So Sad, and So Tempting...

By my birthday, I may just want one of these.


Oh God, how I hope not...


-Zeepdoggie

Fuckin' Mozart...

So what do I do with the greatest musical talent to ever live? I have his concerti on the iPod, and I am getting to hear them now, and they are perfect. Simply perfect; not a bad note, nothing out of place; tones where there should be tones, silences where there should be silences, not one goddamned thing unnecessary or missing. And you know that the conductor and the orchestra step it up a notch or three when they’re playing Mozart, so I am getting virtuoso level performances from the fourth chair trombone…

So what do I do about old Wolfy? Do I just quit now and claim whatever he writes as the best I’ve ever heard? In a word, no; and here’s why.

First of all, he was so good, that if he wanted to make you cry, you would cry. Mozart makes you feel what he wants you to feel. And that sucks for the purpose of The Project. I want to feel something beyond the purpose of the composition, something that works no matter what mood I am in. And since WA Mozart changes my mood to suit his themes, I can’t consider anything he’s written as the greatest song I have ever heard.

Also, he underutilizes the cello, my favorite instrument in the orchestra. Now Shostakovich, there’s a composer who knows how to work a cello…

While Wolfy will make the top 25, no contest, he won’t take home top honors, which, were he alive and all the rumors about his fantastic ego be true and he actually read my pap, would just piss him off.


-Zeepdoggie

Sharing the Joy of the Holidays! Part I

GringO and I have decided to share out Christmas stories with you all. I hope that his is longer, because mine is really short. You ready?

I couldn’t go to the Christmas Eve festivities of my family because I had to get to the Zeep family compound by 1400 in order to meet the RDV of 1600 at Zeepspunky’s house. She is my oldest and shortest sister, except in attitude; there she is the biggest member of the family, and I oh so love her for it!
Anyway, the job wouldn’t let me get out any earlier than 1600, so you see the conflict in the plan. I called my folks and told them to go without me.

So I worked until closing in Hell with Wheels. I went home and read for a little bit, tried to call some folks and didn’t get through, and went to sleep.

Christmas Day I went to the parental abode, did laundry and went home.

And that was Christmas.


-Zeepdoggie

the Project: Progress...

The Project is progressing nicely. I am about 300 songs deep, with roughly one in five earning more than one star. I decided that I would not rate songs until I had it narrowed down to a top 100. With roughly 7000 songs, it's going to take a while.

But like I said, it's going well. It's been a lot of fun, since I am listening not only with an agenda but also with no mind as to the relevance of my choice to my mood or situation. I am listening just to listen. It's also exciting to me to be answering one of the questions that I have always asked myself; it's geeky, I know, but I love to listen to music. Music is God's voice to me.


-Zeepdoggie

Stealing Their Hearts

I have figured out a new way I can meet the ladies. It’s quite clever; well, for me, at least. Its going to take me acquiring a new skill, which will be fun for me because:
1) I will be learning;
B) it might just get me some aksheeawwuhn (say it out loud to get it)!

When I see a pretty woman on the street, or on the bus/train/at work, etc. I will pick her pocket. I will wait until the proper moment and approach her and say, “Miss, I believe you dropped this.” The sudden discovery of a disaster averted plus the act of chivalry will make her more open than me just walking up and saying something exceptionally witty, like, “Nice shoes; wanna screw?” Hey, it would be witty for me! Consider the source, people!

So as I hand her back her wallet or pocketbook, I will laugh a little, and spin a tale for her about how my great uncle met my great aunt in the same way, and what a great couple they are. I will offer to take her for a cup of coffee; after all, it’s the least I could do for her since she gave me the opportunity to be a hero.

At this point, I’m not sure if I should steal her cash before I return her stuff to her, because then I could potentially get a date and not actually have to pay for it; and if she says no, then hey, twenty bucks! Smells kinda like a win-win to me!

It sounds like a winner to me! What do you all think?

-Zeepdoggie

Finals Finale!

Hello, my beloved readers! I have grand news! The semester is over! Yay! You know what that means, right? You guessed it! It means I have more opportunities to write to you, my lovey-doveys! Look at how excited you are, peeing your pants and everything!

Now some of you missed me, I am sure, and some of you could care less as to what has happened to me. To those of the former, I say, as I hold a finger tenderly to your trembling lips, "Hold your tongue, my pet. I am here, now...for you." To those of the latter, I say, "AHAAHAHAHAHA! I AM BACK, BITCHES! BORN TO IRRITATE YOU, LIKE POISON OAK FOR YOUR DWINDLING CRANIUM! AS YOU SUFFER, I GUFFAW PURE LAFFS!"

Ahem...

So I would like to apologize for completely disappearing off of the Erf to the following people: Ren (I am so your bitch) and the happy household who lives only to serve her; Tim, who I swear I will call back soon; Tom and all the other dudes I game online with; and that nice young lady who somehow got my email address and sends me naked pictures (I swear I am not making this up; sometimes God does throw a little sunshine Zeepdoggie's way); Rolling Thunder and all the other cronies who toil with me in Hell and also read this pap. To all of you, I will soon say, "Hiya!" Except for Ren, to whom I will say, "Please forgive me, O fecund goddess of acerbic wit!"

So finals went off without a hitch. I did not ask out any of my professors or TA's, as I had hoped to. Cowardice is a potent little mood-killer. But I had a lot of fun hanging out with the Dimmer Twins of Cloud and Willi, two young lads in my Deutschklasse, and with Cake-Free Katie, who is not emo, but quite bright, and MO and K and Z, who will be forming with me a writing guild where we will share our ideas and works and see if they can't put a little shine on the shit I sling to the paper that I dare call "writing."

And then there is The Project, which is coming along. There will be a post about that soon enough, hold yer horses.

So what is up with you, sunshine? Let me hear ya!

-Zeepdoggie

Project: 1st Snag

Less than 24 hours into The Project, and I have been bit in the ass with the steely jaws of a cartoonish bear trap of a problem. It's a simple question to ask, but tricky as hell to answer:

In what order do I listen to the songs?

If I do it by band, then the band's particular style will become a baseline for my ear and mind, affecting the judgment of other bands and songs. Obviously, listening by album or genre will have the same effect.

I'll have to do it by song. But how the hell am I going to keep track of the songs? Especially since some of them appear more than once from the same artist, i.e. a live track vs. a studio track.

This is going to be very, very tough.

But thank Jobs for that handy feature of being able to rate songs right on the ol' iPod. Once I listen to a song, i will rate it with one star. Any song I think is very good or better, I will give two stars. This will help to slowly narrow down the possibilities, bottlenecking the selections.

It's good the semester's ending.

-Zeepdoggie

The Project

I have a new project. It’s ambitious, and most likely it’s unrealistic, but I’m going to do it anyway. This is a project I have wanted to do for years, for a long, long time; before I thought of writing a book, before I debated being a sailor, I wanted to take this on. But I didn’t have the tools; the technology, the selections, the opportunity.

But they’re all here now; I have the proper tools, and I have the material and I have the drive.

I am going to descry the greatest song I have ever heard.

Not the greatest song of all time, but the greatest song of all time for me.

The iPod has roughly twenty days worth of music. I’m going to have to listen to everything at least twice. And then there’s the considerations of technical ability, composition, lyrical content, and that ever important “vibe.”

Twenty days. Twenty days. 20. Zwanzig. Vingt. Twintig. είκοσι. Shit...

Aw, hell. It’s not like I haven’t bitten off more than I could chew before. It usually gives me gas, but I'll finish the meal.

-Zeepdoggie

Mike Ness and the Story of My Day

So, who here has heard of Social Distortion? C'mon, put yer hands up!

Now put 'em down! What's the matter with you, putting your hands up when you're sitting at the computer? You look like a crazy person!

So I'm listening to "White Light, White Heat, White Trash" on my way home from work. I'm feeling a little conflicted. Mom's out of the hospital and I have a brandy-new, shiny grand-nephew. But I'm still feeling down, because it's the holidays and I don't take to the lonelies well whenever it's just another boring day on the calendar. But this is the time of year where it just sucks. I've actually not spent a Christmas alone (as in without a girlfriend/wife/significant other) since I've been dating. For those not in the know, that is a long goddamned time. This year, the streak will, in all likelihood, be broken. I am not jazzed about that. My sub needs to dock. Sailors need liberty in some port other than home.

Have I pushed the metaphor far enough? Good.

So, yeah, and I got into a conversation at work that ended with me quoting Tyler Durden, so you know that must have been a very cheerful way to leave the jobsite. The conversation before that was about divorce, and it went downhill from there.

I put on SoD, because, hey, why not? Is it going to get worse? It could, I know, but SoD won't be the ones responsible, and I'm leaving the job after my second bad day at work (which sucks because it's Tuesday), so I just decide to listen to some really depressing lyrics sung to a nice upbeat punk vibe.

I'm listening to "Down on the World Again" and I am so right there with Ness, man.

Well, I feel so alone in this crowd, my thoughts of despair
Are getting loud
I'm disrespected
And I'm down on the world again
Love and tolerance have abandoned me and I feel the gloom hovering over me
I'm resentful
And I'm down on the world again

Fuck the world; all of humanity is nothing more than the skidmarks in the geological-time toilet bowl; the experiment is over and mankind just won't do what all the other useless species had the decency to do and just die off already! Burn the whole thing down to the core. Not "Feelin' Groovy," that's for sure.

I get on the train, sit down in all of my foulness and angst and whatever else you want to call it just don't call it emo, and across from me is this cute little baby. And he starts talking to me in that individual baby-speak that you can't understand unless you spend a full month straight with the little bugger, but he's laughing and talking to me. I talk back, mostly saying "Really?" and "Yeah!" just encouraging him to keep going. And he has a cool hat, and he shows it to me, and he loves his Scooby-Doo blanket ( and I ask, who wouldn't?) and he is just so damned adorable that I completely forget about me and am so jazzed on his coolness that I'm still smiling about it.

As I get off the train, I listen to the song that's now playing.

The sins
Of the world
And it's cold on the streets
And you're all alone
And the tears
They start to fall
When it all comes down
Hear the angels sing

Thanks, little dude, for helping me hear the angels sing.

-Zeepdoggie

Welcome Aboard, Jake!

Jacob Ryan Federici, the latest member of Zeepdoggie's growing crew of grandnephews and-nieces, has joined the ranks. Pipe him aboard, and let the spoiling begin!

Seriously though, Jake Ryan? My niece's obsession with 80's movies has gotten out of control. Besides, think of how much cooler that baby would be in high school if Mom and Dad went with the most famous character in that movie.

ROLL CALL

"Evans, Josh..."
"Here."
Federici...Long Duk Dong!?"
"...sigh..."

I guess it could've been worse. I remember her being really into "Top Gun." Maverick Iceman Federici would've been okay, but imagine if she went the RIO route: that's right, folks, Goose Slider Federici.
That would be totally hott! No wait; it would be HOTTT!

-Zeepdoggie

And Jake, that Great Uncle Zeepdoggie to you! Love ya, bubba!

Don't Ever Ask That Question

So, Zeepmomma is in the hospital, again. This time the docs are 95% sure it's pneumonia. Good for them; something they can diagnose and treat. But it's a pretty bad case, and since they still don't know exactly why she lost use of her legs for a few days, they are taking her case as "exceptional."
This is what I get for asking, "What next?"
They aren't sure when she'll be home, since this is her fifth bout with pneumonia in four years. I remember trying to explain to her that she has all of these lung-related issues, and that there is most likely a link to her smoking for roughly fifty years of her life. She thinks it's coincidence. Yeah, just like all those times she'd come home to me, eyebrows smoldering, holding a scorched screwdriver in one very twitchy hand, giggling idiotically and big burn marks on the wall above the socket and me being able to hold a lightbulb in my mouth and make it glow are just coincidences.
But her being in a hosopital affords me many opportunities to flirt with nurses, doctors, orderlies and candy-stripers; life hands me a lemon, I'll see if it can get me laid.

-Zeepdoggie

It's all their fault!

Zeepmomma is in the hospital. On Sunday she tried to get up from the couch, and her legs couldn’t support her. She couldn’t walk. So they took her to the ER, where they then took her to Elmhurst Hospital (yes, that is quite far from where she and Zeepdaddy live, but that’s where the doc is, so there is where she goes), where they have done an MRI and blood work and some motor tests to determine that they don’t know what the hell is wrong.

She had a stroke last year, so it might be that. But her blood work shows some kind of issue that might suggest diabetes. Still, in the hospital three days now and the all they can do is the MD equivalent of shuffling their feet and saying, “I dunno…”

She’s in high spirits, and her legs can move. She took some steps today with her physical therapist (put a space in there and “therapist” becomes “the rapist”…I just noticed that…English can be kinda funny, can’t it?), so there is good stuff coming along. We played a joke on my sister that I’ll share with you all later, which made her laugh. She said it was “the highlight of the year.”

I’m like a lot of folks out there. When I feel lazy and irresponsible, I blame my folks for my troubles. “If they did a better job raising me, then I would (or not) have done/said/been that way about…” You get the picture. But, if that’s the case, if we are going to give up responsibility of our decisions to our parents, then we should most definitely give a big, screaming, TRL-style shout-out for all the cool shit we did!

Thanks Mum & Dad, for:
o All that creative mischief I pulled in which almost no one got hurt (sorry again about the arm, Scotty-2-Hotty)!
o All those lovely ladies that I convinced I was good enough for sex! Actually, double thanks for that!
o Every time I did something smart! Both of them!
o For the insane work ethic, which I also curse you for!
o For teaching me that funny hurts!
Und so weiter!

So, that’s my thing. If you blame your folks, thank them too. Because, if they fucked you up so badly, then there’s no way you can take credit for all that cool shit you pulled, you suck-ass, namby-pamby, irresponsible jerk-off!

I’m out like the Kansas ass flash pants.

-Zeepdoggie

Point: I Want to be a Ninja!

I want to be a ninja. How cool would that be? I’d get to run around in black PJ’s hiding my face, and assassinating evil shogun and ruthless samurai. I’d have those cool climbing claws for my hands and feet, and I would be able to scale the walls like a pre-Venom black-costumed Spider-Man!

Ninja are all about stealth. If a ninja were after you, you wouldn’t know it until five minutes after you’re dead.

And the ninja didn’t live by some silly warrior’s code. They did the dirty work. You think that your daimyo is going over-the–top with the taxes? Call a ninja. Your rival in the Imperial court is getting a little uppity? Call a ninja. In fact, any of the scenarios broached by AC/DC in the song “Dirty Deed Done Dirt Cheap” would totally apply for hiring a ninja.

My number one concern with being a ninja is the Inverse Ninja Law. I have to be mindful of how many ninja are with me when I go out ninjing. I don’t know about you, but being a killing machine is much more satisfying than being cannon fodder.

And the swords! Oh, man the katana so kicks the ass of any cutlass or other sword out there. Making a katana is more of a religious rite than a tool-making process. And the folds! It was a super strong blade that you could use as a bridge, if you had to cross a very short, very deep river, or crevasse, or something.

Ninja have no catch phrases. No avasting or ahoying for a ninja. And you know what they say about a life at sea…

Ninja bathe, pirates don’t. Women throw themselves at the silent, clean-smelling ninja. Pirates pay for sex, at least with women; if they want it for free, well, that's what cabin boys are for.

Who the hell would wear the frilly shirt from "Seinfeld" by choice? And shoes with buckles? What's wrong, matey? Shoelaces kicking your ass? Oh, yeah, nice patch. Bet that comes in handy when you're trying to determine distance...oh, wait, you can't do that with ONE EYE!

So, the comfy outfits, the stealthy nature, the kick-ass swords, the soap and the nookie all add up to a ninja being the real ultimate power.

-Zeepdoggie

Counter-Point: A Pirate's Life for Me!

I want to be a pirate. As a pirate you are outside of the law in that you don't care about it. You also don't have to rely on anyone else for means of support. Need money? Take it. Wanna drink some alcohol? Take it. Want a cheaply acquired DVD collection? Hell, I stole this computer I'm using. Piracy is the way!

Unlike the silent cowardly tactics of ninjas pirates will give you the courtesy of a monologue and there is no mistaking a cannon ball trailing a tail of smoke hitting you in the stomach and taking you overboard into the briny depths. Ninjas are the silent yet deadly farts in elevators of crime while Pirates are the raucous raspberries of tomfoolery and mirth. Providing a little pizazz to spice up your untimely demise, Pirates put the "balls" in ballistics.

Ninjas are the goth-kids-hiding-in-basements of the criminal world with their ridiculous all black pajamas rule whereas Pirates are the glamorous leather boot, frilly yet stylish shirt wearing rock stars. This helps for the ladies. Ninjas are bound to attract women who like the strong silent type and probably want commitment and babies and all that dither. Pirates appeal to the rich heiresses of nobility who are in for some adventure or just some simple slumming. No need to buy them gifts, put up with emotions, or meet the parents, no responsibility. Nail and bail, that's the Pirate way. In other words, complete freedom!

How many ninjas do you know? None if they are real ninjas. In this world of relative anonymity Pirates have catchy names and go down in history and live on as legends unlike countless ninjas who have left about as much personal renown as as stray dog. With their quirky phrases, outlandish behavior and awe inspiring fighting tactics, pirates get the most fun out of life.

-Sneaky Pete

::GringO::

Four Ways to Save Your Spot In Hell

1) Random conversation while closing:

Gringo: I get all my muscles by carrying old ladies across the street.
Jazz master: Whatever.
Gringo: ...then down an alley and into the back of a van.
D: Gasp!
Jazz master: Oh my God.
Gringo: Oh come on, they don't care, they don't have any memory.
D: OK, you've been reading too much Catcher in the Rye.



2) In reference to the Star Wars' Christmas Special

Gringo: They might as well show a competition where people throw Downs Syndrome kids.

3) Fun with a customer signing up for a free program:

Customer: Does it cost anything?
Gringo: Two pints of cat blood.

4) In response to coworker Crazy Lady's comments about the inferiority of eau de toilette as compared to perfume:

Gringo: That is why I only wear scent made of sweat from the breasts and thighs of 17 virgins.
Cock-sucking Mohican: You straight people are disgusting.

::GringO::

It's About Sports...Tune in if you like

As I was looking through my jerseys today, trying to figure out what to wear, I thought of an interesting question, which I will share with you.

If you could have any six game-worn jerseys, which would they be?

1. Stan Mikita's jersey from the 1961 Stanley Cup final game.
2. You know that shot of Walter Payton jumping eight feet in the air for the touchdown? That jersey.
3. The jersey Patrick Roy wore when he winked at Tomas Sandstrom in the 1993 Stanley Cup finals.
4. Dick Butkus's first game jersey.
5. The Golden Jet's jersey when he broke the 50-goal barrier. FYI, it was March 12, 1966, against the Rangers. The 'Hawks won 4-2.
   
6. The jersey Dikta wore during that incredible touchdown run where he breaks seventy-four tackles. Seriously, it's like everybody who ever played for the other team got two shots at him.

What about you?

-Zeepdoggie

Depression, Uninterrupted

I needed an awesome weekend. Wednesday is when justice failed me; Friday was a double whammy in that Derek Fucking Bastard’s insurance company said that they would not pay for the damage done to my bike, or to me. On the way home from work, on a brand new route that I hadn’t ridden before, I ran over some piece of accident shrapnel and got a flat on my rear wheel. Front wheel flats I can fix in five minutes, but rear wheel flats take at least an hour. Fucking deraileurs. Anyway, so my week was a good small window onto my month, which reflected the year to date; it was pure poo.

But there was a wedding or this weekend! Friends united in matrimony! Good food! Open bar! Let the healing begin!

Of course, there is the fact that I don’t really know the groom that well, and had met the bride once before, and that it was going to be hotel food, and that I had just gotten into all that broo-ha-ha with my brother about his alcoholism (when I find it funny, I’ll tell you about it), so I wasn’t in the mood to drink. Honestly, the only thing that sounded like a good idea was to step in front of at least one of the Metra trains taking me to the wedding. Painless, messy and loud; what can I say, it’s how I want to go out.

But I reined in those thoughts and proceeded. And you know what? It was…okay. I like it when a couple is enthused about getting married, and these two were. I attended the ceremony because my ride/host & hostess attended, and it was a quick and painless little thing. Had a cute moment where the groom and bride weren’t too sure about who should give a flower to the groom’s mom. It got a chuckle.

Then there was a brief hotel drinking fest, where I had two glasses of vino and started to feel a little queasy.

The reception was not at all like “Wedding Crashers,” which was disappointing because I really wanted to take advantage of a drunken bridesmaid. But no woman there was single that was also not someone I have known for ten years or more, or not what I would go running for. So I tried to be wingman for a young fella, a promising rookie with a lot of potential, but won’t step his game up to the big leagues. Kinda like Ryan Leaf, but without the petulant whining. Which would make him better than Ryan Leaf.

Then I find out that I can’t go home because the info on train schedules was misconstrued. So I crash at the home of Ren and co. and wind up feeling as intrusive as prison rape. No Benner, either. But Cash and I wound up being cuddle-buddies on the floor, so that was pretty sweet. Seriously, the highlight of my week was getting the chance to cuddle with something alive on a friend’s basement floor.

I thank Dave and Ren for putting me up, and I feel like shit that I forced myself into their house while she’s not feeling well and he was exhausted from being best man. It might be time for me to get a car.

What stopped me from stepping in front of the Metra at 0835 on Sunday? Several things: a long-standing fear of death; inside knowledge of how much that fucks with train conductors; leaving my mom with the two excuses she has for sons; a curiosity as to what the future holds; and that I was not about to waste the $3.80 cup of whatever fancy-schmancy cinnamon-flavored beverage I purchased from Caribou Coffee.

-Zeepdoggie

Loser

I cannot win. A guy hits me with his car as I am riding my bicycle, and he gets out of a ticket and his insurance won't pay, because he lied in his statement and I told the truth. I get dumped by the best girl I've ever been with because, instead of going with my plan about lying concerning my former marriage, I told her the truth. She wanted to be the first and not the best, so she split.

The number of times telling the truth has bitten me in the ass is starting to slide into the range of numbers we call "astronomical."

Everything about this American "culture" promotes lying. If you lie in court, you win. If you lie while running for office, you win. If you lie about anything, people are more apt to believe it because the truth doesn't sell shit. The Great Gatsby is considered one of the greatest works of American literature and it's about a man who lies about who he is to get money and fame to get the girl. He may have gotten killed in the end, but that was because of someone else's lie. And he still got laid, remember. Ben Franklin is thought of as the greatest American, and he was all about putting on a front for people, so that they will see you in a certain light, regardless of whether that view is true or not. Jefferson was a slave-owning, philandering hypocrite.

If there was a contest for huge suckass loser, I would lose that. I am tired of my honesty being what holds me back. The way I see it, if I followed the examples set by our American predecessors and current statesmen and powerful people, then lying is the only thing to do to get ahead. If I lied to the cops and the judge, Derek Fucking Bastard would have a ticket, his insurance company would be paying my rent for the next three months and I wouldn't feel so FUCKING IMPOTENT thanks to this shit. It's time to lie.

But since fucking up is the only thing I do better than losing, I would just screw it up too. And lying would take a lot of work; I'd have to remember everything I ever said to anyone. And since my memory is as faulty as that little strip of land outsie San Andreas, I'd have to take notes on my conversations. That just smacks of effort, and keeping myself in some state of upright already takes up way too much energy for me to devote to any other pursuit.

So fuck it, I just lose. Maybe I should just go the way of abject self-destruction. Utter ruin. See how that goes. Maybe, since I suck so badly, I might just improve myself.

Right now, I can't scream loud enough.

-Zeepdoggie

All Work and No Play Makes for a Loco Gringo

I Appreciate Irony

ME: "I'm the king of apathy."

GIRLY: "No you aren't."

ME: "YES I AM! WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT!"*



* All caps represent outburst of emotion



-------------------------------------------------------------------------



Customer Relations for a Sleep Deprived Gringo



1) A customer interaction concerning loss prevention sensors on product.

Customer: "Needle nose pliers will take care of it."
Me: "Needle nose pliers are pretty much my favorite tool for anything. Except for when I need to hammer something. In which case I use my palms. I'm that good.



2) A customer and an associate (Jazzmaster) noticing me writing notes while at the work place.
Customer: "He's writing notes."
Jazzmaster: "Are you plotting Gringo?"
Me: "Yeah."
Jazzmaster: "Against who?"
Me: "The man. [The founder of this company]. I will find his site, exhume, and punish severely."

3) Jane Blow, a random customer fills out an address field in a short form and the following situation ensues.
Me: "I'm sorry, I'm unfamiliar with the area. What does "DP"* stand for [as a city in Kansas]?"**

*DP is an abbreviation for the term "double penetration" and how it applies to the pornography industry. I used this purposely.
**It turned out it didn't say DP, and Jane Blow seemingly did not know the definition found in asterisk one (though she could just have been oblivious).



4) On shoving several items into Hell's smallest offered bag.

Customer: " I don't know if it will fit."
Me: "Well I'll just grease it up a bit and see if I can't shove it in there."

Gringo's Note: All of these are real life interaction with customers in Hell, while working. When I don't get my sleep several reactions are possible, but namely annoyance, inhibition of spoken thoughts, and delirious giddiness.
Also I must wonder if people are honestly this obtuse, if I am that subtle, or if the general public doesn't expect someone to be that offensive while at work? Oh if they only knew the assorted mental ruminations of the average retail jockey.

::GringO::

A Little Slip

Walking down the street on the way to Eric’s, with Gary depressed and Dani feeling for him, as she always did when he got like this, they were hoping for a cup of coffee and an empty diner.
“I don’t know what I did wrong, Dani. I really tried this time, y’know? I was as perfect as I can be with her.”
Gary was one of Dani’s best friends. They had known each other for well over ten years now and she was his favorite person to talk to. They agreed that she was the smarter of the two of them, and seemed to be good at taking in a lot and saying just the right thing at the right time.
“I can’t think of a girl who made me happier than her, Dani-mal. She’s just so…everything!”
Dani tripped on a broken bit of sidewalk. She had tripped at this spot quite often, and chastised herself every time. “Stupid,” she said.
“What did I say?” he asked.
“Not you, me. The sidewalk, again.”
“I never did get around to putting up that sign for you.”
“That’s okay. I probably wouldn’t see it anyway.” Dani walked head down a lot.
At Eric’s, it was not busy. They got a booth in the corner furthest from the door. There was a nice view of the main drag of town. Setting down their coffees, he said, “You know where we should go one of these days?”
“Where?” Dani asked, feeling better to see him enthused about something.
“Remember that little greasy spoon by Morrie Mage’s? On Halsted, I think, or near Ontario, something like that.” He was almost smiling.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“When was the last time we hung out downtown?”
“We doubled that one time,” she said, knowing it was the wrong thing to say. She could see him falling into memories of the beginnings of his relationship with Melanie, when the world was sunshine auburn-gold and perfect breezes pushed him down the street to his love. For her, it was the end of that last relationship; nothing seemed to last too long for her. Stupid, she thought.
“What?” he asked. Sometimes he was in her head.
“What?”
“You said, ‘Stupid.’”
“That was out loud?”
“Uh- huh.” He looked like a thundercloud.
“Not you, me.”
They sat in silence. After a few minutes, Dani got up and bought a chocolate brownie and got a carafe of coffee. She sat back down and handed him the brownie. He smiled immediately. “How’d you know?”
“Best friend’s sense plus a good dose of women’s intuition.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“I hate it when you call me that, you know.”
“And that is the root of why I call you that.”
“Give me back the brownie!”
“No! I’m sorry, I won’t do it again!”
“Yes you will.”
“Yeah,” and he smirked in that scoundrel’s way.
Four hours and not a few beers later, at Healy’s (the old Healy’s, not the new, shiny pretender to the throne), she was embroiled in selling him on Melanie’s lesser points, while Alanis Morisssette fell head over feet out of the jukebox.
“And she was not perfect, Gary. Even you know that. Didn’t she kick you out of the house one day because you talked to her father for too long?”
“I was ignoring her!”
“No, you were enjoying someone else’s company other than hers. She was always like that.”
“Really?”
“Why wouldn’t she come and hang out with us? Because she was too good for us, that’s why. She couldn’t share you with anybody or anything.”
“We’re not the easiest group to get into, Dani. The conversations we have are years old. Hell, you and Pete have been having that argument about the Citation for seven years now!”
“Still, she didn’t make the effort to try. She hung out twice and never came back out.”
“I guess.”
“She wasn’t good enough for you, Gary.”
Perplexed as only someone inebriated could be, he asked, “What do you mean?”
Sighing, then taking a deep breath before continuing, Dani said, “She never bothered to learn about you, Gar. It was all about her; you had to know about her, and yet she never asked anything about you.
“You could sit here all night and half the next day and tell me about every facet of her life, but she couldn’t tell you the name of your first dog, or your most hated movie, or the first time you swore. She never learned you Gary; she never studied you. She was with you during the easy part, and then when she thought it got hard, she left.”
“So she wasn’t good enough?”
“Nope.”
“And that’s why?”
“That, and other stuff.”
“So, Dani, who would be good enough for me?”
“I don’t know if I will ever think anyone’s good enough for you, Gary.” And she felt herself slip in her chair.
“What does that mean?” He looked so stupid right now, confused like a puppy that just heard it’s bark for the first time. She felt the flush in her skin as her beers encouraged her further despite the glow of suspicion she saw in Gary’s eyes.
“Because you’re a great guy! You’re a poet and a musician, you’re well read, responsible, punctual and a really good listener. You like to be romantic and do little things for people. You’re polite, damn near chivalrous. You’re smart and funny and you have a thing about you that makes people smile when you talk to them and everyone feels special when you’re around. You’re respectful and sweet and have a great smile and you’re strong in every way.”
She didn’t want to stop, even though she knew she should. She decided to ignore herself this one time. “Every girl should love you, Gary. You are as close to perfect as any man not Jesus has a right to be.”
Looking up at him, she said with a trembling voice, “You’re the best.”
He couldn’t respond, she saw. She was wrong; the first voice was right; she should have just shut up, she should run from the bar, from him, never looking back, forget he and his little smirk and hazel eyes that glow gold in the sunshine ever existed.
Looking down, she said, “Stupid.”
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and gently lifted her eyes to his, and said, “Not you, me.”

-Zeepdoggie

A Shout-Out to the Big Guy

Thank you God, for:

• my life, which is perfect, even when it's not;
• my pain, because it means that where it now hurts there was once something wonderful;
• my optimism, which hides in my pessimism;
• the people I know, and the ones I meet;
• swear words;
  
• the incredible sunrises and sunsets over the last two weeks (they've been faboo!);
• every little kid who's smiled at me;
• all the opportunities I've been given (I've tried to use them all!);
• the blessings that I can now call memories;
• listening to all of my whining (that goes double for you folks!);
• not giving up on me, even after I did;
• physics;

and last but not least...
Thank you, God, for all of the beauty that's been crammed on this paradise we call Earth. Especially the ladies! Great job on the looks, but do they all have to be nuckin' futs?

Just, playin' ladies; you know I love you.

-Zeepdoggie

Outnumbered and Outgunned

All right, I gotta bitch. Sorry guys, but funny isn’t really in my skull right now. I need to get this out, and I figure that we all know each other (and if we don’t then I don’t care) then I can just dump this out. If I don’t talk about it I will make the Earth blow up. But not before we send Ren’s new bundle of joy off in a ship so that s/he may become a superhero on a planet orbiting a blue sun.

At work I am the man. I don’t mean this in a good way. I am the sole “guy” on the job. Sure, there’s M, but he’s a real librarian for God’s sake. He can’t do the “boy work.” That is for me. I’m the fuckin’ lackey. I pick up the heavy stuff and put it down somewhere. I arrange the furniture whenever it is required. I put the crap together that needs to be built. I change the light bulbs. I replace the toilet paper; I clean the vomit up from the bathrooms. I take care of any dead birds or other post-life animals around the building. I occasionally refill the tampon machines. How did that become boy work?

I learned today that Zeepdoggie has a new task. I am now responsible for the leaves that may clog our drain and cause the library to flood. At the time the drain was installed out back by the garbage cans, all the builders did was dig a shallow hole to take the rain in. It doesn’t drain to shit. And some leaves gummed it up, and somehow a garbage can was on top of it. So the meeting room and the Children’s section got quite damp. So now, from what I understand, I am to “check the status of the drain.” I was too upset to ask as to when I should do this. Once a month? Daily? Or should I just wait until it’s raining, ride my bike over, and clear it then? Surely, this is something anybody in the library can do? It starts to rain, and one of the librarians pops her head out the door and takes a status check on the drain. Why is it on me?

Old Zeepdoggie has to do all the boy work on a job that is staffed 99% by women, and not a one of them is single. God may find this funny, but I sure don't.

I learned something very important on this job; polygamists are idiots. I don’t care how good the sex is; putting up with more than one woman’s bullshit is masochistic.


-Zeepdoggie

The Greatest Word I Have Ever Heard

"Schnuts."

-Zeepdoggie

Sucking Chest Wound

Cleveland died today. Well he actually died two weeks ago but I just wanted to steal and alter Camus' famous opening line because its one of my favorites.

Death is a natural and regular occurrence in life but this doesn't make it any less a cause for sadness. Cleveland was proof that I am becoming a real man and his passing is marked by a feeling of loss. I was always a late bloomer. Reaching 5' tall in eighth grade was a milestone, even though everyone else it seemed had achieved this a year or two previously. Hell, I don't think I even started growing armpit and pubic hair until I was close to 15.

My beautiful and flawless existence has always been dogged, or besmirched if you like dirty images, by my body's inability to catch up to my age. Then finally, against all belief, I grew my first chest hair this year. On the barren white plane that is my chest a hair dared to grow and flourish, and so it was only natural to name the hair, the Atlas supporting the weight of my masculinity, Cleveland.

Oh did we have good times! We saw movies together, drank together, made love in one another's presence, were even comfortable enough to provide each other company on the toilet. Cleveland became a constant companion, and not just because he was physically attached to me. But I took my bronze wire-like friend for granted. I stopped shampooing him, combing him, applying various thickening tonics, or spiking gel for those "punk" days. Then two weeks ago I looked down to give a silent howdy to him, and he was gone. Sure I now have Mitch and Bob (right pectoral and upper chest respectively) and they are great, but Cleveland was my first, and I suppose in many ways my only.

To eulogize him, I give you this, my only poem written of my own volition*:

"Ode to Cleveland"

You were a lone sprig of hope in a fallow field of nakedness
A bronzed ringlet nestled against cream made solid
A constant companion you were, silent, intimate
I took you for granted
You, my hope, my reassurance, my one, my man-hair, my Cleveland
I knew that "all things must pass" and you are no exception
This hollowed soul you leave behind my never mend
Though you may be usurped, you will never be replaced
You, my hope, my reassurance, my one, my man-hair...
My Cleveland**

* I don't write poetry
** This is written in free verse because we are talking about a damn chest hair. A meter and rhyme scheme would be excessive to say the least.

::GringO::

Potbelly Crush

I've always prided myself on my ability to no be shallow. When it comes to attraction, I keep my mind wide open. Speech impediments, oversized or exaggerated facial features, excessive body fat, abnormal height, missing appendages, crooked teeth; I can see past such things so long as I see that they lead directly to a bedroom.

But, and this feels horrible, I seem to have found a real challenge. There is a girl who works at Potbelly right near Hell, and I go quite often. There is a young lady there who seems to fancy me (unless she reads this blog and can figure out who I am; then the jig will probably be up). She remembers the time she misheard my request for a "wreck" and made turkey instead. I was on my lunch break, a generous 30 minutes, and didn't have time to wait for another sandwich so I went with the turkey. The next time I went in she brought it up, a blush reddening her face.
Awww....
Every time I go there and she is working, she greets me even if she is doing something that doesn't involve speaking to customers. Being nice by nature and having a proper upbringing rarely seen anymore, I say hello and chat pleasantly when occasion calls. She is probably nineteen or twenty, which is too young for me anyway, but there is another reason why I can't find attraction there. This is what makes me feel terrible. She has an astigmatism, or what I generally refer to as a "wonky eye."

When I talk to her I don't know where to look or which eye to focus on, so I settle for the nose or her forehead. Give me a girl with half an arm that ends in two mobile digits, fine; but one wonky eye and it's over. It makes no sense I guess, and it makes me feel like a right bastard, but there it is.

::GringO::

Ahhh...

That last post was a little negative don't you think?

I really don't have anything to say, but I feel like I should do something to lighten the mood. But I'm not feeling very funny, so, as a group, let us marvel at the peerless and ethereal perfection of one of my long-standing crushes.






*sigh*

I'm feeling better already. And even if this woman is not your cup o' tea, at least I'm not whining. Everybody wins!

-Zeepdoggie

Feelin' Like a Skidmark

So I’m down one less brother. Joe lost his fucking mind and is not a member of the family anymore. I don’t know if it sucks that it happened, or that it didn’t happen sooner. Since I was the official Boot In The Ass, I guess I could just say that the time had come.

I am trying to tell myself that it’s okay that I don’t have Joe as a brother anymore, and in a lot of ways it’s really good. I don’t have to worry about him stopping by drunk and asking me for more money. I don’t have to answer phone calls from Barb or Mom about how Joe is at it again. My dad and I have lost a subject to talk about, but it’s not a subject either of us liked to talk about anyway, so no big deal there.

But that means I’m down to Larry. And that is as bad as it sounds.

The asshole that hit me got out of getting a ticket. Thank you, smug bastard judge that won’t receive my vote. I hope he chokes on his fucking gavel. Or a dick. Or, even better, he’s just killed a bicyclist with his car, and he gets to enjoy daily anal rape from King Dong Bundy for the next five to ten.

I tacked on an extra semester to my scholarly career, because the concept of finishing on time from an educational institution is just a bit too tough for me.

Barring unforeseen miracles, the next relationship I will be in won’t happen until I’m 33. Alexander the Great had conquered all of the known people on the planet by that age, and I am hoping for the possibility of a woman finding me decent enough to waste a year of two of her life with me, only to be unceremoniously dumped on the Ides of March. Oh, wait, that’s already happened. But no worries, I am sure I can be humiliated in love in some other soul-drowning way. We’ll just have to wait and see! Stay tuned!

I hate both of my jobs. The kids are terrifyingly spoiled, the retail thing blows in every direction but up, and I have both jobs because of Mary, so I never get a real chance to get away from her. Awesome.

And hey, how about this weather?

Family sucks. School sucks. Love life sucks. Work sucks.

I haven’t had more than five hours of sleep on any night in the last four weeks.

I’m begging you all to give me something to be happy about. It’s getting bad here in the Zeepdoggie Den. Cute Overload didn’t cheer me up today; it’s getting critical. C’mon, somebody cheer me up!

Please?

-Zeepdoggie

Ten Things To Not Do

Don't get hit by a car.

Don't read The Great Gatsby.

Don't operate the hand-sprayer-thingy on the sink.

Don't work where you're the only guy.

Don't waste a hard-on.

Don't put off grocery shopping for a month or more.

Don't drink alone.

Don't listen to "Simple Together."

Don't trust a fart.

Don't believe anything is what it says it is, or "supposed to be" (whatever that means), or what it looks/sounds/feels like, or that it can last in any way. The Pyramids are losing against time. Fuckin' Mona Lisa's falling apart...

-Zeepdoggie

I seek opinions!

In my LitCrit class, we have been having an ongoing discussion that deals with defining literature. So, since you are all obviously intelligent (you read me, don't you ;p), you tell me: what is literature? Be specific or vague, give examples or not. Let us discuss!

Pope On a Rope

The Pope apologized. Pussy. What did he say anyway? He was QUOTING (that means that he didn’t make it up; somebody else said or wrote it first and he’s saying it sometime later) a dialogue between two men dead since the fourteenth century about how Islam is a violent religion. And the Muslim world’s response to the quote? Burn churches, write legislation to ban the Pope from various countries borders, and kill a nun in a hospital. Wow. At this point, I don’t know which quip to go with, so I will give you both. Pick the one you like best.
a)Way to support the quote, idiots.
b)Was that 14th century guy off-base with his argument!
I’m not a theologist, and I’m not unbiased either. But I don’t think I’m wrong when I say that, as a whole, Islam needs to just chill out a little. I’m a Christian, and I don’t flip out every time I see a piece of wood with a nail in it. Being raised Catholic, I get to hear all the wonderful jokes about priests and altar boys. Am I going out and killing the comedians making the jokes? No! If I don’t find it funny, I don’t laugh. If I don’t like it, I don’t need to listen.

Islamic leaders need to do two things: start promoting dialogue with other faiths and cultures and stop the silent acceptance of extremism.

No doubt I will receive a fatwah for this. See you in the pit, infidels!

-Zeepdoggie

Always Wear Clean Underwear...

A car hit me yesterday. I was on my way home from work, and as I was cruising down Lake Street, not going too fast since there was a red light at Oak Park Avenue, some guy from Missouri who really needed to get into the parking lot of the US Bank cut me off and I hit his rear passenger quarter panel. Here's the graceful bit: as I go down, I hit my shoulder on his car, which stops me from getting my hands down to slow my impact, and my feet won't come out of the stirrups. I splat pretty hard on my left side; my elbow got all bloody and scraped, my knee was all wonky, and my shoulder was not in a happy place. So I get up to go and talk to the guy, and he just drives around the parking lot, and starts to head toward the exit! WTF, is he fleeing the scene of an accident? I step in front of his car, and one of the better exchanges I had for the day went like this:
"Hi. Did you know you just hit me?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You cut me off and I fell."
"Oh..."
"..."
"You okay?"
My left forearm is covered in blood, and I am standing on one leg, my knee swollen to the size of a grapefruit: "I don't know. I just got hit by a car."
"Uh, yeah."
"I think there might be something wrong with my knee."
"How's your bike?"
"I don't know. I just got hit by a car."
"Okay." BTW, he's still sitting in his car, the engine running, and his seatbelt is on. "Well, are you okay?"
"I don't know; I just got hit by a car!" At this point, I see a man in the car next to us get out, and he's wearing a Police Sergeant's uniform. I point and say, "I think this guy is going to want to talk to you."
The look on the driver's face is fucking priceless.
It turns out that I have two witnesses: the cop and an off-duty ambulance driver! More cops come, along with an ambulance that bandages me up, and Zeepdaddy comes and picks me up because I am not sure as to what might me wrong with my bike, or me, and I don't want to take the chance.
What became hilarious is when the cop finishes her accident report, I’m sitting on the sidewalk with an icepack and Mr. Careful in his car mentally calculating the rising interest rates for his automobile, she then has to explain to him why it's his fault.
"The witnesses both said that he (me) was in the far right lane of the street, as he should be. When you cut him off, you left him no room to stop and he hit you. So it's your fault.”
"But you said he hit me."
"Yeah, with a bike."
"But he still hit me." The way she stares at him made me fall in love with her.
"Sir, he's on a bicycle, and he was obeying the rules of the road that cyclists have. Two creditable, unbiased witnesses saw the accident, and their descriptions are very similar.”
“But he hit me, right here,” he says, pointing to the driver’s side left quarter-panel, where there is significant scraping.
“No I didn’t!” I chime in. “You were turning right; I hit you here!” I am pointing to the little bit of skin left on his car, which I wipe away when he tries to claim it is paint damage. He says, “That wasn’t there before.” I wipe; “And it’s not there now.”
The cop then explains to the guy that I don’t have a seat belt, safety glass, airbags or an enclosed frame. I have a helmet and gloves and brakes. His Chrysler Concorde weighs well over 800 pounds; my bike and me don’t even break 180. “Clearly,” she says, “caution should be on your side.”
He tries to say something else and she says, “If you hit a cyclist who has two witnesses, one of them a police officer stating that he was obeying the rules of the road at the time of the accident, then it’s your fault. Be at the courthouse on your date, and if he (me) doesn’t show up, you won’t get a ticket. If he does, or if you don’t, then you get a ticket.” She hands me her card with the court date on it and says to him, “This guy could’ve stayed at the emergency room, but didn’t, because he was being honest. He saved you a lot of trouble, so just be thankful that the most that will happen will be a ticket for failure to show proper care.”
If she were just a little bit hotter, I so would’ve asked her out right there. She tells me after he leaves, "You better show up!" Don't worry, my hot cop, I will.

So the rest of the night is fairly uneventful; I don't have to work because of my jacked-up knee, so that's nice. I'm taking the bike to Dan's and have them give it a check-up. I'm sure that the front wheel will need truing and my pedals got jacked up. Also, my cell phone doesn't work, so I will need a new one.
Now comes the pertinent question: anyone know the way I get this stuff replaced by Mr. Careful's insurance company?

-Zeepdoggie

Summing it up

Thanks to despair.com.

Long Time, No... whatever

I haven't posted in a while, and for that I am not sorry, because I have spared you, my faithful, beautiful, loyal readers the agony of me going from sad to diarrhea-inducing pathetic, with occasional bouts of “burn the whole FUCKING world” angry. Usually there was little transition between the two, but if there was, it was slack-muscled boredom. Wow, I am the master of adjectives today!

Back when I was stupid (read: high school) I thought it would be awesome to have nothing but language classes. I really enjoyed my German class, and English was my favorite subject. I figured if all you had to do was really cool stuff like English and German, life would be ultra-mega super keen.

We’ve all heard the expression that one should be careful what one wishes for, and it is true. While I am enjoying my classes so far, I am dreading the appearance of the many-headed hydra of several papers due at once. Granted, one of the classes is the writing fiction class, for which I have all the homework done already. But the other three are going to be rough; I can just feel it in my water.

More good stuff followed when I went to my counselor for English Ed. She’s S, and she’s new. So we had the discussion I had with Wendy about why I am rushing through the EngEd program, and S was quite adamant about me having an extra semester tacked onto my college career. I call it a career because it’s starting to feel like one, one I regret being interviewed for. I know that last statement is in direct contrast to the well-documented fact that I love school; I don’t care. I want it over so I can have a REAL job with a REAL paycheck and REAL vacation and REAL insurance and potentially REAL women to date. But S may have a point, one that I am reluctant to admit, but it’s still there. So I am considering tacking on an extra semester to my schooling. Just like in high school. Shit.

Being single is starting to take its toll as well. I won’t get into it beyond that the dates that I went on with one woman felt like dates, smelled like dates, looked like dates and were, in fact, not dates as she saw it. We still talk, because I am a fucking sucker for dark hair and light eyes, and also because she is really cool and may have hot friends. And who knows, she may change her mind. Fool that I am, I actually believe that.

I jerk off so much I think I’m developing a callous.

I went karaoke-ing again, and developed another crush or three; one really sticks in my head. She is C, and she is just adorable. She was super-excited about art, and told me her #1 favorite painting. She has a lisp, which I find just too cute. Zeepdoggie used to stutter (and sometimes still does), so speech impediments are a sign of cutesy to me. Yeah yeah yeah all fucked up, I don’t care. But nothing will come of it, because I have only seen her once, will most likely never see her again, and if I should, I would be too chicken-shit to ask for her number or anything.

Let’s talk about work shall we? I started the new position at the other job, and it’s going well, with the exception that I have to work with Mary’s mom and her sister now. Yeah, that’s a lot of fun. Her mom I have no problem with, but her sister…well, she told Mary it would be a great idea for her to be single and be rid of me. Is there more to it than that? Yeah, there always is. But the “more to it” just makes it worse, and I am not into going that room painted with boiling rage right now.

The other job is still Hell, and I don’t get to work with GringO or Japes or the other really fun folks as much as I used to. I feel like now would be the opportune time for the place to just blow the fuck up. If I'm in it when it happens, that's not sounding like it would be too unfortunate right now.

So, you are now all caught up without all the despair and depression, and a little of the anger. I really, truly hope that your time has been spent doing better and more meaningful things, enjoyable things that make you as happy as a bunny that has escaped the clutches of an evil five-year old girl.

Until inspiration hits me squarely, have a good time.

-Zeepdoggie

White Wall

This semester I am taking ENGL 212, a.k.a. the intro to writing fiction. My prof is big on us writing really short stories, and suggested that we think about a song as a good example. So i listened to a song called "White Wall" by Lights of Eurphoria and came up with this. It turns out that it takes as long to listen to the song as it does to read this bad boy fairly carefully.

Enjoy!

The night was cool, but the club was hot. The guest DJ from Germany never let up, the crowd continuously pulsing and in motion like blood cells in the veins of a predator. They had come to witness his spinning, hear his magic of weaving new music from old. She and he were no exception.
She made it to the bar first, because women always make it to the bar first. She ordered their waters. They were both good and buzzed, sweating from exertion much like anyone in the club. The time for shots and beers had past; hydration was her goal and she didn’t want him getting tired or sick. He roared like a lion when he vomited.
There would be none of that tonight. This night, tonight, was the night.
Weeks before, she saw him opening up the record store on her way to work. She had made passes, looked in, but never entered before she saw him open up the store. After work, she bought a CD and he rang her up. It was his favorite DJ. Hers, too!
The got coffee. They had dinners. They had drinks. They watched movies, and swapped books and music, and they shared their first kiss, and kissed more. They had gone out, and they had stayed in. Once, she cried, and as he held her she smiled through her tears.
The DJ was coming to town, and he knew the club owner. They were going.
He had never danced, not really, until he danced with her. Responding to her body awoke in him a new rhythm, a strong coordination to her eyes, hips, hands and feet. He felt like hers, and he wasn’t frightened.
Finishing their second waters, they heard the odd staccato guitar, and before the bass thump began, she grabbed his hand, eyes wide with joyful recognition. They screamed “White Wall!” in unison. The CD she bought that first day, their day, in his store.
Rushing to the middle of the floor, with every body jumping, gyrating, jostling, around them, they found their way below three mirrored globes; this was the center.
Knowing intimately every beat to the song, they moved as if a perfect string tied every joint, every ounce of blood pumped by their hearts (beating in simpatico), every gaze, together. They moved closer and closer, the strings shortening, becoming nonessential when they finally touched. The bass stopped, and lush, synthesized strings float up, and they are so close that she knows the tremble of the muscles under his skin under her hands and he can smell nothing but her sweat and shampoo and that she blushes wherever he touches.
When the bass returns and drives the dancers into a fresh frenzy, they stand and sway, holding each other. She hears of the dark room, and the white wall, and she feels the helping hands on her hips as she starts to fall.


-Zeepdoggie

Icky Laundry

I’m getting dressed, it’s 0930 and my sister who lives with my folks, Zeepsissy, calls. She wants to know when I’m coming over to do laundry. I tell her in a few minutes. She says, “Oh, I thought you were coming by later.” To which I reply, no, that I had planned on coming over earlier, but I was a little sleepy having not gone to bed until 0400.

*I didn’t tell her about the 0400 part, because she doesn’t need to know that I had an awesome time hanging out with GringO and the Girly last night, they having taken pity on an old man and letting me tag along with them for pizzas and wy-un-nuh (pompous French accent).*

So Sissy says that she just put a load in, since she thought I would be there later. Now, if she knew me better, she would know that I am a morning person. I like to get everything I need to get done before 1200 strikes. But she doesn’t know me any better than any casual acquaintance I see more than once a month. She may know me less, now that I think about it.. So I ask how long her laundry will take, and she tells me that she actually has two loads to do, and if I could wait until later. I say that I will be there at 1130, she says okay and hangs up.

She calls me back four minutes later and asks if I can come over after noon. I say that kinda sucks for me, because I don’t want to break my day up into two distinct pieces of no work being done. She says please, and since she lives there and can lock me out, I don’t have much of a choice.

I’m sitting here, thinking to myself, why didn’t you do laundry this weekend? You had the whole place to yourself, you could have done it at any time you wanted. But then I remember that her boyfriend was over there on Saturday, and most likely Sunday. If he’s the guy I think he is, then he’s probably still there, eating my folks’ food and being a jackass. Sissy picks winners. And I start to think about why Sissy might need to do an emergency two loads of laundry, and promptly pass out.

So I’ve recovered (kinda; at least the shakes have stopped) and am now sharing yet another intimate moment with you, my wonderful, loyal, jaded readers who clamor for my continuing embarrassment. I am your private monkey/a monkey for funny/I do what you want me to do…*


-Zeepdoggie

*all apologies to Tina Turner.

Meme Me Me Me

Thanks to J.Pal for this idea.

• A - Available: For anything, so long as it doesn’t interfere with the 5-year plan.
• A - Age: 31.
• A - Annoyance: Any lack of consideration.
• B - Best feature: There are so many! I’m going to go with my modesty here. Yep, that good ol' modesty is what really shines from me.
• B - Beer: Last one I had was Bell Oberon. It was after two Macallan’s so it probably doesn’t count.
• B - Birthday: 052.
• C - Crush: Right now, too many to list.
• C - Car: None. I roll on an ’06 Specialized Allez Triple. She’s fast.
• C - Candy: Reese’s peanut butter cups. I would willingly choke to death on one.
• D - Day or night: Mostly day, but night’s all right.
• D - Dream Car: The new Batmobile (The Tumbler…)
• D - Dogs or Cat: Dogs. We have so much in common!
• E - Egg nog: I like girls who drink it.
• E - E-mail: Nude pics only.
• E - Eggs: My special scramble.
• F - Favorite color(s): Green and black. I’d have a cool flag!
• F - Favorite Band: 311, Johnny Cash and Fear Factory…don’t make me choose!
• F - Favorite food: Steak.
• G - Gummy Bears or Worms: Bears.
• G - Giver or taker: Usually a giver, mostly a sucker.
• G - Grades: Now: awesome. Then: let’s just say I heard too much about my “potential.”
• H - Hair Color: Browny-blondey-reddish.
• H - Height: 69”. How I love saying that!
• H - Happy: Never completely; but I have come very close.
• I - Ice Cream: New York Cherry.
• I - Instrument: Guitar.
• I - Idol: Musical: Tony Iommi; professional: Paul Noble; personal: that’s personal!
• J - Jewelry: I occasionally wear a pendant.
• J - Job: Putting the ‘stud’ in student! Work w/spoiled kids in a library, and retail.
• J - Jail: 10 days in Cook County.
• K - Kids: I hope to have some. Six would be ideal; a hockey team!
• K - Kickboxing or karate: Karate. I don’t want to be associated in any way w/Jean-Claude Van Damme.
• K - Kindergarten: Eberhart. South Side represent!
• L - Longest Car Ride: From Groton, CT to Chicago and back with a co-pilot who couldn’t drive at night, and I can’t sleep in a moving car.
• L - Lamest Inside Joke: “It was a Comanche.”
• L - Light or Dark: Beer; dark.
• M - Most missed person: Bob.
• M - Movie Last Watched: “Master and Commander.” I love that movie! Great books, too!
• M - Movie favorite: “Fight Club.” For every reason there is.
• N - Number of Siblings: Three brothers (one deceased), four sisters.
• N - Name: Surname: A German bastardization of a Dutch royal name. First: after a joke.
• N - Nicknames: Besides Zeepdoggie? “Watch it you asshole,” has become very popular since I got my new bike.
• O - One wish: For everyone to be happy for at least two hours a day, every day.
• O - One regret: A regret would mean that I did something that didn’t wind up being beneficial. Okay, here’s one: sometimes I regret getting divorced.
• O - Orange: Doesn’t rhyme with shit.
• P - Part of your appearance you like best: My smiles.
• P - Perfectionist?: Oh, hell yeah.
• P - Pearls or Diamonds: Silver.
• Q - Quick or Slow: Quick with a retort. Slow in figuring out when not to be quick with a retort.
• Q - Quick type something fast: stewardesses. Lefties rule!
• R - Reason to smile: When a baby smiles at you. Or when someone gets what they deserve. Farts.
• R - Reality TV Show: I don’t watch any reality TV. I like my entertainment provided by professionals.
• R - Rich: In this city, there can be only one, Highlander. Daley!
• S - Song Last Heard?: “Molossus” by Hans Zimmer.
• S - Season: In Chicago, the part just before it gets cold.
• S - Superhero: Batman. If you have to ask, then be ready for a four-hour diatribe.
• T - Time you woke up: Every day my eyes open at 0553, for the last four years.
• T - Time you went to bed: 2130. I was a bit under the weather yesterday.
• T - Time now: 2111.
• U - Unpredictable: Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m going to do next.
• U - Underwear: From May to September, I go commando.
• U - Uncle: Favorite? Jack. He’s a hillbilly and just awesome!
• V - Vegetables you hate: Okra.
• V - Vegetables you love: Broccoli.
• V - Vacation spot: Marseilles, IL. Dream spot: New Zealand.
• W - Worst habit: I sniffle like a cokehead. It drives me nuts!
• W - Weather: Cool to cold weather only, please. Summer sucks.
• W - Wash your hands: Quite often, since I have that whole OCD thing.
• X - X-rays: Shoot from my fingers!
• X - X-mas: A holiday I fear.
• Y - Year it is now: 2006.
• Y - Yellow: Fuck Coldplay!
• Y - Yahoo: Serious, a most underrated actor.
• Z - Zoo Animal: Gorillas. I like that they occasionally go nuts and rip their captors apart. That needs to happen more often in zoos, especially during school trips!
• Z - Zodiac Sign: Orion.
• Z - Zero: The greatest mathematical principle ever discovered.

Z-Zeepdoggie