Your cocktail sir,





2002-07-04 - 7:50 p.m.

So, I was going to go into more detail with my Livermoron story. Livermore is the farming community outside of Pleasanton. We blame all our issues on them. It's convenient and easy. I believe that they receive a small stipend for our use of them as our Scapegoat. I was at the Bank, waiting patiently in line for the ATM (or Queue as our British Friends would say) when a large truck, similar to the Nuclear Banana in scale and accessory usage pulled up (into the Handicapped Stall, I would like to point out) Blaring from this jacked red monstrosity was Alan Jacksonís Where were you, an insipid piece of musical garbage that angers me. Its trite lyrics have an apostatizing effect on me. I rank it up there with Nascar merchandise and Payless shoes. They guy slinks out of the truck, all skin and bone with a belt buckle larger than his I.Q. Such types are common in our peaceful little town when the county fair is going strong. The song mercifully ended, however another country tune started up, which caused our friend to lope back to his truck to change the track back. And then turn up the volume. On his way back to the line, I asked him to turn it down. Not very nicely. I will admit. Iíd been dealing with stupid salespeople all day and didnít feel like dealing with stupid hicks. But, itís the September 11 song. Shock registered on his almost simian features as my (albeit) rude suggestion that he turn the song off registered. At this point, I kind of stepped outside of myself. Cranky Chauffi was in charge, while the rest of me retreated to other parts of my mind. ďI donít careĒ, I replied. ďItís loud, obnoxious, and a piece of crap songĒ. I was then asked to achieve an anatomical impossibility. I tried to drum up some support from my fellow linees however they shot me the No dice look. I couldnít blame them. I was on my way to a beating, and we all knew it. I was a little bit scared, but also exhilarated by the thought of combat. Sure, he was probably used to bare knuckle brawling and was no doubt conditioned to ignore pain, how else would he be able to survive. It could be just like fight club. And I would have some respect in the office next week. Oh this, itís just a scratch. Some guy took a swing at me while I was waiting for the ATM. I of course fully intended to edit out my inflammatory comments. The whole time this scenario was casting extras and securing the film rights in my imagination I kept up the verbal taunting. It didnít get ugly though. It might have. However the security guard from the bank came out and told the guy to turn off his stereo, it was too loud. The badge and uniform able to accomplish what I couldnít, I advanced to the ATM and got my cash. A muttered Jackass was the last words I spoke. I would have liked to make the tires squeal as I left, but I have the GD Positraction. And Iím a little bit embarrassed by the exchange. I could have been more clever, used humor to gain the crowds favor and ran mental circles around the guy. I can only say that it was hot, I was tired and cranky, and the song just puts my teeth on edge. Perhaps Iíll explain this to him, should I run into him again. Or Iíll just avoid him and the local Checker Auto Part stores.

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Zen and don't cry out loud - 2007-07-29

Zen and the stumbling rocks of fitness - 2007-07-19

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Zen and fasting - 2007-06-20

Zen and hiccups - 2007-06-18

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