Quickly

Okay, wow. I got no time today, but I want to get a few things out there real quick. Firstly, this is incredible. Very happy with all that. Secondly, it’s my wedding anniversary, and thirdly, I’m gonna be down at the Gingerman tonight slingin suds and pumpin studs so come down and let’s hang out, eh? I bet your friends from the Menzingers and Gaslight Anthem could potentially show up there. Eh? Eh?
Fuck, I dunno. I gotta run.

ah, gary...I remember you.

There’s no baby still. I’m digging the sleep, but I think my wife is getting a little sick of being pregnant all the time. I see her eyeing the Bacardi 151 and the raw hamburger that we keep by the sink. She’s tired of the ‘straight and narrow’ that pregnancy forces on even the most genteel cigarette eating, raw meat loving, grain alcohol chugging mom-to-be. Once that baby comes, boy…hide your booze stills and your livestock.

Nah, I’m kidding of course. Lord knows I don’t want to put anything out there that could possibly be construed as disparaging towards the understandably impatient overdue pregnant lady I share an apartment/bed with. Bad idea 100% of the time folks. So, just so we’re clear: my wife does NOT eat raw meat, she does NOT eat cigarettes (nor does she smoke them) and she doesn’t drink 151 as far as I know, but who knows what goes on when her and her homies gather to watch twilight.

Anyhoo…

Did I already do the thing where I tell you guys about all my jobs that I’ve had? I think I have, but I’m gonna revisit a job or two, or at least the highlights, because today I’m thinking about my three primary sources of stress: 1) I’m about to have a baby. I want the baby and the mom to be okay at the end of the whole thing (We’ve already talked about this, right?) 2) I’m getting hassled by the IRS. Not really a big deal since I’m fairly sure my shit’s in order and in a second I’m about to go visit my accountant (he’s done my taxes for a decade and we’ve never met face to face. Big day for me. I picture him looking like my friend Eric, but that’s probably just because he and Eric have the same last name. This kind of shit is exciting and almost always disappointing, because I’ve got this perception and it’s gonna be wrong.

It’s not like when I imagine what a girl is gonna look like and then she ends up more attractive. That’s not disappointing, but, well, I don’t have any vested interest in the appearance of my accountant. SO, the end result is this: he can either look exactly like Eric Anderson, or I’ll be disappointed and kind of go through the meeting with this “wow! I can’t believe you look like this!” on a loop in my brain) and he’s gonna handle this shit and it should be cool and finally:

3) I’ve got no job. In the spirit of my unemployment, and in the spirit of that being the only thing on my little list that doesn’t look like it’s gonna resolve itself any time too soon, well, let’s see what I’ve got:

I worked at a comic book store, McDonalds, Ben and Jerry’s, um…what’s the name of that place on the second floor that sells second hand clothes and Halloween costumes and shit? It’s at Belmont and Clark. Ragstock! I worked there for a couple of weeks. I also worked as the door guy at the L and L and as a camp counselor at a jewish themed summer sports camp for third graders. I’ve worked as a copywriter and A and R guy for the media conglomerate Red Scare Industries and I’ve uh…jesus, what else? I do freelance writing for a marketing agency or two here and there. I play in a band and I write a highly successful blog.

Oh shit! I worked at a record store run by one of those guys who tells you all the time how laid back he is, which we all know is code for “I’m high strung as shit and I’ll absolutely freak out at the most random times and you’ll grow to fear me for it.” That guy had a single strip of hairplugs at the top of his forehead (it was all he could afford apparently) but everything else was gone except the toilet seat style ring. He also had a David Crosby mustache and a penchant for absolutely flipping the fuck out and telling people to go fuck themselves and/or kicking people out of the store, refusing to pay people who worked there just based on arbitrary ideas about ‘conduct’ and so on. He fancied himself to be a hippy and his name was gary and he’s by far one of the saddest individuals I’ve ever met.

One of the guys who worked there was a goth kid (actually there were three Goths that worked there) who was a junkie and one day his dealer came in and screamed shit like “hey, where’s my fucking money! I fronted you all that shit and you did it all and you’re not gonna pay me! I’ll fucking kill you!” in front of a crowded store and the boss. Uncool.

Also, this girl named Tara, also a goth, used to brag about the things that the dudes in Coal Chamber stuffed into her vagina on the back of their bus. Really. It wasn’t just dicks and fingers either. Remote controls, he man figures etc. Gross. We wanted to laugh but the whole thing was so generally unappetizing that we couldn’t.

I also worked with a girl who was beautiful and wound up taking cruise ships around the world and discovering and buying exciting and exotic art for a cabal of wealthy collectors. We went on one date after she got this cool new job. She plainly expressed her preference for ‘aryans’ over other races. Somehow, that trumped the hotness and the great job and we never spoke again.

Who else? My buddy mark worked there. He was the other guy who lived in the Lawrence Arms building with Chris and me. Oh, and Jeff. Jeff was a guy who talked about his wife all the time but was obviously gay. He lived in boystown and I don’t know that his ‘wife’ even existed. He also discussed how he used to be in the ‘rat race’ and live the corporate lifestyle and all that but then he decided to give it all up to work at a record store because the pace and lifestyle suited him better. I thought this was a radical (if highly stupid) move until it was revealed that his ‘corporate’ job was working at a coconuts records. Heh.

That job really sucked. I’m glad I’m unemployed. I gotta go meet my accountant now. Wish me luck.

(fart sound)

bye.