you can see every drop of water...

twaterrific and cuntacular, thy name is clarence.

my manager, who's image is not visible in reflective surfaces, is beyond asshole. we have had to invent new words to describe his behavior.

and i have decided "it's all you, darth." is chinese for "how does my cock feel in your ass?"

i have, however, learned in two years of penal servitude in the pizza-delivery field that anal rapes hurt less if you don't fight them.

this is how a typical conversation betwixt myself and my benighted manager (with my cranial play-by-play in parentheses) might go:

"darth, you think you can take all three of those?" (the proposed triple is some evil concoction from the very dark depths of hell that will have me out of the store for at least an hour and probably wondering what the fuck happened to my tip average at the end of the night--but he's only asking to apease whatever miniscule and atrophied sense of guilt he might still have.)

i shrug and say, "meh." (i know, since the three orders are soon to go late in the computer, and i am the only driver in the store, he is going to give me all three, but i won't play along or feed into his need to be absolved of his stupidity and selfishness.)

"well, there ya go." (i also know, if this 40-year-old loser whose very existance revolves around the store we are currently occupying were more of a gambler, he could let one or two of the orders he has just given me go over a minute or two, and another driver would be back to take it. and as sure as shit, as i heft the bags of pizzas to my car, i will pass another one of the drivers in the parking lot, who will spend the next twenty to thirty minutes standing around trying to look busy while he waits for another customer to call.)

furthermore, my apparently psychic manager will keep me standing around myself, until past my time to be off, because he is sure "it is going to get busy." never, ever, have i seen his crystal ball, or tea leaves, or tickling anal hair be right. but that won't stop him from doing it yet again another night. and again. and again.

there is only one sure thing about work: the predictability of stupidity.

just two more days. and i am dying my hair blue to celebrate my new-found freedom.

darth sardonic

counting...

no. 1 was just chilling, and decided to start counting. he was doing great ( i think he might've missed 16) until he got to twenty:

"...twenty, twenty-onety, twenty-tuesday, twenty-seventeen--can i start over?"

of course you can, buddy, of course.

darth sardonic

i think this song was written specifically about me

i think millencolin musta gone to orting high and been one of my pals:

"The Ballad"

The last selection in the ballgame. Does never get a pass. "Not appreciated's" just his first name. He's the scapegoat of the class. There are no friends to cheer him up and no girls, no sweet romance. It's impossible to expand, when you never get a second chance. Do you know, who's that guy, who's all alone? Do you care enough to see? He's in pain and misery. He's not going to the school-prom. He said he had the flu. Trumped-up excuses he told his mom. -I'm safer here with you. She told her son. -Someday, they'll all be sorry for mistreating you. Don't be afraid my son and trust me. -You'll be someone they will look up to. Do you know, who's that guy, who's all alone? Do you care enough to see? He's in pain and misery... Do you care enough to see? Do you know, who's that guy, who's all alone? Do you care enough to see? He's in pain and misery.

till then.

darth sardonic

i can't believe...

so i was watching slc punk this morning while the kids were at school, that m was kind enough to loan me so i could burn it, and it is putting me in a weird mood.

i got to thinking about alot of things while i watched it: being a punk, utah, what i wanted, and still want, to do with my life, friends, family.

i became a punk not to rebel against anything, or buck the system, like stevo, but because the punks accepted me for who i was, exactly as i was. there was an intensity and familial closeness and, most importantly, an acceptance there that i had been missing.

while watching, i got a call from the school, and no. 1 is having a bad day. having trouble listening, pouting, chewing on his shirt. and i felt sad. cause clearly no. 1 is feeling the stress of my wife's impending deployment that we ourselves aren't even aware we are feeling.

"i'll have a talk with him when he gets home." i tell the teacher.

still watching the movie and thinking about things, and planning the big talk i need to have with my son, cause these are the things we do. regardless of what i was, or what i hoped to accomplish when i was, myself, a punk/goth in utah back in the 80's, today i am a dad.

and part of being a dad is helping your kids adjust, and overcome. and i think some more.

i think, i had no clue back then who i really was. i was on the precipice of discovering myself. and the punks and being a punk probably helped alot in that discovery.

i cycle between watching the movie, remembering and being nostalgic for those long-ago days, and planning what i should say to my son.

as i do all this, it occurs to me again that i really don't want to go back to those times, or any others in my life.

i am happy, right here, right now.

sure, there are some things i would love to change. i would love to be more toned, and less tubby. i'd love to have our bills paid off. i'd love my knee to quit aching all the time.

but my happiness is not based on any of these things. i was fucking miserable when i was 18 and a punk and in utah. mainly, because i didn't know who i was, and what i wanted for myself.

and i watch stevo fight this same battle with himself via the advance of technology and some clever creativity on the part of writers and cameramen. and i am glad i am past it.

then the bus pulls up, and i cut the movie short (which is good, cause the part with heroin bob at the end always makes me cry--cause, ultimately, i am silly), and i pull no. 1 aside, and in light of the weird emotional morning i suddenly find myself having, the only things i feel i need to say to him are:

"you know i love you, buddy? and mommy loves you? and that i am always proud of you, no matter what?"

cause, quite suddenly, all the rest of the things i was going to say just weren't important.

the only thing that mattered suddenly was that he knew he is loved, and that i am always proud of him, even when it feels like he is fucking up.

darth sardonic

i snuck in your bedroom to steal some change for booze...

it occurs to me, as i reread yesterday's (yawn!) post that i seem to have survived quite a number of blogs. people just seem to quit writing. out of my pals, only mother hoodlum and lola were writing when i started. everyone seems to have lost interest or moved on to other things.

here's the deal though, i need need need to write. if i didn't have this, i would have a notebook or some other pen/paper form of capturing the goings-on in my cabeza. (actually, i still do have numerous "diaries" despite this easy-to-use grain of sand on the beaches of the world wide web.)

my time at the inner circle of pizza joint hell is drawing to a close. two more weeks, and i am all but marking each day off on the calendar.

i may have invented my own drink. i had some friends research whether they could find a recipe for anything like this: i like the tom collins, and liked the gibson idea, so i combined them. make a gibson (1&1/2 oz. of gin, 1 oz. dry vermouth, twist of lime, cocktail onion) and add tom collins mix. yummeeeeeeeee. i call it a tom gibson. can't for the life of me imagine that no one has already thought of (and patented) this idea, but not as far as my friends can see. by all means, if you know different, send me a comment. (looks in comment box, hears crickets chirping, wind blowing, and sees layer upon layer of dust and cobwebs.)

some time ago, when i was playing with the band in our basement, and we were playing the song we simply referred to as "the angry song" (it should come as no surprise that is was a simple, yet extremely noisy punk song) wherein i would ofttimes punch (yes, punch) my bass strings for an even greater cacophany of sound, usually, it should be noted, with the fleshy and resilient heel of my hand, i made a grave miscalculation and punched the strings instead with my actual fist, and split the joint of my middle finger, bleeding quite a bit and no doubt smashing tendons and ligaments and growth plates and things of that nature within. i believe i probably uttered filth and foulness in at least two languages, followed by continuing to play for many more minutes (there are still blood stains on parts of my bass--of course, i am a bit slack about cleaning and polishing the poor thing.)

recently, i was playing the same bass, in front of the computer (recording) and somehow or other wracked this same knuckle upon the corner of the desk.

it lit me up like a firecracker.

i did the same lip-biting-hopping-bent-over-(why is it we bend over at the waist when injured, regardless of what part of us is experiencing pain?)-holding-my-hand-as-if-it-is-attempting-to-seccede dance i did on that night some time ago, and i am sure i repeated the same incantation involving much use of "fuck" and "cunt" and "joda" and "puta".

this would, in and of itself, be a mildly amusing story, except that a day later, i knocked a front door and managed to use this exact same finger joint. stoicly, though coated in a thin layer of perspiration, i managed to do the dance and incantation on the inside, lest the owner of the home open the door to discover their pizza delivery guy in the midst of groveling, crying, and cursing, until i could abscond to the semiprivacy of my car, where i observed a rusty-brown stain spreading under the skin of my middle finger.

lots of motrin and babying, and it is ok as long as i don't bump it on anything, but god damn! am i hard on my body.

paw.

darth sardonic

a bit of the nuts-and-bolts stuff that holds us together...

sorcha is no longer writing, and i can only vaguely remember how she came to be in my pals list to begin with, so i am going to delete her.

i'll hang onto lady sartre a bit longer as she did this before. she seems to be a bit of a summer writer.

anne is only still around cause she is indeed a real-world dear friend, and i understand that she gets excited for a project and then cools. it is possible she might return soon. or never. who knows? who cares?

got together with the new guy to jam on some hendrix and beatles and cream. it was lots of fun. i need to do a bit more personal practicing before we get together again, but i am sure that we will.

have been recording some music, but have been brought to a screeching halt by the fact that my acoustic guitar seems to be parting out on me. i am beyond aggravated by this, because it is a good guitar, and i love it, but it seems incapable of withstanding the pressure exerted by the slightly thicker strings i have put on it. until i either get it fixed or replaced, my home-recording stuff might be on hold (the jezebel acoustic factors greatly into most of the projects i am currently working on).

which makes me wonder why seemingly inanimate objects seem to take a sick pleasure in not functioning properly when i am around. want your computer to go on the fritz? sit me near it. want a car door to quit opening? sell me the car. and while not expensive, certainly not cheap either, a perfectly good acoustic begins to disintegrate before my very eyes as i pluck a song out on its strings.

we recently watched stranger than fiction, which was an incredible movie and everyone should rush out to see it. well, err, rent it, i mean.

but it made me think about stories i have written and the characters i have created. excepting the current magnum crappus, the vast majority of what i have written was straight from the inner confines of my often twisted imagination. also, much of it was in the form of short stories. looking back, i didn't deign to give most of my characters names beyong her, or him, and did little to flesh out their personalities. nearly all are dead by the end of the story, most often at their own hand, and usually so that the world might be a better place (yes, i absolutely loved donnie darko--yes, i am most assuredly a sick fucker--no, i am not seeking help).

so i guess i am safe from someone other than the real people upon whom characters in the current magnum crappus are based ever coming up to me and saying "i am the character in your story."

because the conversation might go something like this:

"are you darth sardonic?"

"yes. why?"

"i'm, umm. well, what i mean to say is..."

(me standing there, head cocked, eyebrow on full tilt, quizzical and amused smirk on alert.)

"that is to say, i'm him."

"him?"

"him."

"weird little goth-metal band from sweden, him?"

"no, you fucking idiot. him. the him from your story that goes off into the desert and slashes his wrists so that flowers bloom [this is an actual story i wrote, i believe my freshman year in college. i need to reread it, but i believe i didn't give the main character a name, but i gave his friend a single name, like smith. he does, indeed, go into the middle of the desert and slash his wrists and his last vision is of gorgeous roses blooming and spreading across the sands]."

"and? it's not a bad way to go. you make a desert bloom roses."

"well, that actually does appeal to me alot."

"of course it does, cause i didn't bother to give you any more of a personality than that."

"ah. well, which desert?"

"shit, i don't know. pick one you think would look good as a rose garden."

"hmmm. ok. thanks."

"anytime."

so it would seem to me that overall, i have been quite lackadaisical towards the characters i have created. do i feel bad?

nah, they'll be alright.

darth sardonic

life is funny, and odd, and never ceases surprising...

remember how i said the saga of the door latch wasn't ended? boy, was i ever right. the door locked up on me again at the start of the shift last night, and i was forced to either dukes-of-hazard my way in and out or drag my 6'1" frame across the e brake and gearshift all night long.

needless to say, i am done. there are no shortage of interested parties, even though the driver's side door won't open, and it is time to move on. hopefully, we can find something just as cool that won't give me as much trouble.

the days are lengthening, and god damn, am i ready. when i get the kids on the bus early in the morning, it is light, and when i leave for work later in the evening, it is light. today, it was beautifully sunny, and the kids wanted to try out the new skateboard i had purchased earlier, so we spent a good hour outside (it would've been longer, but the boyos also had dental appointments today) discovering that no. 1 thought it was gonna be more like the video game, that he would just hop on the board and begin pulling methods, and dorky slugbutts, and sick 50/50 rail kiss-front plant god-knows-whats. he found out it was a whole lot more than that. not sure he is gonna take up skateboarding like i thought.

no. 2, on the other hand, just cried and cried cause i told him he couldn't go back into the tinieblas (funny, the english word for that just completely escapes me at this moment) to ride the skateboard some more. as it turns out, the kid with the balance problems is also the most likely to be the next tony hawk and continue to give me the lifestyle to which i wish i had grown accustomed.

while working on the-soon-to-not-be my car, i dented the part of my wedding ring that went on the underside of my finger, and in trying to straighten it, i cracked it. oh my god, was i dancing around like a madman. i never was much of a jewelry kinda fella, but when i saw that wedding ring, i knew it was the one. well, it turns out that i have to retire it at least until i can fix it and will it to one of the boys to have as a family heirloom.

but i have already purchased a tungsten ring with a celtic pattern engraved into it, and i'm pretty pleased about that. in the meantime, my entire hand feels incredibly underdressed.

oh, yeah, twilight, that's it.

darth sardonic

o, that this too too solid flesh would melt...

i may have misquoted that a bit, just too lazy to do my research.

we've added another body to our house. we now have two cats slinking about, though i will be the first to say that pele is much more friendly and fun to be around than pepper.

he's finally quit taking her shit, and stalks and hunts and beats her, as opposed to the other way around. give it a few more days, and they will be adhesive mates.

little else going on in the world of the sardonics. some days just sort of blend, and we've had a string of those adjacently the past few weeks.

i have found other persons with which to jam, and we'll see how that goes, sposed to get together with one of em tomorrow evening.

hopefully soon, i will have something exciting, or a tidbit of witticism, or something more interesting than a couple lines about the new cat.

heh heh.

darth sardonic