I love the trough!

Not really. In actuality, I hate the trough. If there is another man urinating at the trough, you won't catch me there. I'll either be waiting in line for the stall, or back at my seat at the bar, crossing my legs like nobody's business, or at least somebody's business that I don't want to invest in...

Aaron and I went to the Latino bar, "The Twilight Lounge," for last call tonight- only because band practice went late and Twilight is the closest bar to get to when it's 1:46 in the morning.

The few minutes we spent there were pretty uneventful, but nonetheless, we both agreed that they were quite surreal, those few minutes. How do I explain- it's not really that weird to go into a bar where no one speaks English. It's not that weird to pay $2.50 for a bottle of Miller. It's not that weird to hear, "Joo een't gottoo goo hoom, bot joo got too git dee fook outta heear!" Well... I guess that's kinda weird. But more funny, really. Especially coming from a young woman that I seriously thought was a prostitute five minutes earlier, simply based on her apparel. Color me judgmental. I guess she was a friend/girlfriend of the bartender. Who'da guessed?

Anyway, there was a trough for a urinal in the men's bathroom. Luckily, no one else had to relieve themselves at the same time I did. It could've been weird. I envision some sort of international incident evolving from a simple misunderstanding- "Look, it's not a racist thing! It's got more to do with my insec- OW! You just punched my nose! OW! What the fu- Hey! Stop punching m-", and so on.

This exists.

Atoka, Oklahoma. I-75/69. Halfway between Dallas and Tulsa. Right by the Wal-Mart and the Love's. Seems about right.

Do my biddings.

Please take a look at the fine item I've posted for sale on Ebay. I think you'll find it worth... something.

Haiku to Reinforce this Sentiment:

You could buy this thing.
This thing could be bought by you.
Don't you deserve it?

Huzzah!

Many accolades to you if you are one of the few people looking at this blog unprompted by a link from a website. If you are new, I must certainly welcome you with open arms. If you are not, you should now be used to being turned away in callous fashion by these arms that are quite full, at the moment, with fresh, new readers. I thank you for your patronage, new readers. Old readers- I scorn your patronage. You are merely a spectre of the past. The future lies with all these new people! New or old, I beseech you all to sign up for my new email list, which I have listed below. I ask you to perform this simple task only if you wish to receive emails from me on occasion directing you to something (most likely on this very blog) that I deem of import- namely any various rant, complaint, or hogswizzle I might have posted herein. I thank you in advance for your patronage. But, that's it... Don't expect anything else from me. I've done my part already by thanking you. After this, it would just start to get weird. You understand..

Again, please sign up for my mailing list. If you so choose..

email:

CarMaximum Pain.

When I bought my car 3 1/2 years ago, along with the vehicle itself I also purchased a 60,000 mile extended warranty- yeah, I'm that guy. Hey, it came in handy- I got a free CD player out of the deal when the one that came with the car stopped working. Oh, and I think they replaced a couple of headlight bulbs, too. All in all, though, the peace of mind one gets from knowing that one won't have to pay for any repairs for the first couple of years one owns the car is quite satisfactory. It's just one less burden to concern oneself with, considering the myriad of other headaches financing and caring for a slightly used car entails. And what's that worth, really? Oh yeah, about $1,500.

Don't judge me. I've made my choice.

Of course, this also meant having to take my car to the dealership to get it serviced, a proposition that I initially winced at. I've heard the stories. Plus, with a car like mine, you can always find a relatively cheap place to get work done. Y'know- hippies turned entrepreneurs. Strangely enough, and even as cynical as I am, especially as concerns dealing with large companies, I found myself leaving the dealership after each repair or oil change pleasantly, well, satisfied with the service I had just received, whether I had paid for it or not.

What was happening to me? Had I gone soft and given in to my unattainable ideals, or had I just been the nth victim of a truly masterful manipulation? I couldn't understand- why was it that I didn't feel ripped off? Why was it that I didn't feel as though I was being lied to when it came to the repairs that needed to be done?

Then I figured it out. These guys aren't getting commission, they're on salary! Therefore, they have nothing to gain by selling me parts I don't need. In fact, the sooner they get me out of there, the sooner they can go on their next smoke break or hang around the coffee machine where Sara from Receptions always goes at 2:09 every afternoon..

Plus, there was Greg: the ASE Certified Technician that always handled my claims. Greg was the kind of guy you want working on your car- clearly smart and capable, rugged, but not too rugged, and with a face as friendly as you might imagine your own mother's would be... were she a mechanic. For over a year, each time I went to the front desk to check in, the receptionist would inform me that my appointment was with Greg. I would then walk into the lobby and faithfully stand in line at his cubicle, and wait. I began to think that Greg was actually requesting me as a customer, as I found it quite coincidental that I should always find myself in his line, rather than any one of the other six technicians always on hand. With that in mind, I began requesting to have him as my technician every time I made an appointment: "Yeah, I need to see Greg about an oil change. Hmm? Oh, today, if possible."

And so it went. Sooner rather than later, "G'morning,Mr. Pool," turned into "Hey, whaddya say there, Jonathan?" and "Oh no, what'd you do that poor Golf this time? Hahaha!" As busy a man as he was, he always made an effort to offer a friendly handshake and a firm pat on the back after the completion of our transaction. I appreciated the gesture, so I even took the time to fill out the customer surveys he would occassionally meekly ask me to complete, "if it won't take too much of your time, pal."

And then, one day, he was gone. I didn't ask what happened to him. As emascualating as it is to take your car in to have something done that you, as a man, should know how to do in the first place, you certainly don't want to humiliate yourself by actually acting like you care about what happened to another man in front of a bunch of mechanics. Sure, you know they wouldn't laugh at you outright- that'd be unprofessional- but you'd see it in their eyes. They might even hang a poinsettia scented car freshener from your rearview mirror the next time they change your timing belt, just so you know that they know.

And so, I never found out what happened to Greg. I imagined him on a hilly ranch somewhere in the green fields of Montana, shoeing horses or installing exhaust fans on hogs. Probably, though, he was just promoted within the company. Guess I shouldn't have filled out so many of those surveys- at least not with all 10's.

I approached any new technician with extreme caution- how could I trust these guys? I don't know these guys! For all I know, they got that ASE patch on their arm from some guy they mugged down at the Firestone. I made no requests for specific technicians. I was fine with simply being shuffled around the office to whomever was available- I need some work done, let's just get it done and get out of here. This place creeps me out, I thought.

Soon, my stormy appointments at the dealership reached a sort of homeostasis. I began to be repeatedly assigned to Jesse, a nice enough man not too much my senior. He gave his customers a sense of comfort by displaying pictures on his cubicle of his children playing various sports. Even though I do not have children and the thought of having them makes me uncomfortable, his magic nonetheless worked on me as well. Even with the fear of being abandoned by another technician that I might grow to appreciate and even enjoy doing business with, I began requesting Jesse for my appointments.

Occasionally, Jesse would be out of the office, and so I would have to deal with someone else when I went in. There were a number of times that Brian, the technician in the cubicle right next to Jesse's, would handle my claim. I'm not sure how many, but it was enough for him to remember my name each time I came in. But, pound for pound, it was clear that Jesse was officially my new technician. Or, at least that's what I thought..

Recently, a few days before a road trip, I took my car in to get an oil change- you know, one of the many obligatory things you learn from your father before driving two hundred miles, along with washing the car (I've since rebelled against this notion- why not just wash it when you return from the trip? Or, better yet, why not just not wash it?). I had stopped asking with whom my appointment was by this point, as well as requesting anyone. I just naturally assumed it would be with Jesse.

When I walked in that morning, Jesse and Brian were both standing at their respective cubicles, waiting, apparently, for nothing, or (and this is the more likely of the two)for the following scenario to occur. Perhaps what happened next had been building up between these two- I'll never know, but, regardless of the reasons, all I know is it happened. With me in the middle.

in chorus.
Jesse- Hey, Mr. Pool! How ya doin'?
Brian- Jonathan! Hey buddy! I'll get you right over here!

Me- Hey... guys.

Jesse- I can help you right over here, Mr. Pool.

Brian- No, I got him right over here, Jesse.

Jesse- I don't think so, Brian- here his name is, right under my name.

*Brian walks over, attempting to act casual, but there are already tiny beads of sweat popping up on his forehead, and he smiles the way you expect a skeleton would if it found a suit of flesh- 'Just show all your teeth- that'll convince 'em it's genuine!'*

Brian- That's a mistake, Jesse. He's supposed to be under my account.

Jesse- No, Brian -----. *At this point, Jesse began to call Brian by his full name, for emphasis, I suppose. I've omitted it here.* Here's his name- RIGHT HERE, where it should be. What can I do for you today, Mr. Pool?

Me- Um, I just needed to, uh-

Brian- No! Jesse, *appalled at this injustice, and growing ever angrier* what are you doing, man?

Jesse- I'm taking care of my CUSTOMER, Brian -----.

Brian- *laughing nervously and, quite reasonably, embarassedly* Your customer? He's been coming to me for three years! *We all knew this was a lie, but he was simply trying to gain ground in a futile argument. I respected him for it.*

Jesse- I don't think so, Brian -----.

Brian- I do think so, Jesse -----. *Turnabout's fair play, and so out comes Jesse's last name!*

Jesse- Well, you're wrong.

Brian- Check the history, Jesse. *All through clenched teeth and severe eye contact, by this point.*

And now, the two desperate men realized I was still standing right there in front of them, and witnessing this awesome display of whatever it was that was happening here. As uncomfortable as I felt at that moment, I couldn't help but to smile inwardly at the knowledge that, while I may always be a pauper, I will never have to have an interaction like this.

Jesse- We'll be with you in just a minute, Jonathan. *The two men go about clicking buttons, pointing fingers at screens, and claiming victories.*

Brian- See? Right here. He was just in here a month and a half ago- and look whose name!

Jesse- Well, Brian -----, look at this. *He sets about pointing his finger to all sorts of points of contention on the 13" monitor.*

Brian- So what?

Jesse- So, he's my customer, Brian -----. How can I help you, Mr. Pool?

Brian- No, Jesse, no!

Me- I just need to get my oil changed..

Brian- Yeah, Jesse -----, let the man get his oil changed!

Jesse- Sure thing, Brian -----. Can I just get your keys, Mr. Pool?

Brian- Yes, I'll take your keys right over here, Jonathan.

Jesse- Brian, no. Stop- Who do you wanna work with, Jonathan?

*Just now, I feel like a child who is forced to choose between living with his mother or father, as the bickering couple selfishly brings him into their dirty war. Awkward!*

Me- I don't, uh-

Brian- He doesn't care, man. Just let it go, Jesse.

Me- I just want to get my oil changed.

Jesse- Okay, Brian -----, fine, if that's what you wanna do.

Brian- I'll get you all taken care of over here, Mr. Pool.

Thinking the firestorm to be over, I cautiously approached Brian's cubicle, though not before casting a furtive glance towards Jesse's cubicle, to ensure that my safety was not in jeopardy. I also made a solemn internal promise to always ask for Jesse from this point on. I always go for the underdog, and besides, he was right in the first place- I'd worked with Brian only a few times. Brian knew this, but his anger and pride got the best of him. I can't have a loose cannon like this working on my car! I might wake up exploded some morning!

After exchanging all the perfunctory information that is required for an operation such as this, Brian asks, "Will you be needing a ride home today," to which Jesse quickly replies, "No, he always waits in the waiting room. He never gets a ride. He waits." And so, the battle raged on.

During my stay in the waiting room, both men approach me seperately to apologize for the boorish behavior of their counterpart, offer me a cup of coffee, and hand me a business card with their personal cell phone numbers handwritten on the back. I assume they both went to the same customer service class.

When my car was finished, I climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. I looked to my left as I pulled out of the garage, and there, in the office window with glaringly open blinds, were Jesse and Brian, screaming at one another, while a man at a desk, presumably the boss, listened, mediated, or laughed. Behind his head on the wall of his office was placed a large, white markerboard that had names in one column, numbers in another, and stars in another. Somewhere, "Monthly Leader" was written on the board. I guess these guys do get a commission, after all. Innocence is lost.

Having failed to mention previously that while I was told when I made this appointment to be at the dealership at eleven a.m., but that I was not told that the mechanics go to lunch at eleven a.m., and was therefore made to wait an extra hour for a service that should not take more than thirty minutes, I hasten to add here that I have since found a mechanic quite near my house that specializes in vehicles of my sort, and is much cheaper to boot. My warranty expired 70,000 miles ago, anyway.

this post was submitted to action! everydayhogwash.

Sales Call.

Please take a look at the fine ITEM I've posted for sale on Ebay.

Shoes.

My shoes are Nazi Death Camp survivors. No- my shoes are Nazi Death Camp victims. My shoes never did any wrong to anyone. My shoes have always done right by me. My shoes give and give and give, and ask so precious little in return: "Tie me once in a while. Retrieve me from your dog's mouth. Just look at me from time to time."

When is the proper time to retire a shoe? Your shoes will never tell you- they will continually toil away at carrying you to whatever event it is that people like you with shoes like yours go. Your shoes are not socially sensitive; if they are out of place, do they cower in a corner? Do they shy away from expensive, polished marble floor, even while knowing that the bretheren that created them, gave them life, years, maybe only months ago, perhaps in Honduras, perhaps in Taiwan, are the same bretheren whose family immigrated to a desolate European country to die in a limestone quarry to make a measly pittance to send back home to combine with the shoe-makers measly pittance in order to simply feed a starving family, namely their own?! No, of course not! The things a shoe knows do not have an effect on the shoe the way the same thing would have an effect on you or me. A good shoe is like a good dog. Fuck it, even a bad shoe is like a good dog. A bad dog is not like anything. A bad dog shits on good shoes. But, that's bad dogs for you.

Sometimes a shoe can tell you something. It must certainly have to be important, as shoes do not usually make it their business to communicate with their wearers. No, they are only concerned with the next step, the next puddle, the next clutch.

But sometimes..

Sometimes a shoe begs to be let go, to return from whence it came. Well, not really to return from whence it came, unless you got your shoes from a dumpster, which is not altogether impossible, I suppose.

I noticed it last evening, when I was drunk. It still counts.

My shoes were a salty old eighty-seven year old man, just stirring from a coma after several massive strokes and bypass surgery. Stuck on life support, with no hope for recovery, they peered up, pleading, if only for a moment, with those piercing, ghostly green eyes that all his seamates would later constantly refer to during and after the funeral. Simply to say, "Please," and nothing else, except for the recognition and memory of all the time you'd spent together over the sprawling, inky past in the course of a single second.

You knew immediately what had to be done.

But in reality, they awoke in a nightmare flurry of burned skin and leperous boils, and while the screaming reassured you that they were indeed still alive, you knew that you would soon level the .38 in your left hand at their right temple and end their misery forever. You had shed no tears.



Don't they appear to be screaming in abject terror?

A typical morning at my house.

Urgent! Please read!

Just like so many other days in my life, I awoke a few mornings ago with an idea for a revolutionary new business buzzing around in that entrepreneurial head of mine. I couldn't shake it- it really seemed like a good idea, this idea of mine. One that I could make just gobs of money at, with relatively little work, of course. Sure, I'd need some money, quite a bit of money, actually, to get it started, but the idea was so strong that I was sure it would be no problem to get investors, advertisers, stockholders, etc. That was how strong this idea was.

Like many of my ideas for new businesses, this one latched onto what many would deem a cultural revolution, and it is well known that one of the easiest ways to get rich in this country is to piggyback something that has already made someone a ton of money. I could list a number of examples, but I'm sure you can come up with your own. I know where it came from, this idea of mine. I can pinpoint the exact few hours when, upon oversaturation on Myspace, my subconscious must have developed this stellar idea, and delivered it to me a number of days later, when it could break the idea down into manageable parts for my waking brain to digest and sort through.

Before the Christmas holidays, I spent a fair amount of time posting a comment on every person's page that I am "friends" with on Myspace. Granted, I do know, or at least am acquaintances with, almost every friend on my list in real life. There are a few exceptions, but for the most part, I have had some sort of face-to-face interaction with everyone on the list. It is a modest list compared to what many myspacers deem "friend collectors," who have upwards of 10,000 friends, but individually going to 79 different people's sites and posting a comment is no small task. It probably took me about three hours over the course of two days to post my holiday greeting, which was also (in my self-promoting shame) a link to the very blog from which your eyes are now processing information.

I can take Myspace or leave it, all things told, and generally, I leave it. I am certainly not a Myspace junkie, and have probably never spent more time on it than the time I spent creating my profile when I joined the site a couple of years or so ago. In fact, a testament to my previous statement is evident in the statement itself: if I truly was a Myspace junkie, I would know how long I've been a member of the site- it says in one of the upper corners on one's profile when you signed on. I don't know. I don't give a shit.

My point is this- all this time on Myspace affected my brain. It gave me this idea, and the more I tried to shake the idea, the more the idea gave me. I mean, I could come up with a reason that it wouldn't work, and then the idea would come back with five reasons why it would so definitely work. I even tried to, while acquiesing to the idea that it was indeed a good idea, dismiss the idea by telling it that no matter how good an idea it was, the loftiness of trying to set up such an idea with this insanely massive website was at best ludicrous, and at worst an idiotic waste of time, time that would be better spent doing anything else on the internet, like clicking on Free ipod ads.

My idea would not be swayed. Knowing that Rupert Murdoch, media mogul, just purchased Myspace from a young Internet start-up guy named Tom for some absurd figure like 500 million dollars, my idea convinced me that it was so good at what it does, which incidentally is nothing more than simply being, that it was so revolutionary and novel, that, if executed properly, would make Myspace to online friending what Google is to online everythinging. This is not to say that Myspace has not already surpassed any and every other "personals" site, but this idea would push it that much further ahead of the pack.

My idea convinced me to push forward in spite of my personal insecurities, and to contact the man, the myth, the Tom of Myspace with my idea. When I resolved to actually go through with it, to actually approach this newly rich man with my partner, the idea, I was wholly unaware of the massive process I was about to undertake. Normally on Myspace, if you want to send someone a message, you simply go to their site, click on "Send Message," and spout nonsense to your heart's content. Not so with Tom, Myspace Guru. You have to understand: Everybody's friends with Tom. He's your friend automatically when you sign up for Myspace. You have no choice in the matter. In fact, when I signed up, there were about three people that I added as my friends at first. I also had this strange Tom fellow, whom I did not know at all. A few days later, I had six or eight friends. Having grown confident in my ability to assimilate into web-based friendships, I hastily deleted Tom from my friends list. I had no idea who this asshole was in California, but he certainly wasn't my friend. "Hats off for creating this website, but I don't owe you nothin', buddy."

The next time I checked my Myspace page, it showed that I had -2 friends. While I thought this was quite hilarious, and as much as I wish it still said that, that gives you a pretty good idea as to how powerful this Tom fellow is.

When I finally summoned the courage to send a message to Tom, the process of actually being able to send him an email was akin to walking through a labryinth made of moist sand while a light breeze blows from the southeast, and also while the earth below is pushing the sand beneath your feet up in quick, rectangular motions, creating more walls to replace the ones that have just been blown away by the southerly breeze on your back. It's damn near impossible. I could outline the various avenues and cul-de-sacs I encountered in my attempts to get a simple outline of a sure-to-be multi-million dollar business to this man, but you get the idea: it was fucking hard. Like crossing a channel during low tide, it took timing. Like being allowed past an airport security checkpoint with a spiked belt, it took finesse. Like listening to a speech by Alan Greenspan, it took skill. Like running a speakeasy during Prohibition, it took moxie! Somehow, the stars aligned, and there I was- a blinking cursor the only thing between me and Tom.

I outlined my idea- a quick sketch, yes, but definitely enough information to really sell the idea, who by this point was raring to go.

While typing my email, I began to get paranoid. I can't say exactly why, but I think it has a lot to do with not trusting the Fox corporation for shit. Just to safeguard myself, I copied and pasted my message to Tom and sent it to all my various email addresses. I pasted it into Microsoft Word and printed out a paper copy. I even went so far as to use my digital camera to photograph my computer screen, complete with the time and date, not only on the screen, but also on my camera's display.

I mean, we're talking about a great idea here!

Just think of it- the very first .com based taxi company, exclusively for its own members! Not only that, but FREE for its own members! Sure, non-members could ride too, but they'd have to pay regular fare! And they'd still be riding all over town in a giant billboard! And hmm, don't you think they'd sign up for a free Myspace account when they got home so that they too could participate in the free rides, thereby driving even more business to Myspace's advertisers? Well, fuck yeah, they would!

Although still insecure and unconfident in my idea, who by now was beaming with joy while simultaneously threatening to "slap the shit outta me" if I didn't hurry up and send it off, I took a deep breath and pressed 'Send.'

And that was pretty much that.

A few days went by, and nothing came back. No one took the bait. No one cared. I began gaining confidence in my surefire inconfidence, and began chiding my idea, who had slowly deflated in the quiet few days. My idea couldn't believe it. It had the look of a small town girl who just found out that her boyfriend, the star quarterback for her high school football team, The Lightningjackets, had just broken his neck while diving for a first down, and would be a paraplegic from now on.

Knowing the best time to prove a point was when my idea was at its' lowest, I scolded it for not only making an attempt at such a lofty and clearly unattainable goal, but for using me as its' pawn. "That was what hurt the most," I told it.

My idea stopped talking. It pretty much sulked in the corner of my bedroom, and kicked at cat hair. I saw a light in its' eye at one point, when it appeared to be making some sort of structure out of cat hair and dirt. "Don't," I told my idea. "I don't need another mouth to feed, much less hear."

Then I checked my email.

All the emails I sent myself- they were gone. Gmail, Hotmail, Yahoo, Myspace. All. Gone.

I ran to my desk. Where was the fucking paper copy?! I stopped, turned, searched my room frantically. 'Where's my camera?' A sinking feeling, especially as that was a birthday gift from my sweetheart, and a really expensive one at that. Relief. There it was on my dresser, right where I left it. The only proof I had left. I turned on the camera, getting the USB cable ready to download my screenshots onto a disc I could keep on my person at all times until I had this mess sorted out.

Pressed the Review button.

This is what I found.


Someone help me, please. I need a lawyer.

If you don't believe me, go here.