"things you see in a graveyard, in a graveyard, in a graaaaaaaveyard"

Randomness for today....

Speaking of graveyards, which I really only bring up because it's a topic that is introduced further down in this bloggyblogaroo, when we were younger, we had what I assume one could only describe as the infantile beginnings of a "Band." It was me (guitar, kinda), Theez (on bass), Rev (percussion), and Harry (guitar). We had one song, which I wrote, called "in a cemetery" and we met one time to try and record it and bang out all the details (an event that will live on in infamy as "croftonpalooza I"). Needless to say, the song went on to become a top 40 hit and all four of us are currently wealthy beyond belief.

more randomly, thanks to Perfect Dark, I'm becoming an even bigger fan of aliens (the beings, not the movie) then I was before.

In addition, I like to eat, eat, eat, eat; apples and bananas. I like to ote, ote, ote, ote; ohples and bononos.

We watched Repo: The Genetic Opera. It was amazing. I can't stop listening to the "Things You See in A Graveyard" and the "Zydrate" songs. What a groooovy movie.

Jon, the UPS guy who, most importantly, delivers payroll every Tuesday, is a quick-witted son-of-a-bitch. I really wanted to use more commas in that sentence.

I almost ALMOST got picked to sit on a jury for a murder trial. Well, that could be a lie. I made it past the vior dire and thru to the actual selection, where the defense and the prosecution stand you up individually and vote yea or nay on whether to include you. Which, in its own right, is king of depressing.....

You get up there, after three rounds of cuts, and, at least in my case, (more commas!!!) SIX HOURS of bullshit, and your standing there and "Madam Clerk," as the judge so politely identified her, asks the counsel members and they sort of eye you up and down and then their like, "uuuhhhhh... defense excuses this juror." And your like, "ASSHOLE".

Anyway, I almost made it to that point. My number was 538 and they got to 460-ish before they had selected their jury and their alternates.


bleeep, bleeeppp, buzzz, buzz, buzzzzzzz....................

finger lickin' good times in the relationship graveyard...

Besides the buying and selling of coins, currency, gold and silver, part of my job is to sort through ounces and ounces of jewelry that we've purchased over the counter, and have it melted into pure gold. Since the price of an ounce of gold is right around $1100 an ounce, we offer this service to the public and we buy their broken jewelry, watches, etc. etc. Sort of like the Cash for Gold that you see on the picture-box, but we don't rip you off.

I mean, don't get me wrong, we certainly are only in it to turn a profit, and we certainly do. We shipped out 33 ounces pure of gold at the end of last week, which is worth, on "the street" 34,650 dollars American.

We do this often.

Anyway, the point of my little yarn here is that after it's bought, it's held for 18 days (state law) and then it's sorted out by karat, broken up if need be (stones, gems, etc, are removed so that all that remains is the pure meltable gold), and weighed.

Part of the fun is sorting through rings.

It's like a relationship graveyard.

I just finished sorting out what will likely be about 9-10 ounces and there were some GEMS in there! One 14 karat ring had inscribed all along the inside "my love forever."

Forever huh, apparently not....

another newer looking ring read, "eternally yours, Dan."
Now either Dan died, or Dan fucked up. We will never know. Although it's not that uncommon for the seller of this jewelry to start reminiscing about better days and jibber-jabbering away about this person or that person or where the ring came from, etc. Honestly though, rarely do I listen to them.

Just writing this post has got me thinking about this point further. I wonder what percentage of this jewelry belonged to those who find themselves currently dead. It'd be a curious question.

Perhaps we will make that a mandatory question for those who come in here trying to hawk their goods!

storytellers and fires in the rain....

Some people are fantastic storytellers through song. With a relatively smallish collection of what would normally just be random words or sentences, they can paint the greatest pictures. Mr. Stephen Morrissey is certainly, CERTAINLY one of those. A friend and I were just talking the other day about the track Everyday Feels Like Sunday off of the Viva Hate (appropriate title) album. What an excellent example. I am, by no means, a music critic, but every part of this song, from the slow banging drum intro, to the plodding but perfect (as always) vocals that sort of rise into the chorus, good stuff. Anyway, for those of you, my devoted followers (I kid, of course) who aren't familiar with this song, give 'er a listen-eee-loo, and see what kind of picture it paints for you.

secondly for today - people are stupid creatures. This extends beyond the ones that I know and includes the entire race.

thirdly, I'm getting enthralled once again in the "major" "story" that I've been "working" on for months now. I'm starting to find inspiration in so many things again. This is usually when I can tell that I am on the verge of a creative orgasm, as it were. And we all love them....

Oddly enough, I think water really helps. I find myself contemplating idea after idea when I'm either wandering around in, jogging in, extinguishing flames from myself, (or what have you), in the rain. Also the shower. That's right, the shower and the rain; two places where I can't bring my laptop to quickly right the brilliant ideas that are currently rattling around in my little brain.

fourthly, i really want some tater-tots and mac and cheese. RIGHT NOW.

bluuuuuuurb.....

"she spends countless hours with her statue in the park. She can't go into her situation with a living, breathing being, it must always be with someone who only listens. Never passes judgement. Not that she would care about what anyone would say, more so what they would do. Or could do. That it why she is so happy that she found him those many months ago, standing alone in a seldom traversed section of her park, almost hiding amidst wrangled and knotty trees.

After another soul-cleansing conversation with the iron-clad general who founded her hill in the early 1800's, she falls to staring blankly beyond her highway, beyond the harbor, and directly into the heart of her city. As always Matthew says what she longs to hear. She smirks, eyeing the odd triangularity of the building just across the way, and begins to tell him about the girl from 14th street..."

......

I want a dragon. Like a real, fire-breathing, cave-dwelling, damsel-theiving, treasure-gaurding dragon. Anybody?

Bleeeeep, Bllloooooooppp, Bzzzzzzz....

Earlier this week, while I was making my routine trek from the city to work, I saw a car rolling down the highway that sparked my interest. I pulled the Old Bird up alongside this beautifully painted (you know, the kind of painting that you see on cars in Texas, or Mexico, or at car shows or what have you) El Camino (surprise, surprise, right?) and along the back tailgate and sweeping out and off to both sides were images of angels and chariots and all sort of crazy heavenly-style shit. As I approached the drivers-side door, the image of some long haired, bearded fellow with like thorns or something in his head and he was crying came blaring into view.

Pulling up just about alongside, and mesmerized by the furry-ball carpet zebra-print interior on the inside roof, I could start to see more angels on the hood, all sort of gathering together, all apparently looking up at a word that was painted in an elegant reflective golden paint near where the windshield and the hood converge. I grew excited and anxious. I needed to know what word had entranced these heavenly messengers. What was the vision that these beings were ogling. There it was, as I moved ahead a little, just enough for me to read the entire word. All of these astounding beauties were gazing, no staring, nay, SPELLBOUND by one golden, glorious word.... "ANGLE."

Beautiful.

All these "angles" looking up at their own defining word, carved by the gods into the hood of this rolling chariot of an El Camino.

"Angle."

Wait....

I had to slow down so I could let it catch up again. Sure enough.... "ANGLE???" The paint looked fresh. I'm wondering how long this fella will be cruising around town, pimpin his ride, before someone tells him that "Angel" is spelled "angel," not "angle."

It's not like you can inform him as your both flying down 97. Its not like pointing to a door or a gas cap that's off or loose or whatever. If I pointed to his hood, he'd probably think i was just giving him props, not trying to correct a unfortunate spelling snafu.

Additionally, the same morning I saw an old lady driving this giant tank of a pickup truck.

This amazed me.

This little old turtle-esque grandma, very likely sitting atop a pile of telephone books, moving along 50 East, in a huge Ford F-700, apparently oblivious to the world around her, looking very much like a tick in a shoebox.

In other news, I'm growing more and more fascinated with the idea of adding more lights to the front of the Old Bird (which, for those of you in the unawares, is my Wrangler). I already have normal headlights and an additional set of lights on the front bumper. I can envision another set up by the mirrors, and still another, mounted to each side of roof. Maybe one set of lights could be red. Maybe another green. OOOHHHH!!.... and maybe I could make them blink off and on, and in some king of nonsensical order. One light, maybe the red one on the left side of the front bumper, would blink like 7 times in a row, in the meantime, the green one on the top right would do like a Morse code thing; a long hard dash of a blink for like 6 seconds, and then 3 or 4 quick little flashes. Maybe eventually I could incorporate some sounds!!! Some random "BLEEEEEEPS", or "BZZZZZZZZ, BLIP, BLIP, BLEEEEEEEP, BLOOOP, BLOOOP...." I'd love too see turtle-grandma's face when this noisy white, blue, and green mosh and gob of lights and bleeeps come running up on her on the highway....

attention, blah, blah, blah....

It's March 1st. Already?? WTF? What can we do to make time slow down. I remember being a kid and wanting to get older. Couldn't WAIT to be an adult. Now, I just want shit to slow down. I'd like to look at the calendar and just be content, not wondering what the fuck happened to the year.

It's off to radiology shortly for lifetime MRI number 80 million. There's one place that I go to that has a huge fish tank in the room with the MRI machine and it's lit in like a fluorescent blue. The one dude who I get sometimes has a noise machine in there. He's always got it set to waves or something. Anyway, the whole experience, besides the necessity of it, is quite relaxing, like being at the aquarium! They have these super kool noise eliminating headphones thru which they pump any type of music that you like. Last time it was the middle three tracks off In Utero. Then there's another place that's basically like going to the hospital - everything's all cold and sterile, old people (we know how much I ADORE their company, right?) - and, lucky me, that's where i get to go today!

anyway, not much humor in today's blog. Just cold hard factaroos.