Yesterday my Mom got a call from a Funeral Home/Cemetary telemarketer. There's just something wrong about that--the whole selling death thing. And so this telemarketer continues on with my Mom saying, in an ultra serious, brooding, yet sensitive tone that dealing with the death of a loved one is a traumatic experience, and can be all the more complicated if the appropriate planning steps are not properly taken. She then asks, if "Her family would know what to do if she suddenly died." At this point, this is where my Mom cracks up. She starts just cackling at this telemarketer, and then eventually says, "well I hope they would figure it out!" I hope so, too. I'd say we would most likely, ya know, not let her just decompose wherever she keeled over. I was a little offended, first because they would telemarket such a thing, and then second because this guy could think that I, as part of my Mom's family, couldn't figure out how to get somebody to stick her body in the ground, or burn it or whatever--not exactly brain surgery. But then I thought about it for a second...

I recall a story I was told by some locals we stayed with in South Dakota. Really nice people--Meat eaters, owners of 7 tractors, and a couple fewer that the typical number of fingers. This neighbor of theirs had a wife and a kid, kinda kept to themselves. The father was a bit of a drinker. Anyway, the mother wasn't seen for quite some time, and so people would start asking the kid, "Where's you mother?" The kid would just say "she's sick." So anyway, after a while, somebody goes over and tries to, idunno, give this poor sick woman some soup or something, and they find out she isn't there, the police get involved, yada-yada. Anyway, they eventually find the charred bits of the woman's remains were in an oil drum out back.

The guys' story was that the wife had been sick, and eventually died, so he did the natural thing, and slung the body over his shoulder, heaved her into an oil trum, doused her with gas and torched her--and the kid was just having a hard time grasping that his Mom had died. Needless to say, no one in the town believed a word of it--everyone had their theory, but nobody could prove a thing. The police charged him with unlawful disposal of a body, but that's all they could pin on him--$200 fine.

So maybe there is a need for these telemarketers afterall.

I finally have internet connectivity at work. This doesn't bode well for getting actual tasks done. I like it. I like it a lot.

I need to stop posting at ungodly hours. Then I might (and I stress MIGHT) be able to remember to, oh, I dunno, hit the post button before I close the browser window?!?

I'm such a hack.

What story do you have that you can tell better than anyone else? It doesn't have to be a good story, it just has to be told well. The stories have all been told. Now you just have to go for style points. For effect. For reaction. For results. Try to tap dance, and gnaw on those precious few nerve endings that are still exposed. Because, dammit, it’s been too long since I’ve cried. Or really laughed. And I’ve needed to. Emotion seems to have taken the form of long distance phone commercials, CNN, Meredith Baxter-Birney, and flag-waving. And that's pathetic. It just shouldn't be like that. It shouldn't. I want to believe in Humanity, I really do. And I want to believe in art, but if you don't believe in humanity, what, exactly, is the point of art? Keith Herring said "The best reason to paint is that there is no reason to paint." But I just don't know if I can agree with that. Or, rather, I do agree with that and have a serious personal motivation problem because of it. I don't really know what I like doing. I don't do stuff for me. And that's a huge problem. I think I've always done stuff with a hope of changing the world, making it a little better. And yeah, that was probably a little naive. And yeah, I'm tired of beating myself up for seeing things in that way. But I don't really know how not to. You know? This world is depressing. Infuriating. And I try not to care, because when you don't care you don't get dissappointed. But that only works for so long, and then you get dissappoited anyway. And that feels even worse. At least if you care, you get hurt and angry, and that at least feels like resistance. It doesn't feel good. It feels futile, but at least it feels like something. I remember when I was around 17, and it was after a show that I had just acted in, and I was talking with people who had been in the audience, and this woman struck up a conversation with me. She asked me where I was going to go to college, and what I was going to study. I listed off some schools I was thinking about, and said that I wanted to study advertising. She looked at me with like this whole soothsayer/gypsie thing going on and she said in a soft serious tone "You have the heart of an artist. You can run from it, but it will always bring you back." I got away from the woman rather quickly. I don't have the slightest clue of who she was. I wish I did so I could track her down, and let her know that she was pretty much right on about that whole art heart thing, and then to beat the crap out of her for it.

I think...wait...no, yeah...I've got totally nothing to say at the moment.

"The only truly indigenous American inventions are Thanksgiving turkey and fingerfucking."

-- Lyndon Baines Johnson (36th President of the United States)

Holy fawking vulcan crap. Wesley from star trek next gen has a blog. I may have to stop doing this just because of that. I feel dirty.

Fawk. It's been a long, long week. I have stuff to write, but i don't wanna yet. Writing is a lot like sword-swallowing. It's hard to do unless you're in the habit of doing it. Actually, I don't know if that's true. I mean, I know it's true for the writing part of it. I just don't know if it's true for the sword-swallowing. It just seems like it should be. I personally haven't rammed a saber down my esophogus, but it seems like it should require a lot of practice. But them maybe again it doesn't. Maybe it just takes the stupidity of trying it. I invite readers out there to try it and let me know.

Anybody wanna go bowling tonight?

Okay...I'm on a little self-imposed internet vacation. I've gone a full seven days so far, and I'm just logging on now to explain why I haven't been blogging, and that I will continue to not blog for a few days. The first step in dealing with any addiction is to recognize it. I just needed a break. If you have emailed me, I have not received it yet. If it's important, call me.

Once I come back online, I'll have stories to tell. Two of which are "homless bowling" and "Neighbors--how to have fun with your straight, E coast friends"

But you'll have to wait for that. In the meantime read my friend's blog. It rocks.

I've decided that Ben Laurence is my valentine.

Congratulations, Ben.

Thank you to everyone that applied.

This morning, I went for the Cheerios and got like 6 Os and four or five tablespoons of that dust stuff.

I fawking hate that.

Picabo Street is engaged. I'm heartbroken. And right before V-day, too. Sigh. Another one bites the dust.

I just want a chapstick girl, is that so wrong?

rohrft. 270 million dead-flutterby-sicles. Sad. Really sad.

But the circle of life continues thanks to Barry White.

Ain't life frickin' bizarre?

You ever just hit send on that email a bit too quickly? I just did that. I've got a bad feeling about this one too. Sometimes you get away with a bad email, and sometime it takes a big healthy chunk outa your rump. I've got a hunch this one is the latter.

And it's one of those things that if I try to cover, I think it'll just make it worse. Fawwwwk. When did I get to be such a frigging prick? It shouldn't take such work to not be a dick. It really shouldn't.

Okay, when the cute barista girl asks if you would like the 20oz size, YOU SAY NO. I'm caffed up to the point of artificial ADD.

Usually the 20 oz isn't a problem. Nor is multiple 16ozs spread throughout the day. Or even those 12 cups at a diner at 3 in the morning. Or, hell, multiple pots at home on the weekend. But for some reason this stuff is hitting me hard. Armph.

No ability to focus in either the eyes or the head. I keep realizing that I am staring at the accoustic drop-ceiling panels, and I don't know how long I've been staring.

I need some water. Maybe some juice.

I think I'm getting old.

I just found out that there is some guy named Rear Admiral Stufflebeem protecting our country. Thought you should know.

So I went to the doctor today for a little check-up/physical thingy, you know, just cuz it's good to do every decade or so. And the first thing the guy tells me is that my insurace doesn't cover physicals anymore. They only cover action taken by a doctor in response to symptoms, which we both agreed was fawking stupid. So then he asks me (in this really leading, head-nodding emphatically while asking kind of way), "do you feel fatigued? tired some of the time?"

I say "yes, doctor, as a matter of fact I do."

He says "Good. We can use that to diagnose all kinds of things."

So, of course I immediately liked the guy, and want to go down and projectile vomit all over whoever runs Regence Blue Shield, (once again).

And so the exam goes on. We talk family history, alergies, yada yada. He does the tongue depressor, thing in the ear...whole nine yards. (You know, now that I think about it he stiffed me on the rubber mallet reflexy thingy--the bastard, I love that rubber mallet reflexy thingy).

But then, at the end of the exam the doctor says to me, "Well I don't think we've seen anything extraordinary today, so we'll just wait on the lab results..." and I had to just stop the guy right there. I told him, "Doc, just a little tip, never tell a guy that you haven't 'seen anything extraordinary' immediately following a genital exam."

I mean isn't it uncomfortable enough with him down there doing japanese meditation or whatever with your testicles, sermonizing the glory of self-examination, and looking like he's a CNBC analyst all at the same time? Then up goes the boxers and the first thing out of the guys mouth is how we haven't seen anything-fawking-EXTRORDINARY today?

That's just so wrong. So wrong.

I mean, I don't need much. It's not like I want him to hail me the "schlong-master." Or say how gorgeous and well formed I am. Or make sure that he lifts with his knees or anything.

It's just, you know, vulnerable. The next time I'm with a girl (God willing) I just know those words are going to come wafting into the room. "Nothing Extraordinary" in that neon green mist kind of way. And they'll just hover somewhere between my eyes and hers. And that'll just be bad.

When you are in that position you need to be thinking like 1/3 Arthur Fonzarelli, 1/3 Barry White, and 1/3 Thor, God of Thunder. There isn't room for 1/3 Arvid from Head of the Class.

So anyway the doctor turns bright red, and starts choking, and must have hit some sort of hidden panic button, because right then a nurse knocks on the door, and he hustles it out of the room to compose himself and "see what the nurse needs." A minute later he pokes his head in with that whole CNBC thing back in full effect and hands me a perscription for some stuff to keep my scalp from being dry and flaky. He bruskly shakes my hand and tells me the nurse can help me with anything else.

He's nice and all, but I can tell I really blew his game face. I guess that's just one of those things. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Especially if he fondles your balls.

Okay, so this is what kind of day it's going to be.

Bonus question: Does it make me a bad person that I kinda want to see "Super Troopers?"

I love you too, Barta.

Few questions for the day:
1. Why aren't there guys gone wild videos?
2. Is teleportation really possible through the entaglement of higher order particles?
3. What time is my doctor's appointment tomorrow?
4. What the hell should I do with my life?

If you have the answer to these, or any other questions, feel free to email them to me.

I wish the olympics didn't suck ass. I mean sure, the arials are damn cool. And back when they used to do the 16 man speedskating where there was a good shance that someone would take a blade in the gut, I'd watch that. But that's about it. I know there's a lot of you out there that will put up a stink about Hockey. Hockey isn't cool. This is a common misconception. When hockey players break into fights, that's cool. And the sound of hockey being played is far better than most sports (although nothing tops womens tennis). But the game itself? eh, not so much. My main gripe about Hockey: I can't see the damn puck. I'd have the same grip if basketballs were invisable. If you can't see the puck, you have a bunch toothless barbarians figure skating together.

Now, I know what you're saying--"Couldn't there be some way to use the technology that we as a civilization have created and modern brodcast technologies to, oh, i dunno, make the puck glow and thusly make it easier to follow the sport of Hockey?" Why funny you should ask. Yes. Yes we can. Somebody embeded a little microchip into a puck which allowed it to be surrounded by a light blue halo when broadcast on TV. This was pure genius. Suddenly the barbarians wer figure skating around, and in response to a blue glowy thing. And that my friends, is a sport worth watching.

Only problem is, the "actual sports fans" had a problem with seeing the puck for some reason, and bitched and moaned until the networks that broadcast hockey had to go back to the archaic form we see today. Can't say I understand it myself. Glowpuckaphobia.

"Great spirits have always encountere violent oposition from mediocre minds." -Einstein.

So this blog goes out to you, glowpuck man, wherever you are.

I feel better. I attribute my new good mood to a little wine, and a lot of KUBE 93.3 FM (The local hip-hop/r&b station for those outside the broadcast range). For some reason, a little hip-hop, occasionally interspursed with oldies, is the magic medicine. Go figure. Classical is the worst for such moods. Sometimes a little Tool is perfect, but it's kinda hit or miss.

I need a massage. or at least a backrub. or actually, someone to walk on my back would be great. But I'll probably settle for a couple drinks and a couple advil.

Hi, I'm Zach. Remember me?

I've been...i dunno...morose I guess? I don't deal well with it. And it really doesn't translate well to page. I stare at the little Blogger box for a while each day. But nothing comes out. I hope I get angry again soon. Anger makes my little world go round. Not the healthiest approach, I know. But it works. It's practical in the strangest of ways.

BTW, my Mom had Cancer surgery yesterday and is doing well.

You know when shit is just wrong, and not just a little wrong, like a lot wrong, and no one in the whole fucking world seems to notice it except you, and you have to pretend nothing is wrong along with them, cuz it's just too much work not too, even though it's draining as fucking hell. Yeah. Okay. That's where I'm at.

I'm gonna go break something.

I just had the idea that I should start a blog and give team membership to every last one of my ex girlfriends, you know, just to see what happens. xofz.blogspot.com--something like that. I swear, a more masochistic/exhibitionist idea has perhaps never graced my wrinkly grey cerebral lobe.

Okay, this is sounding like a bad pattern here, but, after I wrote that last excuse, I wrote a little diddy about Friday, and what a nice time I had, and about how overlysentimental I was feeling about all the fabulous people I have in my life. But then, when I hit publish and post, it lost it, and any feelings remotely oversentimental vanished pretty damn quickly. Argh.

So the superbowl happened. I watched a little of the first quarter. Just enough to find out that mlife is fucking AT&T Wireless, and that eTrade is now "eTrade Financial" (and that the goofy monkey mascot no longer fits their "serious image"). The only cool part from my point of view is that the NE Patriots opted out of the traditional player roll call introductions, and instead were simply introduced as a team. That was enough for me to decide to root for them. And I guess they won, making the game the biggest upset in Superbowl history, which is kinda cool.

It is now 2:45 am. I don't really know why I'm awake. I'm half watching this show on Billy Bob Thorton. I should go to bed.

Now it's little crappy entries like this that make me think that writing good entries is more important than getting new entries up every day. I dunno. Maybe it all comes out in the wash. It isn't like anyone actually reads this shit, right?

Okay, first off, I was writing a blog late last night when the power went out. Thusly, no blog for yesterday. I will try not to make it a habit. Now on to today's blog...