Dissolution of the Company

I announce today that the Gordian knot that had previously manifested the very fabric of my existence, as a result of the utter madness of the biz, has dissolved. I've awakened from the nightmare and am now given license to live as a free man. The aggregate eccentricities of the owner of the Company have finally brought him to his knees, trapped within his fat, sweaty carcass. The hookers and the food became more important than compensating employees and maintaining acceptable management procedures (which never existed to begin with). My dolorous countenance has begun to brighten despite the absence of my free all-expences-paid luxury vehicle. It is time to join the human race again, however miserable that may turn out to be.

(Note the misspelling of "Celebrity" on this returned company check)

Ratt Poison

I pulled up to the address, which was startling close to my own, in the ridiculous stretch limousine that almost pays my rent. The jokers piled into the car with a large cooler containing an assortment of booze to carry them through the atrocity we were all about to witness. And so we were off to the First Midwest Bank Amphitheatre to go see White Lion, Ratt, and Poison. As I inhaled the pungent fumes of wacky tobacky that wafted throughout the car, I listened to them gab away whilst the "Talk Dirty to Me" song played ad naseaum on the CD player. When we arrived at the grounds, I breathed a sigh of relief that I could now go order a Rooty Tooty Fresh N' Fruity breakfast at IHOP and relax. My face blanched when I discovered they wanted to pay the $40 parking fee so they could indulge themselves in the back of the limousine at their leisure, until Ratt polluted the stage. They reconciled by offering me free tickets to the show. You can imagine my prevaricated gratitude, which I projected with egregious good humor. A white limo pulled up next to mine and the door opened: an aging, bronzed, glam-metalhead emerged, sporting a black wife-beater and holding a can of Bud, flexing his adipose beefcake muscles and flinging his hair around. This individual was probably a real stallion two decades ago, but now frequents his therapist every week to discuss his failure to attract women, oblivious to his sagging, steroid induced man-boobs and permed locks. Later, I entered the dirty, corporate slogan encumbered hellhole, free ticket in hand. The zit encrusted dimwit at the gate looked at me like I was from Pluto, inquiring if I just got off work, to which I responded, "I am working, silly." The unholy vibrations grew as I approached the stage. Bromidic cowgirls abounded, gyrating their hips to Stephen Pearcy's 6-pack and collectively reiterating the lyrics of "Round and Round" amidst incendiary explosions of pyrotechnics. Then Brett Michaels got up on stage displaying a freshly sprayed-on tan and wearing a cowboy hat, declaring that he "will never stop." At that moment, I realized with horror that I would be there for at least another hour.

High Class Hookers

I got the phonecall a mere 30 minutes notice for a 6 o'clock pm pick up at an address in Old Town. Mildly perturbed, I had to put down my bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and get dressed. I pulled up to the address and out from the overpriced townhomes emerged a couple of middle aged bimbos adorned with the typical habiliments of their profession. Both women had to-go cups of frosty margaritas, replete with umbrellas, in their hands and purses slung over their shoulders. They got themselves settled in the back of my car, upon which, my senses were flooded with an obnoxious mixture of powerful perfumes. Immediately, they told me to turn on 101.9 FM and I obliged. It appeared they were fixing their makeup for the entire hour-long ride as they alternated animated confabulations amongst themselves and with the random men calling their cellphones, to which they responded with succinct male ego-flattering smalltalk. As we made our way to the elite countryclub, I learned all about their day: Woke up at 11am, played volleyball on the beach for a couple hours, came home and showered, margaritas in the blender at 2 o'clock and now they are on their way to work, which is, ostensibly, to bang rich guys. We pulled up to our destination and were greeted by a young pimply faced punk doing an extremely lax job of "security" at the gate. He nonchalantly waved us in, not even bothering to check for identification. We proceeded down a well-manicured, tree-lined, winding path toward the clubhouse. The women had quieted down a little, expressing their approval of the number of Bentley's being parked by the valet. In front of us, a mysterious red Lamborghini stopped and waited for the valet. The women eagerly anticipated and fantasized a handsome young man as the vehicle's owner. The suspense was unbearable! Finally, the door vertically arose and out shuffled an aging tub-o-guts wearing a most ridiculous outfit: pleated baggy white slacks, beige penny loafers and a black button-up shirt with some sort of gold corporate insignia embroidered on the back . The women gasped and I chortled.

The Hillside Strangler Carbecue

My inner glow of glee began to wan as I approached the Hillside Strangler, the appellation of an odious triadic junction of highways located in the suburb, Hillside. The traffic merges into the other, concomitantly bottlenecking and thus "strangling" the flow of traffic, resulting in a tedious bumper to bumper crawl, regardless of the time of day. Today, as we sunk deeper into the tangled mess, there rose ashes and black smoke into the sky. It appeared there was a 5-car pile up roasting on the highway, upon which, every passing vehicle felt the need to slow down and voyeuristically gape at the carnage. Such spectacles are such a common occurance in my absurd profession that I've developed a rather cavalier attitude of such matters, however, this time I could actually see a couple of people standing outside the burning wreckage of their cars, in a daze, covered in blood. Apparently, the accident had only just occured minutes earlier. I suddenly became acutely aware of the somnolent chirring of the 17-year cicadas and of the approaching sirens, the auditory duality of which put me under a hypnotic spell. The traffic then began to break apart and disperse. As I accelerated to 80mph, the light in the sky faded to a soft pink and the evening sun floated low upon the horizon. The ethereal rosy effulgence blanketed the sprawling landscape of endless highways and dismal powerline towers, rendering the formerly ghastly scene an opiated amethyst hallucination.

Drossy Drudgery

I arose around 11am this morning after a rather unsound slumber. Nightmares of the groom I drove the night before handing me a $100 tip and after stuffing it into my pocket, I discover later that it was lost, all that time wasted. I was semi-conscious of my cat attempting to rouse me, as is her morning ritual. As I sat on the edge of my bed in the darkness, mildly aware of the presence of the air-conditioner blowing out cool air, I felt a profound sense of complete and hopeless despair enveloping me. The kind of dysphoria that reduces me to a useless, catatonic lump of flesh. A slideshow of all my failures and desultory, bleak future pointing fingers and laughing in my face. The disequilibrium of my schedule makes days melt together, one indiscernable from the next. Time evaporates on the streets, sitting in traffic, endless construction. Sometimes I act as a psychologist, absorbing strangers problems or observing young bachelorettes wax maudlin late at night. Very few people actually have anything relevant or interesting to say after all the polite smalltalk has dribbled out their lips. I drove a doctor from Salt Lake City a couple days ago and had a good conversation with him about his research of a rare blood disease and the organisms that inhabit the mysterious Great Salt Lake. I don't know where this is going. I'm making a Screwdriver.

Lusty Sandwiches

I try to keep my mind in a perpetual state of hypnotic mezmerism when I'm driving in an attempt to prevent sudden eruptions of road rage as a result of the abundance of churls occupying the freeways . Astonishingly, I am becoming quite skilled at it. I suffer from this anathemic illusion that keeps me terrified and as of late I have been consuming lots of orange juice which seems to produce an effect similiar, in a mild form, to lysergic acid diethylamide.

Outside the Oak Park Bibliothek today, the rain was sweeping down from the sky in soft gales as I ate my turkey sandwich from a bakery just around the corner, and I couldn't help but realize what a remarkable sandwich it was! Turkey breast on wheat bread with lettuce, tomatoes, Swiss cheese, cucumbers, mayonaise and honey mustard. A very basic concoction, yes, but I am a very persnickety sandwich eater and I seek out new places that make delicious sandwiches and frequent them. This was a superior turkey sandwich indeed. I was mildly annoyed with the fact that there was no seating or air conditioning within the establishment but, that forced me to gaze upon the lovely sylph working up a sweat to prepare the sandwich. The preparation of a sandwich can be viscerally and ocularly stimulating, with the exception of atrocity franchises such as Subway or Quizno's. Perhaps it has something to do with the tender slicing of bread without plastic gloves? It is incredibly erotic in conjunction with the presentation of the sandwich. She, wearing a fit, knee-length vulpine biege skirt with a black top revealing her porcelain shoulders and medium length dark tresses sweatily framing the contours of her face, lithesomely handed me the sandwich with a bewitching smile. I felt a rapacious, lupine desire to devour her mouth and reach my hand underneath her skirt, peeling off the layers of tight material that clung her moist, glabrous flesh. Alas, only bosh inertia followed and it was simply like any other transaction made on a daily basis.

the Attorney

I drove up to the attorney standing akimbo at Terminal 2A, O'Hare airport. A very voluble girl indeed, so much, so that I simply have to insouciantly and laconically nod and respond,"Yeah, uh-huh". It doesn't really matter what she is talking about and I don't really care, but proceed to methodically weave in and out of traffic, adroitly using one hand to switch blinkers and handle the wheel. As we gain speed heading southbound on the Kennedy I watch the road rise and fall in the early evening Friday night traffic. The diaspora of commuters resemble locusts fluttering about, the road breathing and rippling, like waves, against the vast Chicago skyline which melts into a rich orange and crimson mess. As the shadows widen across the pavement, I fall in a despondant reverie, her voice becomes quiet and shimmering, as if listening to someone talking with hands tightly clasped to ears.