Oh, the irony of working at an interactive LLC.

And not updating my entries here anymore. Well, damn. And it feels like we have so much to catch up on, don't we?

Like right now, I am listening to some people here discuss things, which is something I had forgotten that people do. One person is commenting on vegetarians showing up to a Thanksgiving Day dinner and complaining about how they can't eat turkey. Even though I'm not actively participating, even though I don't care one way or the other about the topic, I forgot that I fit in with this, forgot where 'here' actually was, and I just think it's funny. At my other job, I'd gotten so used to hearing either the sound of nothing, which sounds a lot like pain, or hearing this one guy jingle his change and his nuts all the way down the hall, then boom out something pedestrian in the bombed-out halls, and then laugh at his own jokes. I'm afraid I'll never be far enough down the street to not hear his voice at times.

But I like this place a lot. Everyone is cool in his, her or Scott's own ways. But I miss my friends at the old job. And I miss my chair. And I miss my Mac. And my garbage can, but not the nutjiggler who needs to shut the fuck up and let those people do the right thing, which would be to express themselves. But he won't because he's a big useless penis sore. (Substitute "cottage cheese" here if you'd like, but "a big useless penis sore" was the worst thing I could think of for people who micromanage and squelch talent, drive and motivation.)

You won't believe this about the new place. This is too good to be true, but the new parking garage smells like big, fake roses. Yes it does. Or deep-fried food -- either smell trumps the sticky, elephant piss and rhino DNA stairwells any day and is easy to like. Unless you are just weird. So for this, I'm thankful that I am not that kind of weird.

Well, Thanksgiving is on the way, and again it seems like it always gets treated as an inconvenience to Christmas, especially in the greeting card racks and retail shelves. I'll take it though, even though trying to find a Thanksgiving Day card was like searching for an albino gorilla. There were ten designs to choose from, and they were all fairly benign and lame. In the end, I just felt sorry for them and bought four of the least sickly gooey cornball-esque of them. They were cowering in the corner just waiting for Friday to come along so they can be gathered and trashed. Poor inanimate cards.

This year, Ron and I are staying in and cooking our own handicapable turkey. That's right, check us out: Equal Opportunity Carnivores. We bought a bird with no legs. Why pay for legs when you really don't want them anyway. If it were a personal option for me, concerning myself, I'd think about legs as an option, just to develop my arms to the buffness I've always wanted, and to stop complaining about the extra weight I could stand to lose. No pun intended.

That sentence before last was shoddy and bordeline insensitive. So have you missed me? I missed you. No, really. So now it's time to go home for wine and inspiration.

I'm proud of myself, by the way, that I lit my gas heater last night without blowing up or catching on fire. Huzzah for me. This year, I will be thankful for eyebrows.

Damn, Thursday already.

I feel compelled to update every day now since Michael is reading this blog now. Guess he'll have to go eat some sushi with us soon, too. Hey, Michael (dotdotdot) imagine me flipping you off right now. Ah, good times, just like I'm still there huh, except none of that incessant complaining about Nutsakk and Glenitalia. Let me know when they get married.

I gotta go now, have to start a new job and feel like a geek for at least a week or two. You know how it is. Gotta find new parking spot in new garage, hope I don't use anyone's coffee cup by accident, and by the way "Where's the bathroom again?" That kind of stuff. But they are all cool so they won't mind. For at least two days maybe.

I emailed my mom the entry called "Father, Son and Mirabou" because I thought she'd like it, and she did. She said, "Man, I am tellin' ya, you ought to be a writer!" And I said, "Well, I am, that's what I do for a living." And she said, "No, I mean a real writer."

Love, Mom.

She also told me that she let her friend Susan read it, and she was so impressed that she wants me to write her obituary.

Things are really looking up for me.

Have a good day today and tomorrow if I don't talk to you sooner than the weekend, and always remember to toss Michael the bird every morning.

Comfortably numb.

So here I am, weaving in and out of a DayQuil coma today. Riding up the elevator with some guy dressed in his typical, plain, dark suit and blue shirt with white collar and cuffs. And so he started talking to his buddy who looked just like him, about the particular "Seinfeld" episode where Jerry had to wear the stupid looking puffy pirate shirt. And he went over and over the line again and again for his buddy, as we climbed higher and higher, and he laughed louder and louder at his hackneyed rendition of this recycled gag, over and over, louder and louder until I stood as much of it as I could, and from the depths of my soul rose the contents of stomach, and I puked all over him while his buddy watched. And then his buddy pointed, and then said in his smarmiest voice ever "Well, Peterson, I guess YOU wouldn't mind wearing a puffy white pirate shirt NOW, wouldya, buddy?"

Regrettably, except for the DayQuil coma part, none of that happened; but believe me it could have.

I love going to A. Schwab's for good pictures. If they don't have it, then you don't need it. And vice-versa.

Michael, you didn't tell us your mom was in a band.

But he's like that, too modest and quite possibly too ashamed of the truth.

Personally, I'd kill someone for a blue Musikanterna/Willie Wonka suit.







Pretty farking funny.

"Eatin' teeth."

Oh sthnap, that's just funny. I like waterstain. I tried to write her once, but the email address was bonked. Hey B, what gives?

What a great picture of me, walking to the idling mothership in my stupid looking shirt with Mike-o-Tron 2K, RonForSale and Young Danielo. It's our maiden voyage into space. I can't wait to make crop circles and suck up all those innocent cows in Idaho. Who took the picture? Bigfoot.

Father, Son and Mirabou.

Wide reddish-orange satellite receivers. Overturned heather-grey felt dogdishes. Glittery-gold toilet paper cozies. These are the hats of COGIC, and they fascinate me.

If I could wear a hat like the ones I've seen this past week, dress in furry white sequined gowns flanked by a husband dripping in mainly orange, electric blue, and purple with fur-trimmed hatbands, surrounded by a small flock of children dressed accordingly, sharply, and in tow, I'd handle a snake once a year if I had to. To wear those feathery boas, I'd handle a boa constrictor for at least 60 seconds if it were necessary.

Not that COGIC worshippers handle snakes by any means. I respect what little I know. I'd never even heard of COGIC until i moved here. But I'm just saying I'd do anything to dress like that. Proudly blending into a large crowd of People Dressed Just Like Me, Like Divine Royalty. It's not just the fancy cars packing the parking lots around the Pyramid Arena, every car nice, spotless and dentless, it's just something about COGIC that fascinates me as they gather here in Memphis for the COGIC Convocation, just a mile from where I live. And every year, as usual, I'm not invited.

I went to pick up that Oreo ice cream cake for Scott's birthday bash (which turned into Vodka Tonic Karaoke BlowOut*), and lo, it was good. In the valet parking section at The Peabody, where in my opinion it's not parking if you don't switch off the car, I pulled up behind an oxymoron: a huge mini-van. And Ron says from his passenger side view, "Oh wow, looka tha-a-at... no, wait, you'll see." And on my way into Peabody Place, making my way around the huge mini-van, I froze. Emerging from the huge mini-van was the queen poobah of all COGIC great-great-grandmatrons, and to me, she was spectacular.

She was dressed in the whitest wool and satin blend dress I have ever seen in my life. Not so white that it had a purple-twinge in the light like a bridal gown gone bad, but just white as newly-fallen snow. And I'll never be able to process all that she had on. I'm sure it'll take a few dreams here and there to see it all somewhere. But without staring, I saw that the front of her dress was absolutely covered in sparkles, spangles and dangly things made of silver, gold, brass and copper. They spun around and tinkled against each other like the tiniest windchimes. Her shoes were slightly off-looking, being a simple straight-up silver mesh brocade bedecked with clear sequins and beads. But that made it even more human, like an earthly intervention.

For a woman of her remarkable age, her white stockings were stretched evenly, and rose as discreetly as possible, disappearing somewhere in darkness. But it was her hat, dear God, her hat. I think I heard angels singing. It was a billowy white cloud of the softest looking mirabou ever created by fowl, floating weightless and waving gently with the undertow like the tentacles of a sea anemone in her deep, tranquil still of ocean blue.

It was one of those moments when time paused for something bigger than itself. Like a split-second warm realization, a hesitating moment in front of an empty altar on Christmas night; or the nothingness of being propped between resting, sleeping and a bowl of corn chips and hot cheese dip, bundled up on a couch on a New Year's Day. The stopwatch clicks off for that second or two and thankfully, you hear nothing.

But again, I tried not to stare. But again. I'd never been this close to an actual COGIC matron, never been so close to those people I've watched walking in close-knit groups to salvation year after year, to the shiniest, pointiest building this side of Las Vegas or Giza for that matter, and I have never been this close to a hat that heavenly. So I waited for her to wobble her way up the stairs. She had the posture of a jumbo prawn, and I didn't even notice her cane until then. It could have been 24K gold. But that hat. That divine chapeau. Untarnished by a drag queen and fit for a king's bride. It was That Hat.

So I stood there as her self-appointed maidservant, waiting patiently as she inched her way up what seemed ten flights of stairs but only three steps. One for the Father, one for the Son and the other, yes, the Holy Spirit maybe. I really couldn't see her face. But I spoke directly into The Hat.

"I have the door for you ma'am."

She acknowledged me with the standard lil ole lady "HUH?... Oh... thanky."

Then I took the liberty of saying what I really thought, "You sure do look pretty today." And as she shuffled past me, she said in this oddly robust voice that echoed in the glass foyer, "Ohhh THANK you, baybeh!..." And then after a moment's thought, she added "My feet hurt... where the escalator at?" Panicked, I said "Uhm, oh... I... don't know.. but I do know where the elevator is, way over there past the restrooms..." To which she replied, "Ohhhhh Lawd."

On my way to pick up the cake, I realized that I'm stupid. There are the escalators, right there, you moron. So I turn back to tell her this and she was gone. Vanished. Nothing but an empty spot with dappled reflections of indirect light. Then the spot was engulfed with faceless, uninteresting retail consumers. Again and again.

I hope that's not as close to God as ever I get. But if so then I'll take it. I'll add it to the box of warm moments stopped in time over life. Odds are I won't remember them. Occasionally one bubbles up from my own deep. But every time I save one, I hope they all pour out over my soul when I die. I'd like to see what goes on at the COGIC Convocation, I am pretty sure I'd feel something. But for now, I'll just look at them all through my dirty car windows next year as the richly-dressed, quite possibly bless-ed people pass me on the street, spooking the occasional wide-eyed European traveller on his pilgrimage to Graceland into wondering "Is it always like this here?" as they pass each other quietly, solemnly, walking their own ways to salvation. And even though I'd never really fit in, I'd like to be truly sure enough of myself to wear one of those hats. Either that or blissfully unaware of wearing one all my life.



*For anyone wondering, I belted-out Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "Crazy" by Patsy Cline.

Ok, so now I'm going to miss the receptionist, too.

Because she just told me that I look like I've lost weight. She's insane, but I will miss her almost as I will miss Josh and not Michael.

I will also miss the mysterious black man down the hall, the one who smells like my grandmother's old jewelry box. The one when asked and sometimes when not says he is "bless-ed, jest bless-ed", the same one who wears shiny red shoes that match his shiny red ties and gold filigree glasses, the one who says to me "Well HELL-O gawww-geous" when I wear black pants, the one whom I recently found out is the slimy lawyer's part-time receptionist/part-time private investigator, and the one who gave me this check that I couldn't cash.



But I won't miss Michael because he never reads my blog or goes out and gets hammered with us after work. Hint hint.



Speaking of that.

We're taking my bestdamnbrotherfriend Scotthead out for his birthday. We wanted to surprise him and knew he liked casinos and boobie bars, but since a fair percentage of us didn't really want to go to either, we figured we'd strike a happy blend and take him to Cafe Samovar with the belly-dancers and Nyquil-strength cordials, and we're bringing along an Oreo cookie ice cream cake. I guess we can bet on how long it will take us to get him absolutely 150 proof legless. That can make up for missing the casino part.

One thing about maybe-Lebanese-I-thought-this-was-Russian fare is key to remember: If one person eats the baba ganoush, you all have to eat the baba ganoush, so you won't notice the after-reek of too much raw garlic. Handy tip for eating: Spread on pita triangles, and try not to notice that it looks just like cat puke. Also, if you drink too much flavored vodka shots and get sick, you won't feel as guilty yakking baba ganoush as you would, say, prime rib.

Much like the many things in my life as a humanoid experiment, this post has also taken a turn for the worse. Oh well. Bring on the vodka, the bellydancers, and the cake!

With the drastic changing of the seasons and the onset of Yellow Fever disguised as sinus pressure comes the serious look at why I'm fervently perusing hating cat pictures. Well, because they're funny. And because I never get to use the word "fervently". Besides, I like cats. Not all, but most. Why do people hate cats? I guess because cats do hate people. And because cats can be righteous little bastards. Like mine, who's taken to ripping at the new, damn carpet and yammering on through his kitty sinuses at 5 am every stinking morning these days. My brain is reduced to lime green Jell-O with a big crack down the middle.

I don't hate cats. I hate Jell-O. But Jello Biafra is good on occasion.

Hey, I am going to work over here now and I'm all excited about it but very sad, too, mostly because I'll miss everybody. Well, almost everybody. I'll miss Josh the most and not Michael since Michael doesn't read my blog and won't ever go out to eat sushi with us. Ha, I'm kidding! Or... am I...

Michael would appreciate my use of the dotdotdot. The ellipse as it is known. Dotdotdot.

I'll also miss Hallie because we have been collaborating on rap lyrics for some McClient we have, and it has been surreal. Just surreal.

More on that later, but right now I'm working like a toothless cracker-eater in a mansion of saltines, whatever that means. It's kinda like a one-armed hooker in a taffy-pulling factory. Except less offensive to the hooker. And now, I can bust out all those crazy work stories I've been storing up for two years. Well, maybe not. I'd end up getting sued.

I get so distracted wishing I was a giant panda. Or it could just be the dementia setting in.