know, about the love of Jesus for us but how we don't have time to pray to him because we are all way too busy looking up porn on the internets. I doctored it up and am going to hell. If you would like a copy, leave a comment and I will forward it on to you.

Sanctimonious Drivel

I was blindsided with a touch of the depression this weekend, and it is carrying over into the week. I don't know what is was, but driving back from my parent's house this weekend, "What a Wonderful World" came on the radio and I completely lost my shit. Don't know why, it just happened. My dreams are also becoming more vivid and depression.

It is a stressful time. I need to acknowledge this eventually. Also, money from the part time job is coming in.

I have had this post up at work since 8:00 this morning. It is now five. I am boring, and I am going home.

I like Testing

The Bride Lives

Yesterday was our two year dating anniversary. The vino flowed and we watched The Darwin Awards. It wasn't bad. I am glad that Winona Ryder is making movies again and has stopped smoking that guy from Soul Asylum's pole. But I digress. This afternoon, the bride sent me an old email that I sent her when we were first courting. Here it is:


So many questions for such a long trip over the river and back into
the cornfields. I have got to answer the dancing question first. Why?
Because it will be fun and full of self deprecating humor. I can't
dance, either well or sober. I could blame my genes for a long torso,
short little Hummel legs, and high school football for my absolute
lack of balance and timing, but why go there? Actually, the last time
I danced was a saucy affair involving sparklers, nighttime, and my
sister's birthday. If I could have just pulled off that reverse triple
back flip, jazz hand ensemble, with a glowstick in my mouth, I could
have made it to Vegas. I guess I don't like dancing because it turns
one into a shy, three hundred pound, four year-old girl, five times over. Either that or I just
never had someone patient enough to teach me how.
As for what I like to do for fun. Well, the three P's have always been
super for me. You know, praying, poetry, and pornography? Kidding. I
still go to mass almost every Sunday, but my faith is my own and I
don’t really feel the need to talk about it unless someone really
wants to know. I do try to write a poem or two, but they end up
becoming monuments to my own pretentiousness. As for sweet lady porn…
yeah, fun when you’re fresh out of Catholic school, but not really
there for you when you decide the word `hump’ isn’t all that romantic.
I’ve been helping my friend renovate a hundred year-old mansion for
the past three years, under the watchful eye of his wife. I’ve almost
been killed several times in the process by falling trees (I’m from
the frickin’ prairie, who knew a tree would fall that way), ergot
(three weeks of house sitting while they went on their honeymoon in
Italy and all I got was a stinkin’ black market journal and a nasty
case of bronchitis), computer avalanches (money making scheme my ass),
all manner of saw, hammer, plumbing, and electrical mishaps (don’t
ask), and of course, oil based paint in poorly ventilated areas
(everything got really funny that day, not so funny the day after).
Besides thrill of stupid manly danger, I really enjoy reading,
writing, and the warm, bitter embrace of a good cup of coffee. When
I’m not schmoozing at the coffee house, I like watching movies, taking
drives to nowhere in particular to see what’s there, and the
occasional night out at the bar with close friends. I also like
weekend trips to cities (Memphis, St. Louis, Chicago, Indianapolis,
Milwaukee, Iowa City, Cleveland, Kansas City) with no real plan in mind.
Where do I want to be in five years? I admire you for launching the
dreaded question back at me. In a perfect world, I will have written
the greatest novel ever, demanding that I need write no further, but
travel the world on my laurels (by boat, train, or car, flying scares
the bejesus out of me), maybe solving a mystery or two that will land
me a nice narrator gig on some show on the History Channel. Since
there’s only a slim chance of that happening, I’ll probably be
teaching high school English somewhere around town, buying old houses,
renovating, and flipping them for a nice profit to help defray the
costs of diapers and formula. If that plan fails, I guess I can stick
to my holding plan of not dying face down in a gutter. I want to go
back to school next fall for my certification and maybe finish my
Masters.
Okay, enough biography and rhapsodic whimsy. I have more questions—
Favorite food? Favorite spot on the planet? Favorite color? Favorite
smell? Talk to you later.
-Charles

Damn, I was fairly witty once. I even had dreams that weren't delusions of grandeur. I wonder what happened. Does one just give up when times get good? Maybe I should start doing coke again, you know, to shake things up again...Nah, my heart would explode.

Tonight, I drink. Tomorrow morning, I write.

Inconsistent Fear

I am tired and completely out of it today. I got very little sleep last night, had a very good breakfast this morning, and was a complete asshole to the bride during conversation. I am on edge for no particular reason. Bills are piling up, but money is there to pay them. All we need is to jump through hoops and get forms signed for joint bank accounts and things will then take care of themselves.

Then again, unless a budget is agreed on for the state, I might not get paid for the month of September. That would suck. I find myself haunted with strange and terrible dreams. I woke up fitful last night and got up to use the bathroom. I touched the handle of the toilet after my business was done and pulled up on it instead of down. It made a sound. A terrible sound.

I could hear my mind telling itself that it is only water through the pipes. I closed my eyes and pictured rails of copper going deep underground, but at their end, in an inky blackness, something moved. Something enormous and terrifying. It was grey and smooth, shaped like a whale a hundred sizes too big. It opened a single yellow orange eye that glowed bright as the sun. I opened my eyes and turned on the bathroom light, catching my breath. I turned off the bathroom light and turned the kitchen light on at the same time. Then I moved over to the refrigerator, opening the door as I shut off the overhead light. I grabbed the gallon of milk and drank until I found myself full, then darted into the bedroom, over the bride, and quickly covered myself in a sheet. Good God, I am almost thirty.

Fucking Cthulhu.

Some Things are Heavenly

More weird dreams last night. I was being beaten by a Seventeenth century Samurai for my lack of discipline, then I was forced to behead some of my best friends for being thieves. I woke from this particular dream surprisingly refreshed and ready to take on the day. When I looked at the clock and 3:25 stared back at me, I decided against actually getting up. I did finally roll out of bed at 7:00 and haven't felt right since.

My boss had to stay over the weekend to fix the mistakes of her supervisors. I felt bad about this, but hey, that's the price people pay to become salaried. I would totally stay if the overtime was there, but this place can only afford one kegger a week for the students, how can they afford to give me a few hours of overtime?

Wedding plans are progressing. I have gotten three phone calls from the bride concerning the finalization of invitations. She is freaking out. I am oddly calm. I had the entire weekend to myself. How did I spend it? Various sexual encounters from anonymous partners found on Craigslist? An impromptu baby oil wrestling tournament in the front yard with all the local cougars? Hell no, I spent Friday night getting drunk and playing video games at a friends house. Saturday was devoted to maintaining my well kept frontage and getting drunk while watching the Bears decimate Houston. Yesterday, I skipped Church to do laundry and finish the electric for the house. Maybe I have lingering thoughts about what could have been and dreams about different pasts playing out to different futures, but that is all they are, thoughts and dreams. There is nothing like love to keep you grounded in reality.

Archetypal Cold Feet

Last night, I was plagued with odd dreams. I woke up several times, mainly to turn off our UltraCool 2000 air conditioner so my testicles would redescend and I could go back to sleep. I dreamt of my future children, mainly triplet boys named Ambrose, Montgomery, and William. I dreamt of carrying one on my back and the other two on each bicep across the room, in a failed attempt to "bring down the old man." Then, a quick flash forward where I catch a teenage Monty smoking a lid on the waterbed of his attic bedroom (Monty has the exact same taste as Greg Brady). I took a hit off the lid and explained to him that putting a few dryer sheets in a spent paper towel roll would mask the smell better. I told him his mother would kill him if she ever found out, so come to all meals and family functions sober. I was proud and scared for the kid at the same time... then my testicles hit the back of my brain stem and I awoke to the gentle hum of the air conditioner.

The second dream took me to morning and was a little more substantial. It wasn't a dream so much as a flash of memory I thought long destroyed in a toxic dip of hitter resin and Irish whiskey. I was a teenager, walking in to my favorite hangout from high school. There was a girl there, I'll call her Alice, because that is her name. I only knew her as John's girlfriend, but she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen in my short lifetime. She had short blond hair, eyes like dark sapphires, apple cheeks, and her smile, oh God the smile, she had one tooth that was just a bit crooked so it (I shit you not) did one of those little sparkle things like on the Orbit commercials. But she was John's girlfriend. She went to a different school. She was to be admired from afar and seldom talked to. That was all my dream was, me walking in, her looking up and smiling, the orbit gleam of her teeth, and burst of white hot euphoric bliss.

Suffice it to say, I immediately awoke to a tent pitched in the middle of my side of the sheets and my bride breathing hot morning breath directly into my face. I rolled onto my side and thought of Alice as the urge to pee grew.

I ended up spending a semester going to school in Iowa where she was going too. She was the only person I knew in that town. I spent many a night sleeping on her futon, not making a move I so desperately wanted to. Homesickness had gotten the best of me.

When I moved back across the river, she would come down and visit her parents. We once got snowed in while I was house sitting for one of her visits. We drank and talked and the snow fell quiet outside. Around two in the morning, she wanted to leave. The street was shin deep in snow. I wished her luck (she was staying two blocks away) and she drove off down the street. As I was taking my boots off, she came back up the road, distraught. The main streets of the town had been plowed, leaving drifts on the side streets that she couldn't get over. I went with her this time, driving up and down the grid of narrow back streets until we finally found a driftless exit.

When we got back to where she was staying, I shoveled the driveway for her and ended up sleeping on the couch. I woke up, thanked her for a wonderful evening (saying if I could have done it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing) and walked back to where I was staying. She came back later that summer and we hit the downtown bars, saw old friends, shot the bull and when the bars closed and I took her home, she kissed me, long, slow, rhythmic, then pleading, then inside she went. I did not follow. The same happend when she visited the next time. Then a year went by and I didn't hear a thing from her.

She did come back, calling me out of the blue one day, saying that her parents had bought a house in town and she was coming to visit and wanted to see me. I was ecstatic right until I rang the door bell. She opened the door and introduced me to her boyfriend (the name eludes me). We talked while depression used the strings of my heart to grease the treads of despair. I don't know why it bothered me so much at the time, I had only seen her maybe two or three times in as many years, but it hurt. Then she left, and the tide of time took over to clear the beaches of my memory.

I haven't seen her in a few years, the last time being after league night at the bowling alley where myself and four friends would polish off four cases of Schlitz, bowl for shit, and end up picking fights or trying to sleep with the opposing team (depending on gender). She was home from Iowa with her boyfriend. She had changed a little, her hair was long and brown, her legs a little more defined, but the smile framed with apple cheeks and topped with sapphires still remained. I made a drunken ass out of myself and haven't thought of her since until this morning.

My alarm got me out of bed a few minutes after I turned over to think about Alice. I thought about her while I did my routine shower, shave, toothbrushing, and four minute pee, wondering where she is now, if she went back to blond, if she was married. Did she go to graduate school? As I toweled off I could here the steady, even breathing of my bride still asleep under the comforter. So, I did what any man with such thoughts in my mind would do. I reheated some leftover Chinese and ate, standing naked in the kitchen.

View from The Edge of the Plateau

I heard some where that there are two kinds of men in the United States, Elvis men and Beatles men. There was a time when I did like the Beatles, but now, for some reason, just the thought of listening to Sgt. Pepper's or the White Album makes my stomach turn. Elvis puts me in a good mood, regardless of the song. Hell, it can even be a cover of Elvis and I immediately feel better about whatever situation I am in.

My friend gave me an album to listen to last night. Seeing as how I don't have an Internet connection at home, I waited until this morning to give it a spin. I listened to the first track for fifteen seconds, then my stomach started rumbling. I listened another twenty seconds and I had full-on heartburn. I skipped to the next track and thought to myself "this really sounds a lot like the Beatles." I skipped to the next track. During the three minutes and fifteen seconds of listening to his album, I went from calm and collected to having the worst, most violent case of explosive diarrhea I have ever encountered (besides two weeks ago Friday when I played the role of Spud in my own private version of Trainspotting).

One would think this a fluke, but one would be wrong. This afternoon, I tried to listed to the album again. Beginning with the last three tracks. I spent the last twenty minutes in the bathroom making fingernail marks in the stall paint and praying to every god I could name (Jeebus finally ended my ordeal, Praise be Him!).

Suffice it to say, I feel much better now and am humming dutifully along to Little Sister.

If you Found This, You Know Who I am

My name is Charles. This is my new blog. I grew tired of my old blogs. Also, people at work found my old blogs, so anonymity is totally compromised. I am getting married in three months. I spent the past three months gutting my shoebox of a house to make room for my bride and myself to live a relatively slug free life in there for the next two or so years. She wants to breed immediately. I am terrified that the horrendous amount of drugs I did during my twenties will spawn something that would have a shaky chance at best of winning a bronze in the Special Olympics. Yeah, that many drugs.

I spend my time still working on the house, working for a large public university, and working on a trashy science fiction novel involving the devil, a son of Abel, and a gay werepig named Carl.

I think that is enough for now...discuss.