This is a Blog About Nothing.

Nothing in particular, anyway. I mean, what can I say? I woke up, I went to work, I came home, I went back to work, and I came home again. Exciting, eh? I just feel too many days have passed since last I blogged. Tell me, who is to say how many days are too many days? What if I just do not feel like blogging? Don't get me wrong. No one is holding a gun to my head and I really don't have to be doing this. Yet I am typing away with no direction or train of thought to build off of. My muse fills me with stories I dare not tell. How does it go, Liz? We pretend we don't want what we want for fear that what we want will find out that we want them. I think that is how it goes. Then we go on as if nothing has changed when, in fact, it has changed. It's all changing. We put on our armor and we brave the coldness of strangers and those we know but refuse to let inside. We are too tough to be bothered by anything, too busy and too important. When, really, it all boils down to one thing: Being happy. We deny ourselves happiness for fear of showing weakness. We dare not risk letting our feelings be known because they are the very things that will be used against us. Right now I say, "Fuck it," but tomorrow I will give in to the incredible urge to hide myself behind a wall. Keeping one's mouth shut is a good way to keep one out of trouble and undesirable situations. Acting on impulse is a practice long since dead to this world, rotten lot it is. Everything now has to be analyzed and picked through until the romance is out of it. Instead, we should be following our hearts with a reckless abandon to rival a sixteen year old boy on a highway on-ramp. I am afraid I cannot heed my own advice. If I lean in for a kiss, after all, I could be rejected and that risk far outweighs the reward of being accepted. Note the sarcasm. Off to bed for me now as I give the telly a rest in favor of a good book.

Some day someone is going to break my heart into a million pieces...

... and I'll deserve it. Why? Because Henry Rollins is greatness.

if you'll give me one more chance
I swear that I will never lie to you again
because now I see the destructive power of a lie
they're stronger than truth
I can't believe I ever hurt you
I swear
I will never to you lie again, please
just give me one more chance
I will never lie to you again
I swear
that I will never tell a lie
I will never tell a lie
no, no
ha ha ha ha ha hah haa haa haa haaa
sucker
sucker!
oh, sucker
I am a liar

So I guess I was wrong... mostly anyway.

So last night wasn't so bad. I mean my head did hurt and I did not want to be there all the same. As planned I said my hellos and stocked candles in the candle holders. Again. I considered that it was all beneath me. I still fell that way. However, we were busy and money was made. All in all it was okay. Then the fat guy showed up.

I know I am a chubby guy. Of course I have broad shoulders and a strong chest so I am fucking gorgeous regardless. This guy, however, was huge. Our booths are designed for six people. SIX PEOPLE. This guy took up one side himself. There was a chick sitting next to him but she was all the way against the wall while his left ass cheek was hanging off of the booth. Fat fuck. This guy orders the least epicurean entree on the menu. You have your choice of many different things that Chef is proud to call his like the Cider Marinaded Pork Chop or the Lamb Shank with Cous Cous. After refusing countless offers for drinks or appetizers this table sends me away five times saying they have not decided yet. When they finally do decide, this fat fuck orders a Top Sirloin with Steak Fries. Seriously? I maintain that that dish is left on the menu for people who are afraid to try anything different. It's a steak... nothing special about it at all. He orders his medium well which just aides to prove him as having a less than mature palate. Medium well steaks take some time to cook, especially when they are thick cut sirloins. I bring out steak knives to the table as we preset anything that will be needed. His remark to this was, "Does this mean there will be some food at some point tonight?"

I give him my dagger stare to let him know he is already on my bad side and perhaps he should quit pushing it. I understand he is hungry. I mean it has probably been a whole hour since his last donut or cream filled ho ho. He spent a lot of time in the restroom leading me to assume he had a big mac in his pocket. I deliver the food. I check back to assure everything is okay. Everyone is eating and says how wonderful it is. I move on to the next table. This next table had drinks, appetizers, my suggested entrees, and my suggested dessert. They were all smiles and left me with a 50% tip. back to the fat guy's table. I check to see if plates are empty and fat fuck's was. Well.. almost. He still had his steak. I asked if if was finished and his reply was, "I guess," as he refused to make eye contact with me. I ask if there was anything wrong and he informs me that he did not like it. I ask, "Was there anything specific you did not care for?"

He looks at me with this look that I suppose he felt was intimidating, but an obese gay fat fuck has a hard time coming off as intimidating, and repeats himself in a more stern voice, "I did not like it!"

I reply, "Oh, I am sorry. You just did not like the flavor of the steak."

As I am about to leave the table he gets one more jab in, "I assume it is supposed to taste like that."

I apologize one last time before leaving the table. When collecting the credit card vouchers after fat fuck had left I noticed that on one of them the tip line had been left blank. Fat fuck's tip line. Fat fuck did not tip me. Fuck fat fuck. Dear fat fuck, I hope you die of a massive coronary heart attack. I hope your dead fat corpse is found surrounded by cartons and cartons of ho hos. I hope empty big mac containers are piled up around you in your home that you never wanted anyone to see. I hope it smells of rotting food and roaches are crawling on you as the EMTs arrive to haul off your fat bloated body. I also hope your family has you cremated so that they can save money. I mean those double wide caskets are pricey.

For those of you who have friends or family that behave this way in restaurants, please leave them at home. I try very hard to eat out with my sisters for they just wear me down. They complain about anything. They bitch and moan trying to get free things such as desserts ora coupon. I mean seriously. You embarrass a waiter and make his job hell for a fucking coupon. Not only that but they are loud, obnoxious, and rude. Please, leave these people at home for their sake and the sake of others.

Other than fat fuck the night was great. I did not go to the Pub House to see John play though. It was my intent but I got sidetracked on my way out the door. I am a sucker and I can't help it. Eventually, though, it was just me, the dog, and the TV. Again. Well, I have to go back to work to do it all over.

I do not want to work today.

Okay, so this is how it's going to go, right? I show up, as always, on time if not earlier. I go about my routine of saying, "Hola," to everyone I see as I walk in the door. It's 4:20 and people with certain tendencies are doing something else at this time. Not that I have anything against it. Whatever. It just never did anything for me so I never bought in to the whole blazing culture. With that said, I walk through the kitchen to find Chef and his cronies chopping, dicing, and listening to very loud, very bad Dallas radio.

I don't feel good today. My head hurts and I haven't had a good night's sleep in over a week. I can't complain. I work very little. I mean VERY little. I make good money though because I work the money shifts. Well, that is, except for today. This is shit. The last two Wednesdays combined I have walked out of the restaurant with a whopping seventy dollars in my pocket. That's thirty one week and forty the next. Forty dollars is hardly worth my time and effort of putting on the armor. I should be doing something else with my life. I should be out at the Ballpark taking notes so that I can get my recap article in before the paper goes to bed. Scratch that... I should be at the Ballpark prepping for my live report for SportsCenter, not slinging hash at a fucking restaurant. This industry has done well for me and, when I actually do get out of it, I plan to look back on it with fond memories.

Today, however, I have to go and pretend I actually like these people I wait on. I have to make them feel as though they are my world. I hate them. I don't even know them but I hate them. Not all of them. Most of them though. Last week I had a group come in and order some nice reserve wine and they let me pick their courses. When they got to dessert they were full but were willing to go with whatever I felt they would enjoy. On their way out of the door they asked my name again and promised to come back anytime as long as I could wait on them. Nice people... I liked them. They turned a slow night into a profitable night by tipping me fifty percent of their tab. Nice people.

So I make sure to put fresh candles in the candle holders. Is this what I should be doing? I mean, not to sound arrogant but tests have proved this, I have an IQ of 160. Should I really be stocking candle holders with fresh candles? Should I really be making coffee and tea? I don't feel good, damn it, but will I call in? Hell no. I don't call in. I haven't called in since I was a teenager. Why? Sense of duty. I don't want to let anyone down. Also, how can I call in when I only work four days a week. That would just be stupid. So I go about my opening duties. Make sure the tables look good. I say hello to Manny or Alahandra. I read the Observer as Josiah bumbles through opening the bar. Will he cut fruit today? I doubt it. Will his bar be ready to go by six o'clock? I doubt it. Will I get my drinks on time if we get busy? I seriously doubt it.

I wait for guests to exploit. That's right. Exploit. They don't really want appetizers AND salads. They order them because I tell them to. Maybe they should not have that fourth mojito but they do. Why? Because I tell them to. Sorry people but it is Wednesday. I have to milk you all for every penny I can get out of you tonight. So I do it. I do not feel bad for it. I read some more of the Observer while they eat. I wait for more guests. I think about things I should not think about, people I should not be thinking about, illogical fantasies that I should not be thinking about, and stupid ideas of stupid relationships that I should not be thinking about. This is my night because as soon as I think about it nine o'clock has come around. I count my money and leave the building. This hasty exit is usually reserved for Wednesday nights exclusively.

I'll drive to the Pub House and I'll order a Guinness. I'll sit next to John's girl Alicia as John readies to put on his show. I'll watch the door for people who I would like to see, but they never show up. I order another Guinness. John plays a set of a style of music that relaxes me and calms my nerves from the day. I keep looking for her to pop her head in the door. I order yet another Guinness. John sings Tyler in his Dave Matthews meets Ben Harper style and I think about how I am going home tonight. Alone. Just me, the dog, the TV, and a slight buzz. I order another Guinness and pretend nothing is wrong as I watch some other putz do a live spot from the Ballpark on SportsCenter. I take my leave from the barstool and walk to the head. I take a piss while thinking more on what I should not be thinking about. I wash my hands, say my goodnights, and head towards the Jeep.

I still feel like shit as I walk in the house. My head hurts and I am lonely. Why do I have to set my mind on just one thing? Why can't I just settle on something that isn't even that bad. It's just not what I want. At least I wouldn't be alone, right? Fuck that. I am too good not to have what I want. What I want, however, is what I shouldn't even be thinking about. So, as tired as I am, I stay up a few more hours watching Cosby, CNN, ESPN, the Magic Bullet, and, of course, Roseanne. Seriously, that show is always on. I'll go to sleep as soon as it is over. Tomorrow I will wake up and do it again.

Laying Under the Table and Dreaming.

I remember being five years old when the family would pack into whatever new car my father had that day and head over to my Aunt Carolyn's and Uncle Lou's house. We always called Uncle Lou "Bubba" but his most commonly used nickname is "Pop" these days. I guess grand children rule out nieces and nephews when it comes to these things. I would usually sit with my father and Bubba at the dining room table as they discussed politics, sports, and other inane bullshit that came to mind. They would get into heated arguments about who was better, Babe Ruth or Ty Cobb. Who was the better president? JFK or Reagan? Who was the worst? Nixon... Okay, you can't get worse than Nixon, but the current one is doing a damn good job trying to take the title.

After a few minutes of listening I would usually find myself bored with it. First I would sulk in the chair. Then I would slide out of the chair and on to the floor beneath the table. I would pull the toy car out of my pocket and roll it around as the men talked above me. Evening would turn into late night and sometimes late night would turn into early morning. Eventually, little me would not be able to keep his eyes open and I would sleep beneath that table. Beneath the two men trying to out bullshit each other into the small hours of the morning. As I fell asleep, I would listen and think that that would be someday.

My father died while I was in the midst of teenage angst and considered myself too cool for those late Saturday nights at Bubba's house. I never got the chance to join the two of them to consider maybe Mickey Mantle was better than either Babe or Ty. I never got the chance to tell them both that JFK was on his way to preserving the high standard of living America held itself to in the fifties. I never had the chance to discuss my junior year research paper focusing on the fall of the American standard directly related to the assassination of JFK. When I handed that paper in it was the fortieth time I was told, "Wow. You should do this for a living."

Though my father is gone, Bubba is still around. He no longer lives close by but I see him during the holidays. After everyone has had a turn at the long buffet of turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, green beans, and all the other holiday goodness, Bubba and I, almost on instinct, grab something to drink and a slice of pie and retire to the cold outside. Smoking is not allowed in the house. No matter. We never notice the cold as we discuss Babe, Ty, Mick, Nixon, JFK, and the other inane bullshit that comes to mind. We talk about what was the better movie, Tombstone or Wyatt Earp. While we disagree about Kevin Costner being a better Wyatt Earp than Kurt Russell, we both realize Val Kilmer IS Doc Holliday. We laugh about family members. We get angry about Iraq. We explain it all to my sixteen year old cousin, Ryan. He becomes bored with it and wanders back into the house, but he too will stay outside with us soon enough. This is what I thought about when I was five years old laying under the table and dreaming.

For the Girl Who Says I Never Blog for Her

Wasted Time

Well baby, there you stand
With your little head, down in your hand
Oh, my God, you can't believe
It's happening again
your baby's gone, and you're all alone
and it looks like the end.

And you're back out on the street.
And you're tryin' to remember.
How will you start it over?
You don't know if you can.
You don't care much for a stranger's touch,
but you can't hold your man.

You never thought you'd be alone
this far down the line
And I know what's been on your mind
You're afraid it's all been wasted time

The autumn leaves have got you thinking
about the first time that you fell
You didn't love the boy too much, no, no
you just loved the boy too well, farewell
So you live from day to day, and you dream
about tomorrow, oh.

And the hours go by like minutes
and the shadows come to stay
So you take a little something
to make them go away
And I could have done so many things, baby
If I could only stop my mind from wonderin' what
I left behind and from worrying 'bout this wasted time

Another love has come and gone
And the years keep rushing on
I remember what you told me
before you went out on your own:
"Sometimes to keep it together,
you got to leave it alone."

So you can get on with your search, baby,
and I can get on with mine
And maybe someday we will find,
that it wasn't really wasted time

Fuck yo couch, biotch!!!

In my recent perusing through the wonderful world of craigslist I have stumbled upon a scary yet all too common phenomenon. I know that different people have differing tastes but this is starting to be ridiculous. Who are these people, I wonder. Ad after ad I am subject to ugly furniture. I mean seriously. I want to go back to the day these people originally bought that horrible purple and pink floral couch with the high camel back and slap some sense in to them. Who goes to a furniture store and says, "Damn, that one over there with the wing backs and the big blue tulips would look great in our living room,"? I am sure Bill and Marge were just in awe of that plaid couch with the overstuffed pillows and way too many colors to count. Can't figure out what color to go with in your living room? Hell... pick them all. This thing looks like it was upholstered with a fat scot's kilt. I scroll down to an ad that reads: Beautiful leather sofa and love seat. I open the ad up and I see this billowing mess of back cushions and arm rests. It's hard to tell where the dimensions are on this thing. You could fall from a fifty story building and walk away injury free if only you landed on this terrible pathetic excuse for someone's style. What is wrong with these people?

While on the subject of craigslist ads. I would very much like to point out that it is WROUGHT iron not ROD iron. Okay? Also, that shiny thing that you look into in the mornings while combing your hair (I spend hours in front of mine admiring my greatness) is called a MIRROR... not a MIRROW. How did these people grow up, get a job, go through life without ever being corrected for these mistakes. Stupidity makes my head hurt.

Oh and just a little FYI for all you craigslisters out there. If one ad is selling a 32" tv for $125, why do you feel justified trying to sell yours for $300? Don't overcharge and people will buy your shit.

Funny how other people's stuff is shit and your shit is stuff. --- George Carlin

Official Motion Picture Soundtrack for A. J.'s Life

Opening Credits: Jamrock - Damien "Jr. Gong" Marley

Waking Up: Guerilla Radio - Rage Against the Machine

Falling In Love: Eye - Smashing Pumpkins

Fight Scene: After Midnight - Eric Clapton

Breaking Up: It's Been Awhile - Staind

Making Up: Home - Michael Bublé

Secret Love: I Want You to Want Me - Cheap Trick

Life's Okay: Peaches - The Presidents of the United States of America

Mental Breakdown: Perfect Day - Lou Reed

Driving: Where the Streets Have No Name - U2

Flashbacks: Lullaby for Kamila - Nigel Kennedy

Happy Dance: Blister in the Sun - Violent Femmes

Regretting: Creep(Radiohead) - Jeff Buckley

Long Night Alone: Wandering Star - Portishead

Final Battle: Tainted Love - Marilyn Manson

Ending Credits: Sexx Laws - Beck

Shave and a haircut... and noisy movie goers.

I need to shave. I do not mean that I have a slight shadow and feel the need to shave in order to conform to some work handbook on grooming habits. I am talking fur. Fuzz. Mountain man type stuff here. My face itches and I am starting to look less edgy and more hedgy. Add to this my current state of hair do. Too long? Not long enough? It's in that weird stage in the middle of those. A few weeks and I can style it a whole new way. Get it cut and go back to business as usual. Decisions, decisions.

Taking a break from my hair problems I decided to enjoy a movie. I have been waiting for Miami Vice to come out because, well, Sonny Crockett is a bad ass. I loved the show when I was a wee one and I always wanted to be Sonny. I won't say I was disappointed. I was not. However, they could have done a little more with it than they did. Oh well. Things got blown up, Sonny was a bad ass, and they drove fast cars. What more could you ask for. I even had the pleasure of the extracurricular live performance of some very talented comedians. Oh yeah. They pulled out classics like screaming, "Me love you long time," when Sonny would have an intimate moment with the Asian chick. Once they got original. I should have written it down. A guy was shot in the chest and his body flew back. These brilliants came up with, "You got knocked the FUCK out." I wish I would have come up with that one. I am still laughing my ass off. I had to get a look at these guys as they left the theater. I was anxious to see the young rascals. I was surprised to see they were not teens but, instead, a group of thirty-somethings. Seriously? You can't watch a movie in a theater full of adults without having to put up with this bullshit? I think I'll go shave now.

A more grown-up way to blog.

Yeah. This one will be short and to the point. Myspace kicks my nuts and sucks my will to live some times. I am going to blog here now. I am sure I will copy and paste some of them over there. So there you have it. The greatness that is me in one little blog.

AJ