I’ve been working a few days in a row again. I’ve been at work
everyday since Saturday. I won’t have a day off until Saturday. I’m
not complaining- that happens, I’m used to it. I’m instead marveling
at what this has done to my sleep.

I’ve had a couple work dreams again. Having dreams about work isn’t
something I like a whole lot. I used to have them when I worked for
infamous (and perhaps dubious) West Corporation here and there. I’ve
had them about nearly every job I’ve ever worked. Hell, I still
occasionally have dreams where I’m a kid and walking my paper route in
the neighborhood I grew up in and that’s been almost 14 years since
that gig gave up the ghost.

Both nights the dreams had very similar circumstances. I wasn’t at
work in any of the dreams. I was doing something else- in the one
last night I was hiking along some mountain trail alone and out of
nowhere I heard a beep in my ear and suddenly I was working tech
support while hiking along.

Jesus- does this shit happen to anybody else? I’m foggy on the
details from there- I eventually woke up and made myself think about
something else before rolling over and going back to sleep- but it
didn’t help. I wasn’t hiking along the mountain trail anymore, but
through out the rest of the dream I kept hearing beeps in my ear
before having to tech people’s internet problems.

Ay-yi-yi…

I had just cast off my pants and boxer shorts for the night and was
settling down to a few minutes with Dr. Thompson’s “The Great Shark
Hunt” when the telephone rang. It was not a Telemarketer, but some
uptight sounding broad with a parent’s advocacy group.

“We think that Children’s television programming has gotten more edgy
and that the ratings system has gotten more lenient. Aside from
monitoring what their children are watching, many parents feel
powerless to protect their children. Do you feel the same way?” the
uptight sounding broad on the other end said.

I was tired. It had been a long day. That’s really the only
explanation for my response to this whole scene.

“HELL NO,” I said. “I think children should have as much exposure to
the world as possible so they know how to protect themselves from it.”

The lady hung up after saying thank you. So it goes. I wasn’t
complaining. I’d already been noting what a weird world we’d lived in
all afternoon- no reason to hide it from the little ones. They might
as well know what the hell they’re up against. Like this, for
example:

Sylvester Stallone admits human growth hormone use
NEW YORK (AP) — Sylvester Stallone says he used human growth hormone
to get buff for the new “Rambo” movie, and defends its use.

“HGH (human growth hormone) is nothing,” the 61-year-old actor tells
Time magazine in its February 4 issue. “Anyone who calls it a steroid
is grossly misinformed.”

Because it is nearly undetectable, HGH has become a substance of great
concern in major league baseball and other sports battling allegations
of rampant doping.

“Testosterone to me is so important for a sense of well-being when you
get older,” Stallone says.

“Everyone over 40 years old would be wise to investigate it because it
increases the quality of your life. Mark my words. In 10 years it will
be over the counter.” Stallone directed and co-wrote the new “Rambo”
movie, which arrived in theaters Friday.

What a world it is we’re living in anyway, eh? From the immediacy of
the Internet, to our warmongering waterhead chief executive, to
juicing up with hormones, we’ve got all the bad trappings of a science
fiction movie or dozen. If Sly Stallone wants to turn himself into a
mutant, we might as well let him.

Have you seen any photos of Harrison Ford lately? What’s with these
sixty year old dudes not turning into geezers but instead supermen?
Aging gracefully is one thing, but when the baby boomers start getting
to live forever, I for one see that as a call to arms. It scares THE
LIVING SHIT out of me. Really. Can you imagine another twenty years
of Indiana Jones, Rocky, and Rambo movies. It’s bad enough that
performance enhancers have taken professional athletics and turned the
athletes into musclebound warrior god-types (when was the last time
you saw a baseball player with a beer gut of any respectable merit?)
but now Hollywood’s hopping onto the bandwagon too?

At least they haven’t invented any performance enhancing drugs or
hormones that make a person a better actor…yet.

All kidding aside though, I think it’s a wonderful thing that someone
as rich as Sylvester Stallone gets to maintain a sense of musclebound
well-being as he kicks off his sixth decade. I think it would be a
terrible thing for him to get old and not get to experience something
that most of the rest of the world will never reap the benefits from
for cosmetic well being. That just seems so fair. Really. Doesn’t
it? Don’t you agree? The guy’s the champ!

Some days I just wanna take up with a Militia, move to Montana, and
fall in love with an armed struggle somewhere.

I got in an argument with a telemarketer last night. Well, it wasn’t
really an argument. But it was a debate of sorts.

The Telemarketer was calling from the Austin American Statesman to
find out if I wanted a subscription.

“You guys have a website, don’t you?” I asked, knowing full well they
do- I read it daily.

“I’m not sure,” the Telemarketer said. I’m pretty sure he knew they
in fact did.

“It seems kind of strange that you wouldn’t when both the Daily Texan
the Chronicle both do,” I said referring to the free papers I read.

“Yeah…websites are all the rage right now,” the Telemarketer said
remaining in business mode.

“So, I’d be a sucker to pay for something I can get for free, wouldn’t
I?” I asked.

“That’s a way of looking at it…I suppose…but you get coupons and
savings too…” the Telemarketer offered.

I don’t remember what else we talked about it. At that point it was
the beer talking and me in the passenger seat. All I know is that I
still don’t have a subscription to the Austin American Statesman.

I’ve heard good things about Conan’s Pizza. It’s a West Campus parlor
& delivery- delivery being one of those pleasures that bachelorhood
embraces especially- and I gave it a try last night.

It’s Chicago styled & the deep dish crust comes in regular crust or
wheat. I wish I could remember the exact name of the pie I ordered-
circumstances prevent the possibility of such- but it was quite
tasty.

“I want something with a lot of meat and vegetables on it,” I told the
order take over the phone.

Then he gave me a couple different pizza names that fit that request.
I chose one.

“Would you like anchovies & jalapeños with that?” the order taker asked.

This was an idea I had not considered at all.

“Sure,” I said. “I’d like those too.”

All in all, it ended up being a good choice. 40 minutes later I was
enjoying deep dish pizza pie.

Oh yeah, I also went and saw that “Juno” movie. It was pretty good.
I didn’t love it really, but I didn’t dislike it at all. It just was.
JK Simmons was great. Ellen Page was really good too. Michael Cera
was, well, every Michael Cera character we’ve seen so far, and Jason
Bateman did a good job continuing to breathe life back into his career
(”Arrested Development” was a good choice for that guy).

I liked the soundtrack a lot. Lots of Kimya Dawson. It was a good way
to go spend a lazy Sunday afternoon.

I went and saw “Into the Wild” at the Dobie theater last night. It’s
that Sean Penn directed adaptation of the John Krakauer book of the
same name. It’s about a kid who lives as a tramp for a year and a
half before leaving for Alaska to live on his own in the wilderness.
It’s a good book. The movie was good too.

The scenery shots were beautiful. The characters were well acted.
Zach Galifinakis has a small (serious) role too. Emile Hirsch is
great. I enjoyed myself.

Upcoming movies to see:

Walk Hard
Juno
Teeth (seriously, go to google right now and look up “Teeth the
movie”. It looks amazing.)

I read CNN.com everyday at work. Some days much more compulsively
than other days. Some days the stories are nothing but celebrity news
and some days big things happen. Bhutto died, for instance.

Today I’m following the ongoing trial of Charles Taylor Sr. I’m
e-mailing this blog in, as I do not have direct access to the blog
software at work, so I can’t add html markups for this article (a
million apologies):
http://www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/africa/01/08/taylor.trial.ap/index.html

When Idi Amin died a few years back, I started reading about different
African dictators more often. Anyway, Charles Taylor is a scary
motherfucker, and that’s to be expected. This is the guy who had a
Presidential slogan that went “He killed my ma, he killed my pa, but I
will vote for him.” [credit to Guardian Online] This is a guy who
sent children- and I don’t mean children in the sense of the word that
I would if I was saying “George Bush sends American Children to die”-
this is a guy who sent prepubescent children into combat. Taylor
raised a vicious brute of a son, who was indicted for crimes of
torture, one of the instances cited stating “Emmanuel [Charles
Taylor’s son] and others burned him with a hot iron, forced him at
gunpoint to hold scalding water, applied electric shocks to his
genitals and other body parts and rubbed salt in his wounds” [credit
to Reuter’s]. Christ.

If you saw that movie “Lord of War” you might remember the character
of Andre Baptiste Sr. who was a Charles Taylor caricature.
Exaggerated- perhaps, but you get the idea. Anybody who’s wrapped up
in “blood diamonds” & “child armies” is not a cat you really want to
swing with.

The bastard’s on trial in the Netherlands now for war crimes- where he
should be- especially when the reviews of his regime keep coming back
full of information such as “Alex Tamba Teh recounted watching young
boys methodically hack off the hands and feet of another teenager,
hearing the terrorized screams of women being raped, stepping over
corpses too numerous to count and helping unload weapons for Sierra
Leonean rebels off a Liberian helicopter” [credit to CNN].

I’m intrigued by the horrors of these kinds of trials, but they make
me wonder a whole lot about the horrible things our own military has
been able to get away with because of our size & weaponry. From Abu
Ghraib to water boarding to Blackwater to
whatever-the-hell-scandal’s-next- oh hell, it’ll probably get all
ignored. It’s easier to bring the smaller countries to task for their
shit anyway.

The hammer drops.

The Builder’s arm seizes tightly and his muscles flex. There is
tension in his veins as he momentarily pauses and then the hammer is
lifted again. The Builder briefly sighs and stretches his arm back.
His grip on the hammer is firm. He swings it down yet again.

There are four corners.

FOUR corners.

The box is made from long sheets of pine and 2×4’s. It has been
sealed tightly with nails and grout. Nothing can get inside of it.
The Builder slides his hammer into the loop on his tool belt. He
examines the box with a level and determines his work to be finished.
He places the level on his garage workshop bench and picks up a shop
broom to sweep up the debris from his work- broken boards, crooked
nails, and four empty bags a piece of kitty litter, lime, and packing
peanuts. The swept debris is placed into a trash bag and locked in the
trunk of the Builder’s Toyota corolla.

The Builder puts away a circular saw, a hand saw, two crow bars, and
his hammer and nails. He locks them up in his tall red tool box and
puts the key in his pocket. He walks to a rubber maid tub in the
corner and pops the lid open. From the rub he pulls out a bucket of
water seal and a bucket of cherry wood stain. He grabs three brushes
as well. He returns his attention to the big wooden box.

The Builder runs his hand across the big pine box and works three
slivers into the palm of his hand. While cutting them out with the
tip of a pocket knife he thinks about the power sander that is locked
away in one of the work shop’s cupboards. As the last sliver is
removed he slides the combination through a lock- left, right, left &
left & left- pops the lock off- and pulls out the power sander.

The sander makes short work of smoothing the wood. It does this
loudly, yet most importantly, quickly. The Builder wears ear plugs
and protective goggles. Dusty wood grains fill the air in a veritable
cloud. After several minutes of sanding the Builder runs his hand
across the box again and is satisfied with his work.

He first opens the bucket of cherry wood stain. It is a deeply
reddish brown. He applies a coat of the stain. He leaves the box
alone for hours while it dries. He reapplies another coat of stain
and then waits. He repeats this pattern several times. When the box
is dried and stained to his satisfaction, he treats the wood with the
water seal. He uses every last drop of it and leaves the box to dry
in the garage.

The Builder shuts the light off in the garage and walks inside his
house to his living room. He sits down on the couch with a can of
beer. The beer is cold and satisfying. He breathes in deeply after
taking a good long pull on the can and stares at the room. The living
room is still a mess. There are shattered china plates everywhere.
The glass window of the corner armoire has been smashed open and the
ceramic collectibles it once contained have been broken to pieces.
The Builder looks at the mess and shakes his head. There is blood
stained on the walls in great red splashes, almost like Jackson
Pollock canvases. In fact, the whole room looks like a Jackson
Pollock piece.

Two garbage bags sit half open to the side of the couch. They contain
an entire bed set covered in blood. The blood is not as red as the
blood on the walls. It looks brown- dark- dried- dead, even. The
Builder flinches at the site of them. He makes a mental note to tie
the sacks off and lock them in the trunk of the Toyota corolla in the
garage.

He turns the television on and finds it stuck on the Lifetime channel
in the midst of a movie about a woman who overcomes adversity,
addiction, and the abuse of an angry husband- stories so prevalent and
stock in nature, that an entire television channel is devoted to
making movies about them. The Builder watches the images but his mind
is too preoccupied to follow the story.

He thinks to himself:

“Shit. How am I gonna get out of this one? Where am I gonna bury this
box at? How am I supposed to go about reporting Sheila missing? Did
I get all of the blood out of the bathroom tile and grout yet? Should
I just ‘fuck it all’ and run off? What am I gonna do?”

The box, meanwhile, sits alone in the darkened garage, a non-answer to
all of these questions.