Super Blog

CHAPTER I

It's been a while. And for what it's worth I apologize. I'm back. A little older, a little wiser, womanless and more cynical. "The Man" has gotten to me. The closest thing in my adult life right now the womb -- my bed--is no longer sacred and holy. My one time fortress of solitude has been sullied with the stink of a full time job. Sunrise. The beauty which once visited my life like a blow from a double edge sword well worth the wait; the white whale I'd pay penance for by holding court and staying up all night - no longer holds wonder for me. It may in time hold my demise. Each day I am ripped from my happy place. Not by a madman, or by Gestapo. Nor by catastrophe or the disbanding of the galaxy as we know it, but rather, by the beeping of a $12.99 alarm clock radio made by a foreign company half a world away that specializes in making cheap plastic shit.

So I go through the motions of getting ready for work (as if us free range chickens could ever be ready for work). And believe me, even after just 12 days the motions are real and are here to stay. Overpriced shirt. Check. Gabardine slacks. Check. Stain proof tie (that isn't really stain proof). Check. Off to the surface of the Sun I go.

It's hot. Afrika hot. The walk to the subway, the platform, the one train car that I get in with no air conditioning. It's all fucking hot. But hey, I'm grown up, I got a job, God Damn it, I'm a man, so I get out of that train car! I wait for the next train to come, the one where every car is from the 20th century. The train that's cool. Because you know what, even in my monkey suit, I want to be cool. And as it turns out, packed in that cattle car next to the guy with his tie tucked into his belt, and the fat girl oblivious to the fact that her tacky pink thong is showing and is stretched dangerously thin (capable of killing at least three pedestrians in that car alone), and the two Siamese Twins Chang and Eng, I am fucking cool. So I get to work. Exactly one half hour early. I receive praise from the sparse intrepid coworkers that are already there. They think I'm an industrious good worker. They are dead wrong. I show up to enjoy the free water and air conditioning. The essential elements for life that I can not get at home.

Coworkers, Lemmings, Kitchen appliances - whatever you call them - start to file in. For the next seven hours I live The Breakfast Club. We laugh, we cry, we do some work. But eventually the movie gets old. I'm in a world where I'm filtered, spam blocked, fun blocked and cock blocked. In an office filled with women I can't get a word in edge wise. Maybe it's better off that way. Either way my mind wanders off....

I'm 21 again and high. Not just intoxicated at that moment, put perpetually high. That ceaseless high that comes with youth, is fleeting, and is oft-missed as you grow older. That high that you think you are replicating at 25 and 30 but you're not, you're just grasping at straws. I'm back at that place where being grown up isn't half as fun as the act of growing up itself. It's a magical place. Carefree and filled with innocent delirium. For me it's year 1 B.C. In this case, B.C. stands for Before Cubicles. My mind is in that place where every experience I've known in the past year, and will know in the next two years is like a sentence punctuated with the sentiment, feeling, and statement of "...and I was so high."

Fssssssppp. That's the sound of a piece of paper being dropped into my inbox. Or rather, the sound of my youthfully recollections ( of Fantasy transgression therapy as I've grown to call it) being blown up like the Death Star. It's like the sound of a million memories being silenced all at once. As my mother would say after our family vacations - "Back to reality" (big ups to babs on this one). Or, as I now say "Back to our regularly scheduled shit fest."

......To Be Continued.