Sunday, December 6, 2009

Sunday's Best ... (Okay - Sunday's Dreck)

The first snowfall of the year here in Philly - really, more a sleet/snow mix. It was quite lovely to look at and thoroughly miserable to be out in. So I did more of the former and avoided the latter (easy to do when you're stuck working all day, as I was Saturday in an effort to prepare for the upcoming week off). But work is now done and I can turn my attention to more pressing matters. Whatever they might be. I'm sure I have some. Maybe not.

The hard physics problem I was grappling with yesterday while trying to juggle work and a football game? How to reach into the television with my jumper cables and attach them to the testes of the nitwits calling the SEC title game.

I was in an especially dark mood but I think with these clowns even Rachael Ray would be screaming "god damn babbling, yammering morons with special needs turrets - shut the fuck up or drop dead!" Or something to that effect. Then again, maybe that's her modus operandi whenever she's planted in front of the tube.  Folks with sunshine beams flying out of their asses 'round the clock are always suspect in my book.

But I'm meandering off track, as I'm wont to do.  Perhaps in a desperate attempt to hide the fact that I got nothing "on track".  I'm exhausted from the madness of the week's corporate chaos - mentally drained and in no shape to wax poetic on life's amusing follies.

Now it's Sunday and I'm listening to more brain-dead motor mouths calling the pro games.  Cables clamped on car battery, other end clamped to your testes, then I climb behind the wheel and rev the engine.  Call that play, dickhead. Verbal diarrhea in need of binding.  Eat some cheese, shitheads.

Clicking around the dial I see on Pay Per View "Jerry Springer/Big-Breasted".  Hmm.  Springer *and* breasts?  Intriguing. Tell me more.  Well, for just 9.99, you can see Jerry "shine the spotlight on the most-magnificent mammaries ever to grace his studio in this titillating collection of clips."  Clearly for the most discriminating tastes only.  Personally, I think that selecting "buy" for this fine selection should trigger an alarm in the local firehouse, followed shortly thereafter by the arrival of a fire-engine full of bruisers  at your doorstep, there to kick the living shit out of you (they'll first allow you to pull your pants back up, if you're lucky).

Boy, I'm really filled with vitriol this weekend.  That's not such a bad thing.  Vitriol - it does a body good.  Maybe it's all the coffee I've been slugging down.  Too much caffeine with me leads to bad skin and a pissy mood.   I should probably go for a run or something.  Get my frustrations out.  Fucking Michael Vick scores a touchdown in Atlanta.  And the crowd is filled with people cheering him.  A plague on all their houses.  I'm definitely going for a run.

Okay, this post is way too long for such drivel.  Perhaps I'll be inspired later.  A run with Dylan on the iPod might do it.  No, I need more anger.  Black Flag, perhaps.  Rage Against the Machine, maybe.

Until then, I apologize for any of you who've made it this far.  They're not all this bad.  Not all of them.  

I've started five books in the past month and have no desire to finish any of them.  I need to get my hooks into something really interesting as my A.D.D grows more severe with age.  Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem is the one next on my list.  Perhaps that will do the trick.  Meanwhile, after the run, I think I'll re-read Ginsberg's Howl, just for the fuck of it (it's one of my coffee table books that isn't about coffee tables).  That will also help dissipate some righteous indignation percolating through my psyche.  Just trying to find the release valves where ever they might be before it all erupts (usually on undeserving innocent bystanders for all the wrong reasons).

And so I'm off into the chilly late Autumn afternoon to slap shoe to pavement and drag my frustration along for the ride (hopefully, I can give it the slip in the bargain).