Blah bLah blah

Why do they call it a Restroom?? I never rest when I am in the lou. Heck if anything it should be called the workroom. Showering, brushing your teeth, shaving, taking a poop-they all require work. So, from now one when someone says they need to go to the restroom, I am going to ask if they have a lazy boy next to their porcelain poop collector.

posted on 26.02.09

I bought an English bulldog today for 5 dollars. He’s as white as an old man’s beard, but has the pep of a hopped up candy addict. I bought him from a homeless man while walking down the street away from work. The bum, dressed in worn black and white zebra pants and a 1996 championship Bull’s t-shirt, approached me and said, “I’ll tradeya da mut fo som blow.” The dog snorted a sneeze. I looked down at the him, his eyes colored like black sludge , the murkiness drawing me in. “Naw, I think I’ll pass, man.”

I tried to walk away. I tried to take my eyes off the dog. But the dog’s mouth seemed to move, begging me to stay and take him away, “Dan, I need your help. Don’t leave me here with this man. Please.” I think in my head how much does it cost to get high in this town - five, ten, 100 bucks. I am not quite sure since I stopped doing drugs in my teens - I only ever smoked the occasional bowel of weed, nothing too hardcore. I decided that I would lowball this old gent of the streets. “5 dollars for the dog.”

“5 Dollars is all ya got. I don believ that fo a sekund. 50 bucks for an ol man that wantz to gut hi. I need to taik awae the paine. Pleaz I beg you.”

Do I want to assist this old man escape? I know I have been looking for an escape for quite awhile, even if it isn’t from street drugs. I can feel for this man who peddles around this dog day and night. I know the dog doesn’t belong to him. He probably stole it from some little girl named Suzy or some Business executive who left the dog unattended in the park. But who I am I to be the moral or ethical authority here. If the guy wants to get high, I am going to let him. I feel more for the damn dog than this man. Maybe I can find its rightful owner. Maybe I can do something worthwhile for a change, have someone call me hero.

“5 dollars is all you’re getting out of me. No more. Hand me over that dog.” And with that I toss a crumpled up wad of one dollar bills at the man’s feet. “I could have used this on a drink a second ago. Use this money wisely. I am usually not the kind of man that hands out money on a whim. I am going to come find you and make sure you are doing something with your life. What’s your name?”

The honesty and vigor in my voice scared me.

“Sammy Wismon”

“Sammy Wismon, I will meet you right here on this street every week. I expect to see you here to meet me. Now that we are friends, I don’t want you to let me down.”

With that, Sammy shook my extended hand, his eyes latching onto mine like fish hooks.

“Thancs fo da 5 dollars.”

I bought an English bulldog today for 5 dollars. And also, maybe saved a man’s life. Now it’s time to find who this dog belongs to before I get to attached. I walked down the street away from my office, but now with a new companion. The dog’s nubby tail waved at the air, swatting away at weeks of insecurity and fear.

“Now you are safe my friend. Let’s go get a bite to eat”

The words seemed to echo from my mouth onto the dog and back again, almost as if the dog spoke to me.

posted on 25.02.09

For my 28th birthday, I went on a blind date with this chick my friend Dave described as “sarcastic, but sweet.”

Let me tell you, I have never been the dating type. As a result, the attention of females seemed to avoid me, lurking around the corners of high school hallways, waiting in shadowy cubicles. I give off this relationship stench, noxious fumes of despair and apathy brewing in my soul.

I would rather spend my bday with a paper shredder than to go on a blind date (a shredder is brutally honest, making waste to all in its path with ease and without comment). Women just hide behind facades. Women leave you guessing what they feel. Some may seem dramatic but that is only to hide what they truly feel behind those outward histrionics. Some women are like eggs with unbreakable shells, they are just filled with yellow goo, but act like they have more to offer.

To start the big birthday day off, my mom called me. ”Happy Birthday Daniel. It’s your mother calling. I feel like we haven’t talked for awhile. Please call me back. I Love you.” Good thing voicemail answers all of my calls. My mom has talked to voicemail more than she has talked to me over the past six years. I bet she has grown fond of the sweetness found in voicemail’s voice. Voicemail has a knack for listening and understanding.I should probably tell you that I decided to shut off contact with my family at the ripe old age of 22. I think that is the last time I went on a date too. Shit. I can’t believe is has been that long. I go on dates with tax audits not tax auditors. I spend my nights in bed with International Tax Law books, but can’t find an international to tax me between the sheets. I’ve closed myself off in a lot of ways.

But what the hell, I figure maybe I am tired of being lonely. Maybe I am tired of hanging out with shreds of paper confetti made from last weeks misfiled tax forms. Maybe this girl Dave describes as blond athletic and outgoing might dig me out of me.

That night before going to Go-Go Marias, a tapas bar in Oak Brook, I ate a full meal consisting of a medium rare steak and a 312 wheat beer. I wanted to eat something in case my date fled in terror or if I got sick of her and decided to get up and leave. I couldn’t go through the night hungry that would just make me more angry at the world. But like I said, I am willing to go on the date to help me find me.

Our reservation was for 6pm party of two awkward singles meeting for the first time. I decided to leave my apartment at 5:45 pm to make the 10 minute journey. Her name was Britney. Her occupation was Dental Hygienist. I couldn’t wait to meet her.

As I drove to the restaurant, rain fell, gluing droplets to my windshield. I picture Britney sitting next to me at the table, her voice eating away at my self doubt. I reach out to touch her face, but the closer my hand gets, the more she fades into nothingness, sitting in a nowhere chair. “Please!” I scream into her face shrouded by the darkness of my self loathing. “Take me out of this place! I don’t know why, but I know that you can help me. You and you alone.”

I sit in my car, the engine running, rain still rapping on the roof. My hands clench the stearing wheel and my feet are firmly planted into the floor. The car has been placed in park. My mind brought back to focus by the car alarm going off next to me like a crying baby in the cold of the night.

My clock reads 5:55. Right on time. I smile, turning the key out of the ignition, straightening my shirt collar, and reaching for the door handle. As I push out towards the rain, I feel the drops drain the blood from my face. I think I see Britney standing by the door wearing red high heels, the one article that distinguishes her amongst the rain. Did I mention I love a woman who can pull off wearing red shoes?

posted on 23.02.09

“Whiskey Sour please.”

“How sour you like it?”

“Bitter, but I want to feel the burn of the whiskey.”

“What kind of whiskey, sir?”

“Sir, call me Dan. All that sir crap should be left to the formal audiences. Do I look formal to you?”

“Umm well the shirt and tie maybe give you away.”

“You call this formal. More like a uniform of pain.”

“Double whiskey sour coming up.”

“Double…I didn’t ask for a double. You going to charge me more for that shit? Give me a single, man. A single. Do you hear me? I like it my way. not yours. Mine.”

“Geesh, single it is. Don’t get your panties in a wad.”

Dan stands and turns towards the exit, hands clenching a wad of money, his tie leaning a bit to the right and his hair falling over his dark eyes.

posted on 22.02.09

I woke today with a Zionist chill,

my heart beating love’s THC

through my veins. Victorious

sun, voluptious breast, Villified

crest washed clean greating me,

Forcing my eyes to follow. i feel

the world with my irises and touch

the earth with my soles. Solitude

of Rasta, preacher calls from the pulpit,

Hallelujahs of Islamic peace, jihads: All

heard, but not all believed, but All

respected. I respect the day. I

respect God for letting me rise up

from the night and slumber. Rise up

from days of tumult and unrest. I

rise. I. you. me. she. We are all

together. One. United. We all wake up

Unless dead in the night. We all

dream but some don’t hear the voice

of the dreams story. some wake

to the mornin’, some wake to

the Night. I always wake with a smiling heart and yawning eyes

posted on 20.02.09

Last night I thought about jumping out my office window. I saw some pidgeons flying around and they looked like they were enjoying themselves.

I sat in my Big Four office with Big Four furniture and Big Four titles and awards. I sat amongst forms numbered W-2 to 1040. I couldn’t stand looking at one more deduction or credit or figuring out what benefits Susanne Tomas should recieve (if any) from having two deceased husbands in the same tax year (What a coincidence).

I went to the window and looked down at the town. Chicago looks peaceful at 10pm on a day when it is almost 15 below zero, no people walking around and only  lights, concrete, steal, and windows sitting before me. I smack my hands against the window, screaming out against my current situation. The world seems to ignore my calls for help. The pidgeons don’t even turn to acknowledge my cries. Stupid freakin pidgeons. All they do is shit.

No one’s in the office. No one but me and my friends, stacks of forms unfilled.

How did I come to this?

posted on 20.02.09