Project control, while a fairly new field in the business world, has all of the excitement of a Discovery Channel marathon on the Pennsylvania Dutch.

It was with this in mind that I dozed off today reading a three-inch binder (stuffed with double-sided pages) detailing my company's project control processes.

Welcome to my new job!

Seriously - I spent the first 10 minutes or so after waking up this morning sitting on the edge of the tub with the biggest case of the nerves I've had since the hour before my wedding. I mean, throwing up nerves.

Fortunately, they are easing me into the position, which has its low points (inadvertent naptime, as detailed above) and its high points (the fact that I have plenty of time to stock up on anxiety medication to deal with the inevitable case of overwhelm that will set in in about a week's time, when I start working on my projects. With a net, thankfully, else I'd lose my mind).

Oh well. I think I'll get the hang of it. My immediate supervisor threw a lot at me on my first day (yesterday), painting the scene with broad strokes from a palette of many colors, making me wonder what exactly it is I've stepped into. I'd still appreciate a prayer or three, though, if you're into that sort of thing.

A person needs to eventually leave his comfort zone. I've had front-desk/CSR-type jobs almost all my working life - not because I love working with the public (I'd be much more of a people person if it weren't for people), but because that was really all that my employers and I would deem me qualified for, having only a high school diploma to my credit up until about two years ago. And I could have easily went for another admin assistant/personal bitch-type of job, and I considered it, because I'm still not certain I'm qualified for what I'm doing now.

Hopefully in about 20 years, I'll look back when I'm the president of my company and say, "I worked at the front desk till I was 32 years old." And, if I'm drunk when I say it, I'll add, "And that's 14 years of my life I'll never get back."

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Now playing: The Olivia Tremor Control - A Place We Have Been To
via FoxyTunes

Don't look now, but are those the Cardinals just two games back in the NL Central?

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Now playing: The Olivia Tremor Control - The Opera House
via FoxyTunes

Here's one I didn't see coming, because it's been about 8 years since I first heard it and wasn't particularly moved by it in the interim, save for one part that I'll detail in a moment:

The Olivia Tremor Control's "The Sylvan Screen" - one excellent song.

It's not that surprising, really, because once you take out all of the ambient dreamy non-structured sound collages that would bridge the beginnings and ends of their two albums, their proper songs were the stuff of legend - errrr, they would have been had more people than me and The Captain heard them.

But "The Sylvan Screen" just snuck up on me tonight in a moment of weakness. The theremin, the little banjo bit, and of course, the part that blew me away upon my very first listen, the Beach Boys-esque a cappella part at the end of the track. Gorgeous. (And not just in a "she's pretty in the face" kind of way.)

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Now playing: The Olivia Tremor Control - Mystery
via FoxyTunes

Momentum Gaining.

As you know, I've already had my funeral, and the nice things were said there about me, and still I haven't ascended (or descended) to the next stage.

Will it end tomorrow? It could! There are still various things to get set up for New Person, but she's about 70% functional, which may or may not be plenty good enough to suit everyone's purposes.

There comes a point when you just have to cut the cord, you have to break away and say, "I'm sorry, it's just not my business anymore, and I've got other things I need to get to at a higher rate of pay." And maybe tomorrow will be that day. In fact, I'm almost counting on it. (Which means it won't happen!)

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Now playing: The Olivia Tremor Control - Hideway
via FoxyTunes

Three classic Doom quotes to wrap up my time under his purview:

"That's water under the park."

"You're jerking my bell."

"Want my 25 cents' worth?"

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Now playing: The Olivia Tremor Control - The Sylvan Screen
via FoxyTunes

If you like to eat, thank a farmer.

A four-hour drive to the northwest on Saturday found Your Humble Correspondent and his immediate and extended family at the airfield in the sleepy little burg of Rantoul, Illinois, for "A Half-Century of Progress," an annual antique farm machinery show that should not be confused with the annual Farm Progress Show.

Farming ain't my scene, man, but I don't spend enough time with the in-laws, and besides, how could I pass up a learning opportunity for my son when my admission was paid for? It got us all out of the house, and besides, all of the grandkids were in a separate vehicle with their grandma and grandpa, while all of the adults were in the party truck.

****

Funniest moment of the trip came before we even hit Rantoul, when my wife was talking about someone on her side of the family who is particularly reviled thanks to her actions during my wife's grandma's illness and death several years back. To illustrate the level of her antipathy toward this relative, my wife said, "I don't care – if she was stuck in a blizzard and her car was on fire and she didn't have any clothes, I wouldn't –"


I stopped her. "Wait a second. You've got to tell me –"

and by this time, I was laughing so hard I was crying –

"… you've got to tell me … no, wait! … you've got to tell me --"

(still laughing)

"-- by … by what possible chain of events could this scenario possibly take place? One – she is stranded in her car in a blizzard. OK, that's feasible - but then – somehow – her car catches fire. And" – by this time, I can't speak – "and – she is naked???"

And really, I did want to know, because it sounded so absurd, but she claims she meant "coat" instead of "clothes."

"Would you rather I said 'I wouldn't piss on her if she were on fire?'" she demanded to know.

No!

****

Naturally, I took pics of the event. Everything was generally in John Deere green or International Harvester red - people go bonkers over their John Deeres; there are collector's clubs and everything, like for Corvettes and whatnot - but I did catch some non-Deere or IH opportunities for pictures. (I did learn during the course of the day my father-in-law's vehement - vehement! - anti-John Deere bias. I think he even had me convinced by the end of the day, and I don't even farm!)

Anyway, some of the pics were even worth posting.

I hope I'm looking that good when I'm 86. Why?

Cause I'm gonna keep on loving you! And I can't fight this feeling anymore!

(what, too obvious?)

Walking to school 30 miles uphill to one direction in the blinding snow (especially if your car is on fire and you have no clothes) might have been preferable to riding in this 1923 school bus. Rosa Parks probably could have had any seat she wanted on it.

(Which brings me to a separate point. When I was a kid, I never could understand how the entire civil rights movement exploded with Rosa Parks' protest on that bus in Alabama, and I'll tell you why. They told her to get to the back of the bus because she was black, and as far as I was concerned, the cool kids sat in the back of the bus. So what was the big deal?)

(Before I receive hate mail, remember: I was 10!)

This tractor was used at the front to kill that damn Hitler. (Not really.)

Just off the far airstrip was, apparently, "3000 Years of Amish Progress." (I couldn't get them all in the shot because I was too damn lazy to get up out of my seat, but the noteworthy thing about this was that they had 48 horses hooked up to the wagon.)

I've bitched about the Amish in this space before, and here's one of the reasons. No phones in their houses! No electricity! But, apparently, the Lord saith not anything about ...

(Please, no flash photography!)

(A funny note about that one: After the Amish horse demonstration, people are milling about - kind of like in that picture - and we're getting ready to make the two-mile trip back to the front gate, and it's gotten generally quiet on the wagon I was on, when my father-in-law yells - yes, literally yells - "Hey, Brandon! Look! An Amish with a cell phone! Take a picture!"

(So I did!)

At long last, we're finally on the wagon and chugging (or, as I originally typed there, "choogling" because I guess CCR is playing in my subconscious) to the front gates, and my ears and back of my neck are sunburned, and I'm tired and cranky and ready to drink beer in the party truck on the way home - when we decide to stop to watch a demonstration of 60-year-old tractors plowing in a straight line. (One at a friggin' time.)

Here is my reaction to this revoltin' development. (from my point of view):

A fitting epitaph to the trip:

I'm still not sure of its significance.

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Now playing: Portishead - Glory Box
via FoxyTunes

How can I miss you if you won't go away?

I don't know what "limbo" or "purgatory" is like, but if they're anything close to what my last couple of days at work have been like, then they'll be ... well, not unpleasant, per se, but just a little uncomfortable.

Had my going-away party at work on Thursday morning. So, I worked all Thursday after the party, and after reading all of the wonderful things people put in my card - and they were truly wonderful, and I was touched to my core - and the very nice gift they gave me ... and worked all of today .... and I've got my goodbyes all ready to go in my head, figuring out what I'm going to say to everyone individually .... but .... for now, I'm still there. And will still be through at least Monday morning.

Sigh.

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Now playing: Sloan - Your Dreams Have Come True
via FoxyTunes

Catspotting.

Smoking out on the sidewalk on Saturday afternoon, I spied something in the corner of my eye slinking behind the garage toward the back 40. It was a large cat, bigger than your standard-issue house cat, a dark brown or black in color. This last fact likely rules out that it's a bobcat, since bobcats are more .... I think my dad used the word "tawny" ... in color. Still, it looked like it was about 25 pounds or so, and could do some damage if rabid or otherwise threatened.

(Bramble Tamble Fun Fact, courtesy of Father of Bramble Tamble: Bobcats are very secretive creatures. You could have one in your spare bedroom for years and not even know it.

(This explains a lot of the mess in my house.)

Sunday night, I was smoking again, and I tripped over one of Son's toys, making a bit of a noise. Over on the other side of the vehicles, the cat goes sprinting back to the carport, so graceful and quick. I wonder if he's made a home underneath the shed that's attached to the carport.

Come to think of it, I haven't seen any rabbits for a few days.

It's probably just a feral cat, really, though feral cats are usually a lot skinnier because of a general lack of nourishment, but ... it's just weird when different animals move in. Especially when it's an animal that could threaten your son's safety. "Here, kitty kitty," I can hear him saying now.

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Now playing: Sloan - I Can Feel It
via FoxyTunes

One of my guilty pleasures is The Weather Channel's hurricane coverage. I don't like to wish ill upon anyone, don't get me wrong - I hope that whoever is in the path of a major hurricane hunkers down and stays safe, for real - but I love hurricane season.

More specifically, I love that Jim Cantore draws the short straw every year and ends up standing out in 120 mph winds hanging on to whatever lamp post or park bench he can, getting pounded by blinding rain and palm leaves.

I wouldn't do it, that's for damn sure.

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Now playing: Sloan - Deeper Than Beauty
via FoxyTunes

So I'm training New Person today. And - boy, this isn't getting old or nothing - Doom comes up to my desk and says, "Traitor." (You know, for leaving.)

Staring straightforward at my computer screen, without missing a beat, I said, "Asshole who doesn't pay me enough."

And, yeah, he was kidding, and no, I wasn't, but you know.

In my waning days in this position, I've found that I've lost my sense of tact. Why do I have a feeling that my mouth is, all of a sudden, going to get me in trouble?

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Now playing: Sloan - Penpals
via FoxyTunes

As mentioned previously, I had a Bollywood music video collection foisted upon me by Sandals last week. The thing was 4 hours long - there were 50 songs on it, all of which were musical numbers from various Bollywood films, and it was, by and large, incomprehensible thanks to the language barrier. I picked up on some common themes, though.

There was a bunch of this heavily choreographed stuff:


... a healthy sampling of this twirly shit ...


... and an alarming sense that the next flu epidemic would start because a woman in the Himalayas doesn't know how to cover up to keep from catching cold.

Also, the subtitles told me about the below conversation:


"I believe that there is also a very prestigious business school at Berkeley, where a graduate can start out making $80,000 a year at an entry-level position. And then there's Northwestern, and of course, Indiana, and what school was it you graduated from again?"

(yes, that jacket says, "L.A. Gear, hi energy wear all around the world."

(and yes, *that* says "Pyaar Diwana Hota Hai pyaar diwana hota ..." Roughly translated, this means, "There were two types of chicken at my daughter's wedding, and it cost so much that I had to get the next thing down from a Members Only jacket.")

I'll admit. Some of it was - gasp - sexy. If only they had been in English.

The screengrabs above were from the first 10 videos. I graciously overestimated to Sandals that I watched about half of it because I'm a lying, duplicitous fuck.

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Now playing: Sloan - Snowsuit Sound
via FoxyTunes

The below post is redacted. I'll be blogging sooner rather than later.

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Now playing: Sloan - Can't You Figure It Out?
via FoxyTunes

I am going to step away from here for a few days, I think. This writer's block is crushing, I'm exhausted on all levels, and I'm not going to blog just for the sake of blogging.

Be back soon.

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Now playing: Sloan - Bells On
via FoxyTunes

Today was the day I went from 0-to-asshole in about 7 seconds. Sometimes I have a bit of a temper, but coming unglued so quickly today set records.

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Now playing: Sloan - Take Good Care of the Poor Boy
via FoxyTunes

I got a going-away gift from Sandals today (except I have to give it back to him on Monday).

Since I apparently enjoyed Bollywood/Hollywood so much, he brought in for my pleasure - oh my God, are you ready for this? - a DVD that has nothing but musical numbers from Bollywood movies.

(Because lying gets you nowhere!)

I smell some Sunday night liveblogging. Please join me.

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Now playing: Sloan - Don't You Believe a Word
via FoxyTunes

Bramble Tamble Fun Fact: There is no truth to the urban legend that they call it PMS because "mad cow disease" was already taken.

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Now playing: Sloan - Last Time in Love
via FoxyTunes

One more postscript from the storm today: The biggest tragedy wasn't the clustering of the tree. The true tragedy of the whole deal was this:


At least this is fixable!

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Now playing: Sloan - A Long Time Coming
via FoxyTunes

This cursed writer's block leads me to write about my day.

Started training New Person at work today. She seems like she's pretty sharp, and I think that I'll be able to get out of there on the 24th as originally planned, if her paperwork goes through by then. I'm not much of a trainer, though - I'm awful at delegating, and I'm awful at talking about what to do; I'm a little more of a "doer" in that regard, and I need to just let go and let her do the things that I'd been doing for so long, holding her hand till she gets it right (figuratively speaking, of course). I'm always afraid of running into a situation where I'll ask someone what to do, and I'll get a "Where do you get off asking me to do that? You ain't shit!" I guess giving three years of my life to that place ought to give me a little bit of gravitas in the eyes of a noob, but ... I guess it goes back to that blasted self-esteem crap.

I think that the pictures in the below post don't really do justice to what today's storm did to that gorgeous old tree that stood just outside of the kitchen. I'm no tree-hugger, by any stretch of the imagination - trees make some pretty damn fine wood, really - but I'm truly saddened by the damage done to it. The view coming up the road toward the house has lost a little bit of its symmetry.

It's still standing, and my amateur opinion says that I think it'll live, but it is an old, old tree. And that's what happens to big ol' maple trees - they get to be so big that they start to rot a bit on the inside. I'm still fairly certain that it was lightning that took a big hunk out of it, though, and not the 60-70 mph winds that accompanied the storm. Serves me right, I guess, for wishing for a good solid storm to roll through.

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Now playing: Belle & Sebastian - Funny Little Frog
via FoxyTunes

after the storm.

Before.


After.


Sigh.

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Now playing: Toadies - Pressed Against the Sky
via FoxyTunes

I. Set In Motion

It's been 10 years since my creative peak. At that time, I had just recorded a set of songs on a four-track and handed them out to friends and other local musicians, mostly to apathy, but I was still proud of them and, to this day, listen to them every now and again. I laugh at the warts and mistakes and general shoddy musicianship on them. Voluptuosity had its flaws, but there were moments when it felt like a real record with real songs and everything.

To that end, I'm going to try some creative writing. My songwriting is tapped out, so I turn to the only other thing I know how to do with my mind.

The below and subsequent installments (if any will exist, and several friends can attest to how awesome I am at first chapters, only to peter out starting around chapter 2) is an attempt to re-tap that creative vein that had long lay dormant. Any resemblance to actual people or events is purely coincidental, for the most part.

I don't know the destination; I just feel the need to embark on the journey.



I. Set In Motion

It was dinnertime when my phone vibrated with the proclamation of a new text message. She said she wanted a divorce.

Most certainly, this wasn’t the way I was looking for the weekend to end. And in my self-centered worldview, I can't say I was expecting it. She had given all of the warning signs, saying things like "when I get my divorce" and "when I'm single" and whatnot. I had figured her to be blowing off steam instead of meaning it. But, just like everything else she had ever told me, she was true to her word; I don't know why I expected any different.

I excused myself and stepped away to the restroom. "K - Do what you need to do," I hastily tapped out on my phone, then did my business while I was in there and washed up.

I never was any good in situations like this, always failing to strike the proper balance between unqualified support and flat indifference. In my defense, I didn't figure this to be the proper time to be passionate. The last thing she needed was to have me shadowing her, suffocating her. I loved and respected her too much to cling to her.

Still, I regretted my words as soon as I hit "send," knowing in my heart that the sentiment I conveyed was exactly the incorrect note to hit at this time. She had fallen in love with my ardor, and here I was, in her time of most dire need, being the polar opposite, being aloof.

Being the very thing I despised the most in a love relationship.

What an ass I am.

Really, it's not that I haven't been at least secretly rooting for a divorce, but deep down, I had hoped for the marriage to work out. And not just for me, as this announcement (like announcements of this type tend to do) changed in a moment the dynamic of our relationship.

Honest: I wanted it to work out for her also, just because it had worked out for so long – true happiness be damned - and I died a little bit inside when I would think of the possibility of her starting over. Starting over without me? Yeah, that might have been gnawing in the back of my head also.

Throughout my 11 years of marriage to Cindy, we'd weathered any number of storms that might have sunk a lesser couple, from my alcoholism and infidelities to her health issues and our career changes, emerging stronger once we were in calm waters again. She was cancer-free now – five years last month! - and my cheating days, which ran concurrent, were as small in the rearview.

My drinking days, however, were again becoming increasingly common.

The reaffirmation of our love wasn't the cure-all I'd hoped it would be. With the threat of her loss now diminished – her oncologist has said every year since that she would outlive me – my feelings each passing day ebbed. (I did learn, however, that jibing "Is that a promise or a threat?" wasn’t good form.)

It saddened me a bit, though, that the little things that our forbears would soldier through – my leaving the lights on indiscriminately, her leaving towels on the bathroom floor, the fact that neither of us could fully agree on a proper thermostat setting - were combining to tear us asunder. I've seen marriages last for decades on less - on nothing more than the fact that they honored their vows in those days.

Yet, with a single vibration of my phone, our endgame was set in motion.

I took a deep breath and returned to our table. "Everything OK?" she asked me.

"Of course," I reassured her. "How's your tilapia?"

"Underdone," Cindy replied. I can't say I really heard her. My mind was with Katherine, as it tended to be most nights anymore.

I said in this space over a year ago:

I tend to think that the Great Outdoors would be a whole lot better if they were inside.

This still holds true, some 16 months later. My reactions are a little less violent these days when forced to go outside, but it's more of a quiet resignation than an actual enjoyment of everything the outdoors have to offer, especially when it's only dropping down to 70 at night. I still made the most of it this year, planting flowers for the first time and whatnot, and that was fairly rewarding until the recent heatwave crippled my sunflowers. (My peppers are still hanging on, though.) And sunflowers are ass-ugly when they start to wilt.

Saturday night, my brother-in-law asked Wife and I if we wanted to come to the local lake where he was camping and cooking out. He had his boys and a niece and nephew with him, so we figured it'd be a good time to take Son with us to see and play with his cousins.

And it was a good time,for all involved, especially the part where I had one of those folding fishing chairs with the two cup holders and the feet with a cooler full of cheap, domestic beer sitting alongside. Cause, you know, I like my beer like I like my women.

Son did drag me out into the woods once, following his cousins, and I really thought I was too drunk to make that 50 foot climb straight up carrying one of his cousins' bikes up with me, but I'll be damned if I didn't make it without busting my ass.

So, the night ended well, though Son was a little cranky by the end of the night because he's afraid of the dark. The aftermath, however, was that my wife had such a great time that she's got these plans to buy a tent and some other camping supplies, since the lake and campground is only about 3 miles away. I guess she's going to make an outdoorsman out of me yet. Wish me well, and buy stock in any product that has DEET in it, since I'll probably be using a lot of it in the coming months and years.

A classic from The Onion, appropriate given my short time in my current position.

Some other classic Onion articles that have made me laugh until I cried:

Fun Toy Banned Because Of Three Stupid Dead Kids

Area Man Goes And Gets Himself Hit By A Goddamn Bus

Spoiled, Doughy Brat Makes Local Parent Feel Spiritually Whole

Eight-Pound Man Removed From Woman's Vagina

Dolphins Evolve Opposable Thumbs

About killed a passel of Amish this morning; not sure it would have been my fault.

While taking Son to daycare, I came up on a horse and buggy very quickly. Had plenty of warning - it wasn't like I just cleared a hill and screamed, "Oh, shit! Amish!" Traffic was clear from the opposite direction, so I slowed only a bit (to about 50) before flying around them on the left. Only problem was, they started drifting across to the left also; they were apparently getting ready to turn in to a driveway, given what I saw in my rearview after I flew around. I leaned on the brakes pretty heavy; by the time I got alongside them and around, they were in the middle of the road.

(I don't hate the Amish, per se - you can't hate the Amish anymore than you hate SpongeBob - but I do have a bit of Amish fatigue after having been back here for almost six years. You can't throw a dead cat around here without hitting an Authentic Amish Home Cooking Restauarant, all serving the same bland Authentic Amish Home Cooked Meals. And there are suckers who will drive from miles around for it. It's silly. I'm a big fan of home-cooked meals ... at home. Your mileage may vary, though.

(Plus, I think that people are terribly misguided by the notion that they are these quaint, generous, kind countryfolk. I know, I know: "anecdote" does not equal "data", but I've heard from one trusted source that if you're doing business with them, beware: they will squeeze every last dollar out of you.

(Pious, my ass.)

Anyway, we all lived through this morning, and the driver of the buggy was not rumored to shout "Damn thee!" at the red blur that flew past.

Son: "Wow! Horsie!"

If you work with me, don't read this. It's a secret.

I haven't figured out if it's a good thing or not, though my vote is tending toward "this won't end well."

People at work have discovered Bramble Tamble, because I told a couple of trusted confidantes about it. The way that it came about is that some folks were discussing how all of their experiences with Doom should be compiled into a book form, because his ineptitude and idiocy both need to be immortalized.

Naturally, I spoke about writing about some of my own experiences, not only with him, but with other folks who work there; one thing led to another, and now I have random people coming up to me telling me one of two things:

1) "Oh my God, you are so funny" (read: "Oh my God, you are not funny.");
2) "I've been trying to find where you mention me."

Bramble Tamble is the closest that I will ever come to writing a tell-all book about my life, so that second quote is kind of cool - I can imagine people thumbing through the pages of a book trying to find mentions of them (especially since I don't use real names here). Warms the cockles, I guess.

Still, it can't end well. Mrs. Redenbacher said something to me yesterday about how it's inevitable that people will end up talking about it at the wrong times, and Doom will eventually find out about it and want to know the address. And that's probably true, although I can't imagine that he knows his internet from any particular hole in the ground.

Dubble Bubble loses its flavor after about 42 seconds, and the comics that come with it are about as funny as "The Bill Engvall Show," and sometimes it tastes like you're chewing the original batch from 1928, and even though the gum still touts itself as "America's Original," it is manufactured in Ontario, but you wanna know why it's still my favorite gum in the world?

Because the mascot - the face of Dubble Bubble brand Bubble Gum, the image that Concord Confections Ltd. continues to put forth for its gum - is still a little boy named Pud.

Completely unrelated: Son has started exposing himself at the daycare. Great.

Update: No, Captain, you cannot make a "like father, like son" comment here.

Update 2: No, really! Pud!

Although I don't care for the misrepresentation at the end ... while it may be a fact, it is in no way "fun." In fact, it left me feeling empty and allergic. The comic itself, of course, is a scathing commentary on the deviated septum pandemic.

Bramble Tamble Fun Fact: Many years ago, Pud had his name written on his hat to denote that his name was, indeed, Pud.

Oh, good God.

Are the explanation points in the headline really necessary? Two of them, no less? Doesn't that seem tacky, tasteless and so high-school-journalism-ish, especially given the story that three teens died in a car accident?

Maybe I'm quibbling. But that screaming headline (almost literally) just strikes me as borderline retarded, and doesn't show the right respect to the families of the deceased.

Prolonged exposure to the Orb of Confusion can cause ...

... confusion!

My favorite SB episode. (I did something constructive tonight and learned how to do DVD screen grabs.)

Update, Wednesday morning: I can't make this up.

The lady to whom I previously referred as "Mrs. Redenbacher" was at my desk, filling up the community candy jar, and I showed her the above picture because we had laughed about that particular episode several times in the past. We're sitting there exchanging lines from the ep (the one I quoted above, she contributed "Patrick, you do know that's turned off, right?"), when on cue - on frickin' cue! - Doom walks up, unaware of our conversation, and makes the exact same confused noise that SpongeBob and Patrick make in the scene pictured above.

We lost it.

And then she goes away, leaving me here with Doom hovering, and I have to explain what's so funny. I improvised a little bit about our discussion, just telling him about how we were sharing something funny from SpongeBob SquarePants, and he says, "What a dumb show. I hate that. That's so dumb."

After a few minutes had passed, I went back to her desk. "Did that really just happen?" I asked her.

She starts laughing. "I don't know how you held it together. I had to walk away."

Me: "The exact same noise!"

She laughs more. I'm hunched over from laughing so hard, tears running down my face because it was so friggin' funny.

Me: "Remember this moment after I'm gone."

So I had people today begging me to keep Doom from going to the suicide prevention briefing that was on his calendar.

Man, I'm going to miss this place, if only for the gallows humor.

P.S. he didn't go.

I think that we all can agree that the only thing worse than the heat is hearing people complain about it.

But that won't stop me!

Continuing a Bramble Tamble tradition:

Yeah, so it's bleak and barren and the cost of living is exorbitant, and the nearest Wal-Mart is probably 12 days away by dogsled. Still, here is your forecast for Barrow, Alaska. Ahhhhh!

Gibby.

Gibby was in trouble all his life, really. One of those kids who never really had a chance, in hindsight, and maybe you could even see it at the time, but who's to talk down the potential of a kid when he's a kid?

I remember my mom trying to "save" him at some point, taking him to church with us when I was about 10 or 11. My most vivid memory of evening was the closing hymnal and sharing the songbook with him, pointing out the words as they were being sung.

Anyway, Gibby eventually quit school around 6th or 7th grade and ended up in and out of trouble throughout his teens into adulthood - ended up at the boys school up in Knightstown, and eventually jail. I would hear his name on the radio every couple of years for whatever felony or misdemeanor he committed that week, and shake my head.

They found his body hanging off the railroad trestle in my hometown yesterday. I really wish I had more to say here ... but all I can say is that he caused me no trouble. He really didn't. I hate that he got messed up in various things ... but I will not judge.

I hope that wherever he is, whatever demons he had are gone by now.

The first day of the rest of my job.

I suppose I can shout it from the rooftops now: I am leaving this position by, hopefully, the end of August. It's finally official, except for the piece of paper that has my offer on it. I will be training my replacement starting in about a week and change, and you know, good luck to her for what she's about to step into.

Today is the best that I've felt about coming in to work for a long time. A huge weight has been lifted, the light at the end of the tunnel is getting larger and larger - use whatever cliche you'd like here, but I've been smiling all day, singing along with my music and acting like a general-issue retard.

But here's the cloud in my silver lining:

I'll grant that there will be eventual disappointment in my new job sometime around the end of the honeymoon period - someone will get on my last nerve, or some jerkwad will make himself or herself a major part of my working life, or something. I don't relish the thought - the world is full of assholes, and I guess I'm just destined to meet every last one of them before I shuffle off this mortal coil - but I'm enough of a realist to know that no job is a permanent panacea. I've fallen out of love with enough jobs to know that in about two years, some confidant will start receiving these self-indulgent whinging e-mails from me that say, "Oh, I'm so unhappy here anymore! I hate (x)! I hate (y)! If I knew how to bury bodies for maximum seclusion, I would kill (z)! etc. etc. etc." And I'll become a cancer to everyone I touch, and my wife will tell me to quit if I'm so unhappy. This has happened twice since I've been married, and I'm moving on to job #3 this month.

But I will have done a good enough job that my company will scramble to find me a promotion, and then we'll hit the big "reset" button again.

I hope, anyway. Truth be told, I'm scared shitless of what's coming next. My daydreams of a personal employment Utopia - of coming to a job where I am happy and fulfilled and surrounded by wonderful people and knowing that if I do a great job, there are great things ahead of me - are crushed by the realization that this is a new challenge that I am grossly underqualified for, that this could be the end of my career with this company should I fail. Oddly enough, I'm also salivating at the opportunity to prove myself wrong and to justify my company's faith in me.

I'd bet on me, if I were you.

I wouldn't lie to you. This was actually said today, or at least a close approximation:

"I'm training you guys right - the last two people who were in your position moved on to bigger and better things!"

So went a snippet of my conversation with Doom after he was given the news of my pending departure (slated for no later than Labor Day).

He did not shit, which was disappointing. I was really looking forward to describing the moment.

So, yes, absolutely, it was his guidance and leadership that has propelled me on to a promotion in my company. Actually, I thrived in spite of it - I've only excelled in every job I've held before except for telemarketing and pizza delivery, and I spent a combined total of 3 days in those jobs - but I'll let him have a moment in my sun. I'll even declare a moratorium on making fun of him.

Ending .... now.

The perils of joining a music club include this: you sometimes forget to fill out the reply card and get stuck with shit that you didn't want.

Such was my thought process this afternoon when I went to my mailbox and found a CD in there.

Corinne Bailey Rae.

"Well," I thought. "I'll probably feel like having sex after this."

And I was right. At least after the first song, anyway.

****

Oh, wow. She covers Zep's "Since I've Been Loving You." I'll probably feel like having sex after that, too.

****

I don't know why I just thought of this, but I wish I could get my hands on that Texas album that I lambasted in the magazine. It'd probably be a perfect postscript to this album.

Unfortunately, it's in the garage. It probably has bird shit on it.

Boy, was I stupid in 1999.

Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I need to .... ummmm .... go to the bathroom .... where's that Just My Size catalog that came in the mail last week? *ahem* nevermind.

It's all fun and games until you get to the daycare and the owner comes out to talk to you in private before you go in to get your son.

"Oh no," I said to her as she walked outside to intercept me before I went inside. "What did he do?"

"He's OK. He didn't do anything. He got punched in the nose twice by a little boy. The boy's about his age."

"Well, what kind of nickel-and-dime joint are you running here?" I didn't say.

"He's got a mark right across here -" she rubbed her finger across the bridge of her nose - "and he bled pretty bad. We don't think anything's broken, but it's probably going to bruise."

"Christ, woman. Did you beat the crap out of the other little boy? I swear, if I get my hands on him -" I didn't say.

"We're going to make him apologize to you," she said.

"... oh. Wow. Ummmmm .... what do I say back to him?" I replied.

****

So we went in, and Son came running up to me, very happy to see me. I picked him up and swung him around and gave him a big hug.

Daycare Owner took the other little boy out of the corner and told him to apologize to me. He looked like he was about to poop his pants. He very meekly said, "I'm sorry." I said OK.

And then I took Son out to the car, strapped him in, kissed his sweet face and drove all the way home with tears in my eyes because I'm a big ol' softie.

After a process that has had all of the alacrity of Dutch elm disease, things have picked up as far as my new position is concerned.

Will keep you posted.