Back. Thanks for waiting months for an update. It was 3:33 when I began this, I suppose that's lucky? But what to say? I succumbed to the marketing powers of Apple and forked over the hard wheedled money I'd clutched together in my greedy little paws for a stupid, tiny box that for the same dough could have loaded my PCs mobo with RAM and a nice vid card. Yes, my Bhikkus, I was seduced and ultimately swindled (that is, I had to actually pay for something). I can see it now. This little box, I've let penetrate my world will eventually turn me into a mindless Mac zombie willing to pay whatever the cost for that next Apple fix. I'll be selling my blood until I'm just dust and ligaments for that new G6 that everyone's convinced me I need. Though I must admit, there is something life affirming about being seduced and conned.

Speaking of feeding off others, I am a swollen tick on the back of the Cuyahoga County Library system. Silly rabbits, they put their entire collection online so bottom feeders like me can just punch up what we like from the ol' Internet and they deliver it to the local branch of (y)our choosing. And the Cuyahoga Library system is good. That's how I see all the nice Criterion DVDs that come out, plus all the new music and other dumb movies that people like to talk about (gotta' have something to relate to the others with). Fuck commerce! It's amazing and I'm saddened that soon I'll be leaving Cleveland and no longer will I be able to feed off of this rich, bloated and ever so accomodating host. So ends another chapter...

I missed Ira Glass when he was to be here. A shame, but I had to clench victory in my Dreamweaver class. Twas the night of final presentations and the wrap up. I was fourth and one, and I couldn't let teach down. My site was so fuckin' bizarre and insulting that everyone laughed (along with me, for the most part). I delivered what they wanted, which was a slap in the face. Only my rival, a loud mouthed old woman who took me, reluctantly, under her annoying and clamorous wing, produced anything interesting. Together we shined, though I wanted nothng more than to distance myself from her. Combined, the two of us had missed the entire instruction the teacher had given through her constantly asking me what the instructor had said and me curtly answering as quick as I could, which indubitably led to a prolonged exasperated explanation on my part and an equally exasperated affirmation from her. Of course, by then the instructor had explained a whole lot of shit in the meantime that was completely lost, and then more was further lost as I was preoccupied with my anger thinking about how I'd just missed everything he'd said. And so it goes.

I did a really nice 3D drawing of a potato chip bag in Illustrator that my teachers were really impressed with. Then I told them if ever they want to buy a drawing of a chip bag, I'm their man. They all laughed. It made me wonder why they were assigning me to draw a chip bag in the first fucking place. It's like when my Shakespeare professor had us learn to recite by memory some of King Lear. It comes in handy when, say, your in a room full of Shakespeare dorks. But try that shit out in any other situation and you'll be pulling your meat to that girl that went home with the guy who was recapping all the latest episodes of Punk'd. She told you he's shallow and boring, and yet she's bangin' him and not you, you fuckin' loser.

It was a dark and stormy night...must be living in Ohio. I can't speak with authority for the rest of the state, but Ohio weather sucks. I'm sick of this shit. Cleveland has got to have some of the worst weather on record. Last weekend it was snowing. What kind of shit is this? It's the end of April, for BOBsakes. I can only assume it's a punishment befitting the dour outlook of the populace. There's no other explanation. Or else the Republicans have it right. There is no global warming going on, look at Clevelad, they're getting snow at the end of April! That proves all you scientists wrong. And, alas, Cleveland again ruins all the progress we've striven for!

I deliver pizzas. The joy I get from this is not the joy I get from fucking, drinking, injecting drugs, ingesting drugs or anything else that could possibly result in, cause or elicit happiness. But, stupid fucks give me money when I show up with their pie. And that's all that matters really. I do, I suppose, get myself involved in the dramas that go on at such places [pizza joints and all other fast food joints]. Somehow, I'm above it all. After all, I have a college degree. It's so funny the way they act to that fact and subsequently the way I act and respond. Like, I've become the school marm, correcting everyone's English. Like I fucking care. But they all want to somehow impress me with their vocabularies, which come off as absurd as Mike Tyson's attempts at sophistication. And I'm not even a sophisticated dude. Sure, I've read more books, seen move movies, and participate more in the arts than the average high school dropout, but c'mon, I'm as much a rube as any of these folks. They just don't see it. So, their loss, my gain. I use it to my advantage. For example, much of the time when not actually on the road, I'm folding pizza boxes or stocking soda or some such simple task. That I actually do these things without prompting makes me a good employee. I even clean the bathroom. Why? Because if I don't it's disgusting and I have to use that bathroom. Plus, since everyone else is a lazy fuck, I can get away with laziness later on because the others feel guilty that I've cleaned the bathroom. Like I fucking care. But, they all kiss my ass. If this were a game of Survivor, I'd be winning. Sometimes, I think it is a game of Survivor and I'm winning, but winning in Cleveland as a pizza delivery driver? What's the fucking point?

I used to want to be writer. That is, I wanted to be paid to be a writer. Actually, I wanted to be a novelist, living somewhere like Tampico, Mexico, or Nice, France, writing about things like philosophical malaise and Americanism, love and family, the individual, identity and society, the chances of Luke destroying the Death Star [meta, of course]. Then, later in my college career, I realized that if i didn't move to LA or NY and become a wild success writing sitcoms, that the best I might could do would be to become a journalist. Because, I still wanted to write. I'd written, published, with some success, so that gave me some false encouragement. I should have known better. I was really good at mocking and fabricating stories, but when it came to trying to pay attention and then write a story based on what I should have been paying attention to I failed. I didn't necessarily fail, but I never really excelled like I did when I completely lied and fabricated. I mean, who really cares about the story of Pilates anyway [the man, Josef Pilates]? Oh well.

So now I'm off in a new direction, that of design, because I'm just the kind of jaded fuck that could make it as an ad director. You think ads are stupid? Me, too. I fucking hate ads, commercials, etc., but I've come to realize that nice, good ideals result in a life of stubborn poverty or death. So, fuck 'em. The poor and middle class are just a bunch or stupid sheep who want guidance on how to give up their hard earned money. Why shouldn't I benefit? They don't have the backbone to resist. I'll bleed 'em for everything they've got. Maybe I can help be the straw that breaks the camels back.

Methinks it be 'round time to assess the ol' body, do an inventory of the damage done, see what needs tuning up, what's needs a rebuid.

It's been a hard weekend. Drinking, traveling, drinking, smoking, road food, drinking...lots of miles covered though few in motion.

In my defense, it was an occasion for such things. The return, or layover, of inlaws...the obligatory attendance at events that encourage such destructive behavior...and I fall in line, like a good soldier would (does).

So many calories consumed, so many miles traveled by the seat of the pants, so many liters of beer consumed, so many cigarettes smoked...like when I was younger, and it was acceptable, do-able. I could recover from it then, like a rubber band stretched and released. But now, who knows? I have a pain in my chest, the bad side of my chest, the side that wraps around me heart like I imagine, strips of bacon, greasy and weak. It could all just fall through in an instant, fuck the plans, what to do now? Such a sad, sad, thing, this little, meaty body with a timetable. I'd be rid of it, I suppose, if I could retain the sensations, of orgasm, tastes, sight, sound, chemical reactions...

I wonder what it is to hold on to? To give vows, of silence, to forgo the pleasures of the flesh, to give up desire...what's left? The body - a mechanism. And I should treat it that way. My body, a castle, an empire, a civilization, that I rule over, that is, my mind rules over. My fortress of neglect, or restraint - how better to rule this kingdom? Let it starve and work towards optimum performance or let it consume, develop tastes and become a lazy sensualist? It's my kingdom. And I rule, so I should have a plan, some direction, focused...but then I do not want to rule, would rather be a thief, operating outside of the whole game.

But, through even watching, comes the day when the watcher is watched, and it could be me own deary, bleary eyes, come to do the watching, shocked at once at the similarities and dis-similarities that shine back. Self-knowledge in silver backed mirrors, or dots on a screen. Now, just who is this fellow? And I've known it all along, from the pangs, any of those internal signals, however, nonverbal or visual, still cueing an alarm. My breath a glottal windchime, piss grip the kidneys, face of frozen wax...

The gym is the solution. Work it out, sweat it all out. Let it all go and give the body something to really cry about. But all these chemicals...how to keep them all in line, so satisfied, so that I can live in place somewhere between the physical world of desire and the aesthetic world of restraint. Just enough to keep the body working? That seems the idea. And I must admit, I am obsessive. I love the excesses, when I can indulge, and hate portioning out my pleasure like some marathon runner. If I want a steak, I want the potato, too, smothered in gravy, and a beer or two, or glass of wine or two, to wash it all down. Then smoke a cigarette, and recline...

Sadly, it doesn't last. How stupid to think it does? Just another fix will set it right. For a moment...but it should last...what lasts? Just another desire, put off for the moment, a moment of satisfaction achieved, for many moments in between of desire and time passing.

And now I go to the gym, out of spite, to eat the food and laugh in the faces of fat fucks, to tone my body to optimal sexual desire, to intimidate those weaker than myself and rule them.

I go to the gym to be a god, a statue, a paradigm of physical virtue, and, ultimately, I go to the gym to destroy and conquer you.

I've decided to become a graphic designer, having come to the conclusion that I fucking hate writing words anymore. Everything sounds so goddamned stupid and contrived.

And it is...mostly.

Even when I read. Poetry still gives me a little kick every now and again. You can pull a lot of tricks, be playful with words writing poetry. And, I know, what about the Oulipo Laboratory and George Perec, Italo Calvino. Yes, I like their stuff, it's interesting, and then you move on. I find experimental fiction fascinating conceptually, but rather tedious to read.

Take a news story for example. Does it matter that I put my name to it? It's just like so many other news stories in style with just a switch in content. I know I purposely mimic the news style when writing these stories. 25 word lead, inverted triangle arrangement of facts. I think of all the news stories I've read, the words and phrases commonly used, the pauses, breaks, transitions, the flow of ideas, when and where to put quotations. It becomes rote, and then I just shut down completely, because what's the fucking point anyway? The whole thing will be re-written the next day. It's annoying. Makes me not want to read the paper at all. The daily newspaper in my town uses the phrase, "Miss a day and you miss a lot," to sell papers on weekdays. It's partially true, since if you read the paper one day, you're practically obliged to read it the following day to see what's changed to follow the story. But there's just so much shit, and if you're at all prone to obsessive/compulsive behavior, you'll find yourself reading every damn story in the paper every day just so you don't miss anything. And then take a look at yourself: an anxiety ridden kook with a brain full of half formed ideas and a list of facts that will most likely be refuted the next day. It's pure insanity. Better off to just leave it alone or skim and then just toss it aside spitefully.

So, been reading Orwell's, Down and Out in Paris and London. The first 100 pages read like the diary of my life when I dropped out of college in Cincinnati, that is, had I the motivation to keep a diary. No money, get a job washing dishes, fall into a kind of comfortable lifestyle of survival, lose any ambition, lots of drinking, ass-busting labor. I wouldn't say that time in my life was particualarly fun, but it was simple, as long as I could drag my sorry ass in to work at 4 p.m. and my paychecks didn't bounce. Which was difficult and the paychecks usually bounced. On payday, it was a mad dash to the bank by everyone employed at the restaurant because invevitably the payroll account would be short due to the owner moving around funds to pay late bills. Then it would be a day or two before any money was back in the payroll account. Since I got there at 4 p.m. to pick up my check, I was almost always having to wait to cash it. To make up for this, the owner would give my dishwashing partner and I shots of Scotch and draft beers, which was usually good with me since if I had the check I'd be spending it on booze anyway. This way I could get drunk for free. And we always got a meal free for working a shift, so other than cigarettes and rent my cost of living was almost nothing. But the free drinks came at a price. The owner was a flaming homosexual whose appetite for young men was matched only by his thirst for drink. I declined all advances from the guy and laughed at his come-ons and stories of his sexual prowess. He didn't seem to mind much and I didn't mind and we were drinking on his tab.

Even the most boring, tedious motherfucker is tolerable if he's the one buying drinks.

I learned this when working as an ad-rep for an alternative weekly newspaper. This was a job I was completely unsuited for, so I stayed out of the office as much as possible to hide the fact that I was doing virtually no work. I'd come in to the office in the morning, give the obligatory round of hellos, do the crossword puzzle and read the newspaper until about noon, make some bogus phonecalls, and then leave for the rest of the day. I got really good at doing the crossword puzzle, noticing that answers to the puzzle were distributed throughout the paper. Unfortunately, that meant the time I spent on the puzzles was decreasing, and I'd find myself with nothing to do before noon once I'd finished the puzzle and read the paper. I'd stretch my legs under the big metal desk, shuffle around some papers, open my file drawers and pick around in there, not really wanting to disturb anything since I rarely used the files except when pretending to be busy if the publisher was around. I'd have my stuff all packed up and ready to go and I'd sit there watching the minutes go by on my pager until noon. Then it was, "See ya later, I'm going to lunch and then I've got a couple of appointments. If I'm on this side of town I'll stop by when I'm done." Nobody there cared. It was no secret that I was just fucking off the rest of the day. I'd casually take the stairs down to the street, eight floors, and look out the window to see if the publisher's car was out there and if she was just getting in. Sometimes I'd have to wait in the stairwell if I saw her, smoking cigarettes while she talked to the doorman or other tenants of the building.

But then it was such a relief to be out and free to do whatever. Of course, at that time of day there's very little to do. I'd go to the art museum on the free day if that was an option or Eden Park where it overlooked the Ohio River and watch the tug boats pushing barges up and down the river. However, the most common destination was the Barrelhouse Brewery. They had lunch specials that included a pint of beer, which would usually lead to about half a dozen more pints before I felt it was safe to drive home in the crowd of rush hour traffic. I knew one of the bartenders there, she'd dated a guy who lived in my old apartment building. We'd chat and she'd hook my up with pints on the house after I'd bought a few knowing that I'd later be drunk and give her a typically generous drunken tip. Mostly I kept to myself in the joint, but occasionally someone lonely or just drunk would strike up a conversation with me about anything. And if you're willing to lend an ear, you can make friends in a bar quickly. Drop a few hints about your poor financial status and the drinks start coming as long as you listen. This happened one day when I was writing in my notebook. Some poor bastard asked me what it was I was writing.

"Aww, just some stupid shit about being bored - "

"Yeah, man, sounds like what I'm going through with my wife. Fucking bitch has got me payin' her alimony, child support. Man, you're a young guy, got the future wide open ahead of you. That's great, man. Boy, life sure gets complicated all of a sudden. I'm John."

He extended his hand. I shook it and introduced myself. I'd been in two drinks so far, and was feeling up for some conversation. I took a big slug of my pint, draining it.

"Hey, you want a beer, man? It's on me."

I nodded, "Yeah, sure, man. Whatever."

He got the bartender over and ordered us another round.

"So how old are you? 25? You in college?"

John was in his forties, a salesman of Xerox copy machines. His wife had left him because he was a drunk, worked all the time, was away on business, was always irritated. She had been banging a guy she met at the supermarket. John was thin and muscular, black hair slightly graying. His eyes dark, brow furrowed, the look of a guy squinting at the sun. It was all bitching and complaining with John. He knew all the pitfalls of life, how marriage doesn't work, how the insurance agencies rip you off, how mechanics charge you double to do simple work on your car. Everyone had an angle to John and was working it to the bone just taking and taking from everybody and there wasn't a damn thing you could do about it. Except be young and drunk and fuck all responsibilities, travel light, learn about the world and where you can carve out a niche, find your own angle and begin puttin the screws on your fellow man. That was the American Dream he conveyed to me.

"You just gotta' get that edge. You see what I'm saying? Get the edge on somebody and you can squeeze, shake 'em down. And they think it's just all a part of how things are done. The price of doing business. Besides, they're workin' on you at the same time. The pool guy conveniently forgets to put oil in the pump and there it goes and then he's in, you're at his mercy now, and you better believe he's gonna' work you over for it."

I agreed with most of what he said. The world is a big fucking shithole, and it's only by being ruthless and cruel or blissfully ignorant and delusional that the cesspool we wade through everyday seems enjoyable. I hate to think like that. I'd like to have hope, but it's a rare occasion to meet someone with no agenda and, perhaps, sadly, it's just as well because when you meet someone like that it's only natural to take advantage of them, manipulate them and subvert them to your will which causes nothing but guilt and suffering. Better to be among the jaded where it's no crime to lie, cheat, steal and rob, but rather the expected order of things.

John bored and sickened me with his pathetic observations on life and the slipshod handling of his own experiences. I kept up the ruse, though, and we slapped each others backs from time to time throughout the evening. I got off with a $10 tip to the bartender. John paid the rest.

Today, another sloppy day of doing next to nothing...ah, the joys of living in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave