In the tech support business, I find myself filled with barely-repressible anger every time I get a call from someone who talks slowly.

T


he Girl Who Cannot Be Named dropped me off at work and headed on to class. It was a fairly warm, rainy day, and people stayed indoors and made much use of the Internet. The phones rang so much that it was hard for me to focus on the really important things to which I usually apply my hungover mind on a typical Saturday. In the tech support business, I find myself filled with barely-repressible anger every time I get a call from someone who talks slowly. If this were the really deep south, I'd surely go postal.

O


ut of Dallas, Texas, Bill Chance of the Daily Epiphany wrote me email saying he used to hang out with Joe Christ back before being attached to the old ball & chain. And, as I'd pretty much gathered, Joe Christ is someone who owes most of his success to ruthless self-promotion and extremist acts, not to unusual creativity or special talents. I get a kick out of how the Internet has linked together the seemy counter-culture in this nation. Witness how the linkages developed in this particular case:

I still had a head ache from the night before. Anchor Steam is not easy on the head.

1. Monster Boy stole a Joe Christ videotape from Plan 9 records.
2. We watched it, were inspired, I wrote the musings entry for the day and searched for a link.
3. What the hell, I sent Joe Christ some email too.
4. Someone did a search for Joe Christ info, hit my musings page and sent me email telling about his Joe Christ page.
5. I looked at the page, liked it, and printed it out.
6. Monster Boy read the page and sent Joe Christ some email of his own.
7. Joe Christ arranged with Monster Boy to show his movies at the Downtown Artspace.
8. Joe Christ came to town and I wrote about it in the musings.
9. Bill Chance read my musings, remembered hanging out with Joe Christ and sent me email about it.

I watched a little television and took a nap. I knew that napping was going to short circuit my Saturday night, but I didn't care; I still had a head ache from the night before. Anchor Steam is not easy on the head.

I don't feel like I can trust him around my stuff as it is, and with him coming in my room unannounced when he thinks me gone, you can imagine how I feel.

M


y nap ended at 11:30pm when Monster Boy's chum Ray Roebuck suddenly came into my room and switched on my light. He apologized and claimed he was looking for some matches; he and Monster Boy were smoking pot. A few months ago, Ray would have been risking getting shot with a .32 caliber five shot revolver. This time, he was just pissing me off. The more I see of him, the less I like of him. I don't feel like I can trust him around my stuff as it is, and with him coming in my room unannounced thinking me gone, you can imagine how I feel. While this time I handled the matter with stony silence, Ray stands a chance of a serious beatdown should this event ever repeat itself. I'm just glad Monster Boy is moving his stingy ass out and taking his unpleasant friends with him.

I hung out mostly with Deya, who'd been gone yesterday, attending a mandatory wedding. I've never been to a wedding, and its doubtful I'll ever go. They're not mandatory in my family.

Since we were hungry and the telephone wasn't working, we walked to nearby Chanello's Pizza and ordered a mushroom pie, which they made while we waited outside. The temperature was relatively warm for this time of year, and more importantly, it wasn't raining. As we waited, we paid attention to the little things we normally overlook, in this case ancient obsolete rusted iron cruciform utility poles. I suggested we crucify some long-legged road kill up on one of the poles. Too bad you can't spread the arms of a dead cat without dislocating its shoulders.

Another show documented cases of psychotic disgruntled former employees and the mayhem for which they've been responsible. I was delighted when I discovered that the US Postal Service was the show's principle sponsor.

Tonight there were lots of cool shows on teevee about the criminal mind. One detailed the case of a wealthy closet homosexual serial murderer in Indiana, a guy who casually disposed of the bodies of his gay victims in the woods behind his house. Another show documented cases of psychotic disgruntled former employees and the mayhem for which they'd been responsible. I was delighted when I discovered that the US Postal Service was the show's principle sponsor.

At around 2am, Matthew Hart came back from wherever he'd been, extremely drunk. He could walk and talk, but he could do neither well. Still, he announced his intention to go on a drive in his car, saying he didn't really know where he was going. I wasn't pleased by this, but there wasn't much I could do except warn him to be careful, saying, "They're looking for you."

To this he sneered, "If I get arrested, it's 500 dollars, and I'll pay it tomorrow!"

"You won't be very happy tomorrow if that happens," I countered.

"I won't be happy... but I'll pay it," he reasoned as he headed out the door, swinging his keys.

one year ago

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