Tim’s Blog

tragedy.

i wore my favorite pair of shorts to work the other night.  the pen in my apron pocket had punctured a hole through a seam on the apron, so with every step i took, i got a brand new ink swipe across my khaki shorts. 

today, i decided to return to banananananananananana republic and get, you know, the exact same pair of shorts.  no such luck.  in it’s constant pursuit of high end couture, banananananananana republic has flown too close to the sun, and doesn’t carry my shorts anymore.  i decided to go to the bananananananananana republic down the street, in macy’s…formerly marshall field’s.  shorts season is almost over.  my shorts were gone.

"the GAP?" i settled, going up the escalator to peruse their selection.  the Gap in macy’s has closed, apparently, and in a last ditch effort to get a pair of khaki shorts with big pockets on the thighs for me to carry my cell phone, insulin, pet rock, and other sundries, i did the unthinkable.

i went to abercrombie…and fitch.

i don’t actually have a problem with abercrombie or fitch, i guess.  i went into one in houston texas once, and saw fields and fields of fray and stitched numbers all for a very unreasonable price.  the clothes are fine…for you.  no, seriously, that looks good on you.  i’m serious.  have you been losing weight?

but, for me…it just reeks of effort.  and, i kinda don’t want people to look at me and think "good effort".  i don’t know how to sum up this digression, this post has nothing to do with my image or how i want people to perceive me, and i want to finish with my story, so let me just say i wear comfortable shoes, and i think my posture is pretty alright…my clothes just keep the perverts from ogling my gennies.

anyway, back to abercrombie…and fitch.  for the first time in years. 

the greeter was gorgeous.  tall, build, well-dressed, nice angles, nice skin, nice smile.

"hello."

"hiya."

i was awaiting our goodbye.

my first steps into the store make my eyes water…agent orange?  no…cologne…a deluge.  my allergies wept.

anyway, i find shorts fairly easily.  abercrombie…and fitch have a certain design concept on most of their clothes that i recognized…their mock-ups before production of these garments were probably potato sacks wrapped with fishing nets with huge buckles everywhere and yarn danglies and all of this is stapled together and then crumpled up and rolled in a grain silo for discoloration and then steamrolled into jagged, sloppy, grotesque messes…with drawstrings.  which look good on you.  these shorts looked like something akira would wear to the beach.  or shakira, for that matter.

i try to open a changing room door.  locked.  it was probably fitch’s idea to lock the changing room doors so that no one could steal large amounts of floor needles.

i walk through every triangular room that abercrombie…and fitch have to offer.  i’m looking for someone that works there, but, everyone looks the same.  customer?  employee?  the stepford a & f.

i finally see a guy, and ask if he can let me into that changing room, specifying the closest one.

"the changing rooms are all the way in the back and to the right."

i say "oh, ok." but i wanted to say, "oh, what about that one and that one and that one and that one and that one and that one…" but, challenging authority is a good way to stand out and be different…and no one wants that.  i acquiesce.

but, seriously, there were plenty of changing rooms right there.

i walk into the back.  i am greeted by a 19 year old with platinum hair.  a toe-head.  his skin is red and looks chapped and well-moisturized at the same time. he looks like he just slept on the beach, and his abercrombie and his fitch help support this look.

"hello, sir,"  internal cringe for me, "how many objects?"

weird phrasing.

"2."

"right this way, sir."  ditto cringe…i wanted to be addressed as "bra" followed by jeff spiccoli laughter.

as i walk past the other dressing rooms, i realize that the high-gloss, deathstar black floors at abercrombie…and fitch, coupled with the intense lighting above the changing rooms makes it very easy to get a worm’s eye view of everyone stripping into their skivvies and then trying on expensive junk.  did everyone else know this?  is that why this place is so popular?  attention all perverts…do not pass "go".  grab a bag of pop*secret and a lawn chair and let the peep show begin.

i gingerly try on 2 really unflattering pairs of shorts pressed against the wall and the door, to work the angle for any lecherous, prying eyes.  the shorts make me look like (mc) hammer’s tattered xombie, and i curse the cosmos for the waste of time downtown i have just endured. 

but, just think of the life experience i gained…

i said goodbye to the greeter. 

i bet he reads grisham. 

i got a pedicure the other day.  my first one.  i think it was owed me.  cosmically.  it was glorious.  glorious.  my feet are soft(er) and my nails are shiny.  when the korean woman asked if i wanted this polished sheen, i said, "uhh…i don’t know…why?"  and she said (in clumsy english), "well, it makes your toes sparkly.  women do it.  and, the gays."  so i replied, "i want it."  now, my toes sparkle.

twinkle toes.

a photographer came into my work the other night, needing a cover photo for a local fag rag that shows the out-of-towners ‘mos where to go, and what to expect.  i was somehow duped into licking a rose with a co-worker, and looking intensely into his eyes.  at one point i was asked to bite the rose.  at one point i was asked to not look so intensely.  then the photographer asked "will you take your shirt off?"

no.

"no."

"please?  even for the sake of art?"

keep in mind i am biting a rose at my place of employment.  the landscape of "art" may have altered drastically since cardinal richelieu formed "l’academie", since WWII, and since ashlee simpson’s sophmore album was released, but i will tell you all, in all sincerity and brevity and gravity and sincerity again, for good measure, my shirt (especially during work hours) will remain on my back, unless someone gives me the head’s up to nair/tweeze/machete my manscapables ahead of time.

i look like a mountain gorilla.

"even for the sake of art…no."

anyway, next week, the out of towners looking for fully clothed bohunks to serve them edible roses…well…i guess now they have their beacon.

ps-my allergies are gayer than me eating a rose, and something tells me eating a rose isn’t going to help them.

i went to the gym today.

have you ever noticed that when people work out, they find every opportunity to mention it, regardless of its relevance to the rest of the story?  its true, even people that fancy themselves as "not one of those people" do it.

anyway, i went to the gym today.  i walked up to the front desk.  i laid my I.D. card down and was checked in by the woman behind the counter.  i then requested a big towel.

i was handed a small towel.

i said, "oh, actually, can i get a big towel?"

she said, "a big towel?"

i said, "yeah, please, a big one."  (silence begging for jokey-jokey chit-chat)  "i mean, i’m a big guy."  i shrug and purse my lips in a non-gay way…almost jokingly thuggish.

"not for long." she said, as she handed me the big towel with a big grin on her face.

i smiled and turned and started to walk away, until my brain applied the air brakes. 

what the fuck is that supposed to mean? 

like, translation being "you’re a fat fatty, but, since you’re at the gym, maybe you can sweat out some cookie dough and porridge?"

i didn’t say "i’m a fat guy".  i said i was a "big guy."  "big" meaning "swoll", or "ripped".  and, i wasn’t even being serious, hence my thuggish delivery. 

my ego was instantly delicate.  all blue roses and glass unicorns tossed into a demolition derby.

anyway, what’s she talking about?  she’s pasty.  she has pretentious, stupid hair, and, apparently, no tact or sense of humor at all.

i continued walking, after a stunned fraction of a second, but turned around and gave a dumbfounded smile.

she said, "i mean, you’re super-buff."

…

yes.

yes, she said that.

she over-compensated.  she went too far to the other extreme.

so, i waddled my morbidly obese cottage cheese over to the juice bar, and requested a chocolate raspberry smoothie, and then i walked on the treadmill during the last twelve minutes of "the view", and then i adjourned to arby’s for their 5 for $5 light snack to tide me over until my 11:15 pig roast, followed by my lunch…japan.

i started thinking of ways for the woman who works the front desk at my gym to see me naked, so i can give her a more clear view and she can give me an unbiased opinion.

i’m not trying to lose weight at the gym.  if i were trying to lose weight, i would do what everyone else does…fellate nicole richie’s fingers.  i’m trying to gain mass.

but, apparently, it just makes me look like pugsley addams.

i once watched an episode of "wife swap" where a little boy screamed "i hate this stupid world!" 

*chair breaks*

i have to go.

oh, and FYI, i will never create my own "zwinky". 

ever.

i don’t put music on my iPod. 

i bring it over to a friend of mine’s house and relinquish all power to them.  i have some say as to what goes on it, but, for the most part…i am 2 degree separated from my iPod.

the other morning, as i was leaving my apartment, i skipped down to the artist menu on my iPod.  (i ALWAYS use playlists, not artists)  and, i discovered a band on my iPod…called…aqua.

perhaps this name rings an immediate bell with you loyal readers.  maybe you are laughing as their one and only hit "barbie girl" dances, annoyingly, through your brain. 

***sidenote***  i have a compulsion, for my own amusement, where if i am faced with something terrible…i sit through it and cringe/gasp/laugh/gag.  i have discussed this compulsion more in depth with entries about 7th heaven and the nanny.  i don’t know if it’s a more tame version of masochism, or if i’m just not used to giving a reaction to things i encounter, and welcome one (even a highly adverse reaction) when it is brought out of me.  i have an unhealthy obsession with BAD.

so, the first couple of synthetic, ridiculous, shitty chords start as i’m walking down the stairs of my building, and my sphincter is clutched shut in shock and my fingernails are digging into the bannister and i am cringing.  this song is upsetting me, and i’m sort of enjoying it.

and, around the corner from my laundry room comes my landlord’s fiance.  i pull the earplugs out of my ears.  we greet one another, and start talking about how i will be moving out at the end of this month.  but, as she’s talking, i am noticing that aqua’s unmistakeable "barbie girl" is blasting from my headphones.  my iPod is in it’s case, it would require uncanny finger dexterity to pause or turn down the volume without making it overtly obvious.

so, i start talking.  loudly.  rapid fire.  without punctuation.  trying, desperately to drown aqua out, because being labeled someone that talks too much seems to be a more acceptable fate to me than being the type of person that listens to "barbie girl." 

i was squeezing the earpieces, trying to strangle the life from them.

the conversation ended.

i walked out the front door.

and, restarted "barbie girl."

and, listened to the entire song.

and, hated/loved it.

this past weekend i had the pleasure/horror to experience…no wait…i had the experience of…a lifetime in dorkdom.  this past weekend was "wizardcon".  for those of you not in the know…please allow me to explain.

wizardcon is a weekend-long event in a gigantic auditorium, where trekkies and trekkers and dungeonmasters and cosplayers and whedon-ites and x-philes and furry-participants and students at xavier school for gifted youngsters gather together for an orgy…or, their version of an orgy.

i walked around, overstimulated to such an extent, i was answering questions that i hadn’t even heard being asked.  so many bright colors, and loud, annoying conversations between bitter, hyper-critical nerds (sound familiar, loyal readers?), and the stench of ketchup…just ketchup.  an ocean.

many featured guests were present…richard kiel (jaws from the bond movies), veronica mars herself…ole what’s-her-name, and, at one point a short, euro-trashy, built little guy walked past me.  he had a fauxhawk and a pink vintage T, i watched him walk away and then sit at a booth, and then realized, it was ray park, better known to earth as darth maul, or toad.  i totally checked out ray park.

honestly, i could give a shit.  or, is it "i couldn’t give a shit".  in any case, i didn’t give a shit. i was there to see joyce dewitt, "janet" from televisions three’s company. 

people have asked me why joyce dewitt was at a comic book convention.  i don’t have an answer for this…but, she was.  i suppose old television shows on DVD are collectibles, too. 

in any case, she looks fantastic (check my profile photos) and she is as nice as you would’ve imagined.  sitting next to her was priscilla barnes, suzanne somers replacement on the show, as well as the fortune teller in "mallrats" and the blond in "the devil’s rejects" (which i haven’t seen), but, let’s not front…i was there for joyce dewitt.

my personable friend, jon, was there with me, and after he and i had both dropped $40 in autographs from joyce, and since it was five minutes past noon, he offered to bring her some lunch.  she asked what was around, and he told her there was "the traditional hotdogs, and stuff."  joyce dewitt ordered a hot dog with "a little mustard" from my personable friend, jon.  he asked "do you need a pop?"  she declined, saying she had water.  jon asked, "do you need chips?"  no, jon. 

no chips for joyce dewitt.

jon and i waited in the concession stand line, taking every opportunity to say the phrase "joyce dewitt’s hot dog" as loudly as we could, in mock-boasting in front of the largest collection of collecting nerds i have ever seen.

"c’mon, jon, we’ve got to get the hot dog back to (turns and amplifies) JOYCE DEWITT!"

we both laughed.  we were so clever.

jon paid, but i felt that i should chip in a dollar…for…i don’t know…the dorkiness of it all.

we got the hot dog, and unwrapped it to put "a little mustard" on it.  i was careful to not leave finger indentations, or to let my bare skin touch joyce’s pristene hot dog. i held joyce dewitt’s hot dog as we walked back through the comicon.  at one point, a giant costumed "pikachu" (from pokemon) walked by…jon asked if i wanted my picture taken with pikachu and joyce dewitt’s hot dog. 

sometimes questions just don’t need to be asked.

a single click, a "thanks" to pikachu, and we were off.

before we got back to the booth, in a moment of pure, unbridled dorkiness, i stopped jon and said, "jon…i think you should present joyce her hot dog…i mean, you were the one that offered to get it for her in the first place.  and, you paid for most of it."  i’m pretty sure friends that hang out and watch football don’t tap-dance and rationalize as much as i do…but, they also don’t get to meet joyce dewitt, so, cosmically, i am leagues ahead of them.

jon presented joyce her hot dog, and i stood, awkwardly behind him.  i didn’t want to stand too close, because the line waiting for joyce dewitt was full of crab-asses that freaked out if they thought you were "cutting" or "butting".  you know, remember the line for the water fountain in 2nd grade?  now, amplify 30 years.

well, joyce asked jon "how much do i owe you for the hot dog?" and, although she didn’t look at me at all, i indicated how unnecessary it was for her to offer.  i held my hand up, and shook my head.  jon, the person she was speaking to waved her politeness away and thanked her once again.

absolutely ridiculous.

so, that’s MY joyce dewitt story…i invite my loyal readers to regale me with their stories of joyce dewitt.

the heat is oppressive.  but, this morning, a breeze blew. 

i have 2 1/2 more days left at my day job, and i am gushing.  gushing.  like, i feel badly for people that interact with me at work, because i have a goofball grin on my face.  my eyes are lit up.  basically, i’m a pumpkinhead right now.  3 months ago, i would’ve hated the person i currently am.

i have mentioned that the frequency with which i update this blog will decrease as of this friday.  i was thinking today about how much the landscape and structure and (to quote Mtv) "vibe" of this blog will change.  (yes, i’m overanalyzing my blog…3 months ago, i would’ve hated this person)  i won’t be blogging about my train rides as much (i sat behind a woman this morning with a book called "easy sudoku"…precious).  i won’t be blogging about the woman that calls me "tim-a-rooni" ever again.  no more languid, verbose ramblings about my "purpose" and my "existence" and my "worth", all called into question (by me)because of my job.  this blog has become a forum for me to fume over my blight, question my life, and has created this skeletal guide, graphing and mimicking what was happening in my actual life…a self-indulgent pity-party that accomplished nothing but souring my breast milk and producing angina.

not that it wasn’t absolutely hysterical at every single moment, because, let’s face it…it has been genius. 

…genius.

the title to this silly little project is "perfect perfection: defining the cosmos one poop-joke at a time".  clearly, from the beginning, i have been as overblown and overly pompous (in jest…sort of) and ridiculously grandiose with my musings as possible…this entry will be no different.

my blog was created as an outlet while floating in this mire.  i had made myself miserable, not being able to balance my outside life with my life in corporate quicksand.  with the end of this job, what does the future hold for this blog?

and, with 2 1/2 days left, i have realized that through this life change…i have achieved a goal.  i have reached perfect perfection.  this blog, whose purpose was solace, has seen me through to the day when i no longer need it.  my (micro)cosmos has been defined…it just took a few trillion poop jokes.  as many poop jokes as there are stars in the sky.

so, my blog is about to undergo a drastic change.  not that i’ll start talking about "how weird it is that people…" or "recipes for shrimptastic coconut shrimp".  it’ll still be asinine.  it’ll still be provokative.  it’ll still be brilliant.  and insightful.  and a "must-read". 

it’ll be the same.

but, different.

…

…

…

oh, and less frequently, but i already said that twice.

this morning as i was walking to work, i felt something on the back of my neck.  i brushed at it, but didn’t feel anything else. 

i went to lunch.  i came back.  i had to *thinks of a tactful way to put this* use the facilities.  *thinks of a tactful way to imply #2, not #1, a vital detail*  i had to "drop the cosby kids at the pool.  *proud of himself*

i finished.  i tucked in my shirt, and as i was washing my hands, i felt something move in my underwear.  the backside.  down my crack.

*considers deleting this post*

anyway, there were other people in the bathroom, standing at the urinals next to the sink, that had seen me come out of the stall, start to wash my hands, and then rush back in. 

i half-squatted over the toilet, undid my belt in a whirl, yank’d my pants and underwear down, and brushed at my crack, semi-panicked, but as silently as possible.  (if i were at home alone, i probably would’ve been letting out spooked moans and cringing.  imagining a venom dripping tarantula or one of those chicago house cenitpedes (or "pseudoscorpion", pictured below).

it fell in the toilet.  it was only one of those yellow ladybugs…they’re pear colored and more oblong than regular ladybugs.  plus, a regular ladybug would NEVER think of crawling down my buttcrack…that is not proper etiquette…ladies have a code of ethics.  they wear white gloves and balance books on their heads and read "redbook" while they wait for suitors.

anyway, i considered fishing the yellow ladybug out of the toilet, since it kinda breaks my heart to have inadvertently killed a lady.  but…*shrug* only the strong survive, and i’m not putting my hand in a public toilet after what happened last time. 

*lets that hang*

flush!

epilogue:is it satisfying, as a reader, knowing now that the title of this entry is completely literal?

i will miss the morning commute.  this morning i sat behind a woman reading a book, and either the title of the book, or the title of the chapter was "the long road to a tomato" and listed in the text were prices of grain silos and tractor repair and soil.  an agriculture periodical…take that, "anything sedaris".

to my left was a guy with popeye forearms.  and, popeye stubble on his chin.  and cute jeans.  and cute shoes.  and a cute t-shirt.  and golden retriever eyes. 

in front of him, a woman was knitting.  (brace yourself)  she was knitting cozies for her headphones, and she was wearing the left sided cozy.  i found this to be inventive and creative and resourceful and lame and lame and lame and LAME.  i had to roll the ole peepers at that one.

to fill the void of my half hour of intensive people-watching every morning, i am hoping to have more stories from my waiting job…like this one:

johnny is a busboy from mexico.  he is very jovial and energetic.  we always high five and then punch fists, and he calls me "my friend".  i like johnny a lot. 

***sidenote: johnny loves my roommate, trista.  it must be her winning smile, or her hearty laugh, or her gams, or her hair/eyes/voice, or her sense of humor…it could be any number of things, but, i know her boobs have something to do with it, too.  because, they’re enormous.***

johnny is currently enrolled in a class to help him learn english.  he does his homework at work (should it be called "workwork", then?)when we aren’t busy, and asks the bartender and i for help.  (try explaining "must have been" to someone that doesn’t speak english…now try it on a cocktail napkin)

last night, johnny was asking me about "put off".  to put something off.  he understood fairly well, and he moved on to "turned on."

he asked me "what means ‘turned on?’" and then wrote it on a napkin.  i recoiled, and laughed and said, "well…wow…how do i…?"  2 years in a corporate environment has taught me to tiptoe through the tulips with certain subjects.  horniness is one of those subjects.  but, something tells me johnny isn’t going to rush to HR, so i answer his question.

"turned on…" i fumble, "is…do you know ‘horny?’"  he doesn’t.

"my roommate.  you are turned on by my roommate."  i then use my arm to pantomime and erection, making a juvenile knocking sound when it reaches it’s zenith.

johnny is puzzled.

i take the pen and the napkin, and draw a cock and balls, with an arrow pointing up to imply growth.  i leave out certain details like pubes and veins and cheese, and do a simple line drawing of a mushroom head, a shaft and 2 balls.  if he still didn’t understand, i guess i could cross-hatch some shadows…or try sculpture?

johnny, understanding the drawing is vexed.  "ok."  he nods.  "ok."

i smile.  "that’s ‘turned on.’"

johnny’s nod continues, but it’s one of those nods that is completely dissatisfied.  johnny then says, "app…ap-LEE-ins…app-ehhhh…machine?"

oh snap.

i feel like a pervert, instantly.  for those of you not constantly thinking about "touch", you know that "turned on" also refers to appliances and machinery being given power.

i explain that it has double meaning and am laughing and blushing and crumpling my chicken-scratch penis.

johnny laughed, and said something inaudibly fast and spanish and then said "my friend." 

then we high fived and punched each other’s fists.

then i served food to someone. 

and, maybe it was you.

the thing is…that…i quit my 9-5 job yesterday.  august 4th will be my final day.

so, after years of bitching and moaning, full well knowing i was the only one that could change the situation, i have intervened in my own life, and changed the situation.

i am so excited! 

i am not nervous.  despite the fact that everyone keeps bringing up insurance.  i have been telling people "i am more afraid of spending any more time in this position, than i am scared of appendicitus (sp?)"  i can handle living with a $30,000 emergency room bill moreso than i can handle not-really-living, with a clean bill of health.

i don’t care how recklessly or irrationally this decision is perceived, i back it wholeheartedly.  and, i feel a poison being purged from my body.  not to say this place is anything demonic or bad…quite the opposite. 

but, my job made me unhappy.  and, that unhappiness bled into too many facets of my life.  and, i’m not an unhappy person.  but, i was becoming one.  goat horns and red eyes and forked tongues and fire-breath. 

i have never made a decision so confidently.

anyway, enough with the pep-talks to my loyal readers. 

i’m not a big fan of this entry, but i’m keeping it because i think it’s fairly monumental, especially for the fate of this blog…created to give my mind something to do while my body was strapped to this chair for 8 hours whilst holes were drilled through my brain.

i have written just over 200 entries.  i have received just over 300 comments.  i have quit twice.  i have used this blog as a toy…a learning toy, but not one of those gay (as in "bad") ones from grade school.  i have used it for personal spelunking.  i have used it for target practice.  i have hung things in effigy on this space.  it has been a punching bag.  it has given me tickle tortures and public floggings and it has manacled me to this rock, as well as projected me further than carl sagan’s imagination.  and that’s pretty mother-fucking far.

anyway, it has allowed me to indulge, and i love to indulge.

and, i look forward to continuing on with this web journal, or web log, or "blog" beyond my unhappy, corporate, tantrum-tossing years.

so…this is it.  my terminus.

my rubicon.

my decision.

"i don’t know what the future holds, but i know who holds the future."-star jones, ‘06