Yea, so my bed collapsed. Not the whole thing, just the part I had propped up with the lumber that I wound up buying from Home Depot.

The head of the bed had been elevated for two days and I wasn’t feeling any better in the mornings. I had decided I would leave it like it was for a few more days, and then take it down if I still didn’t feel any better in that time, because frankly, it looked retarded.

In the middle of the second day I sat down and leaned back to watch some TV and suddenly THUMP. The whole bed jolted and I was back in a 90 degree sitting position. Shortly, my downstairs neighbor knocked on my door to ask if everything was OK. It had been an extremely loud thump. I assured her that everything was OK, and in trying to explain what had happened, I realized how incredibly stupid the whole idea was.

Today I might try to reassemble the whole contraption, this time using some duct tape or something. I only hesitate because I dread the thought of having to explain it twice.

At the advice of my doctor, I went out in search of a few bricks to prop up the head of my bed, thus reducing the amount of acid reflux from my stomach to my esophagus whilst I sleep. This was from a cadre of home remedies that included such winners as “Don’t drink fluids during meals,” and “Don’t bend over.”

I found myself lost in Home Depot and, despite my better judgement, I decided to ask one of the employees for help. I said, “Excuse me, I’m wondering where I can get, like, six bricks.” I can’t say I was surprised when he immediately asked, “What do you need just six bricks for?” At that moment I could have chosen to be serious tell him I was propping up my bed, but for some reason I didn’t want to. Instead, I chose to be a smart-ass as I looked him in the eye and said, “I’m building a very small wall.”

I knew from past experience that the Home Depot employees were going to treat me like a moron anyway, I just figured I’d play the game.

I should mention that I once applied to be an employee at Home Depot. I won’t say I was desperate for work, Home Depot is not the end of the line. But after you’ve earned a BFA, you hope for bigger and better things.

Needless to say I didn’t get the job. I failed the written test, which is pretty god damned funny. I was being honest and I guess I just wasn’t enough of a customer’s bitch. I chose -

C: I am sometimes annoyed when customers insult me.

Instead of -

D: I love being insulted by customers. Thank you sir, may I have another?

The other questions where like this:

Home Depot Employment Test

2. If a customer is soliciting you for help, do you:
a. refer him to another isle
b. drown out the sound of his complaining by using the power saw
c. kill him, using the power saw
d. kill yourself, using the power saw

3. A customer needs only a small piece of lumber that could easily be cut from one of the larger pieces. Do you:
a. refer him to another isle
b. refer him to your manager
c. tell him no, and ask him what kind of dumb-ass question was that
d, tell him about the briefing you were given during training; when they told you the lumber was taken from a magical forest and every time you cut it, God kills a kitten.

State and Federal laws require that all potential employees participate in a mandatory drug test.
Please answer truthfully:

Are you high right now?
a. Yes
b. No

This concludes the mandatory drug test.

(Shout out to Greg, the only intelligent, approchable person that Home Depot ever hired).

I had a job interview this week. For those of you who don’t remember what it’s like to play the field, a job interview is where you gather up your portfolio, dress up, go to the potential employer’s office and, essentially, be their bitch for a half hour or so.

The place I interviewed seemed cool though. The one thing that caught me off guard was the size of the office. It was roughly the size of my car. I had expected bigger because in the SIX times I had tried to call the CEO, he had never once answered. This led me to believe that he was out in the fields, or walking around the factory floor amongst the people.

That minor quibble aside, it had a friendly atmosphere and I got the impression that it was the kind of place I wouldn’t mind working in. I shall now cross my fingers and kiss my graphic design voodoo doll.

Laundry Day

When cleaning out my dresser for my semi annual fall laundry drive, I discovered that I owned five different kinds of deodorant. And the strange thing was that there were no duplicates. It wasn’t as if I simply bought my regular brand and forgot about it when I got another; there were five different kinds of odor and wetness protection in my drawer. If I didn’t live by myself I’d think that someone was trying to send me a message.

My usual laundry place was over-crowded today so was forced to seek another establishment for my laundering needs. I found a place called Crystal Cleansers. I already had issues with the name. Why were they “Cleansers,” and not, “Cleaners?” Cleansers makes me think of some firebrand preacher standing on a stage yelling, “Begone you devil coffee stain!”

This place took “coin-operated,” to a whole new level. Beside the coin operated washing machines where the coin operated dryers which were in turn next to the coin operated vending machine (no dollar slot) and the pay phone which sat under the coin operated television (it had a timer). This, ladies and gentlemen, is the future of commerce.

The machines were horribly expensive too. The three single-load washers were all taken (all by the same person I might add), and the next step up was the “double load,” washer (roughly the size of my shoe), or the “triple load,” washer (roughly the size of my car). The double load cost 9 quarters to operate. The triple load cost 16 quarters to operate. I came in there with so many quarters in my pocket I had to walk with a limp, and by the time I started using the dryers I was smoothing out crumpled dollar bills to use in the change machine (which apparently doesn’t accept American currency).

And the children. Oh lord the children. They ran around, screaming and yelling things in a variety of different languages. I’ve honestly never wanted to drop kick a child before today. They ran free, free of the bonds of parental supervision as their parents busied themselves watching the dryer spin. One such toddler was running laps around the place. Every time he reached where I was sitting he would attempt to turn, which was a maneuver his young, newly discovered legs couldn’t handle, and he landed face down on the tiles. “SMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” It was ear splitting. Eventually his older brother would come, pick him up, and bring him over to his mother. I didn’t pay any attention after that, but no sooner do I start reading my book again than I hear “SMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Little Mario Andretti fell again. It went on like this for an hour.

I was running two dryers, one for regular clothes and one for woolens. They both finished at roughly the same time, but the woolens were not particularly dry. I only hesitated a moment to consider putting more quarters in when I heard “SMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” again and I just decided I’d hang my sweaters up when I got home.

Should smoke detectors have radioactive material in them? The one above my bed does and that makes me a little nervous. I had to rub all three of my eyes to make sure I was reading it correctly.

It was 7:30AM on a Sunday morning and I was standing on my bed, in my underwear, holding my smoke alarm in one hand, wires still attached to the ceiling, and hitting it with the palm of my other hand. Anyone who didn't already think I was a loon needed only to look in my window at that moment.

The power had gone out sometime during the night. I woke up to the sound of my smoke alarm. It wasn't going off, but emitting some awful dying moan. I looked at my watch and gave my own moan. It was far too early for this shit.

I poked my head into the hallway and couldn't hear any sounds coming from the other apartments. I stood up on my bed and unlatched the smoke alarm from the ceiling. A cloud of dust fell onto my sheets with an audible thud. The wires seemed to go directly into the unit. There was no visible plug or battery. I tried the smooth out the ancient parchment that had once been its operating instructions stuck to the back. It was wrinkled and stained now, like a pirate map. In big bold letters it said, "Models that do not contain a battery will not function during a power outage." This unit had no battery but it was still sort of functioning. Well, not so much functioning as giving up the will to live.

That's when I noticed the second paragraph that said, "This unit contains radioactive material. Handle with care." This set off several alarms in my head. It never even crossed my mind that harmless radioactive material may just be part of every smoke detector. I tried to reason that they wouldn’t be stupid enough to equip a home with a glowing isotope strapped to the ceiling. But, for the record, this is an old building; it was built during a time when government trucks rolled down the streets spraying children with DDT.

The radioactive material was Americium. This, in my opinion, is one of the few elements, including Californium and Einsteinium, which must get teased endlessly by all the other elements on the periodic table. It kind of put my mind at ease. It seemed unlikely that I could be harmed by an element that wasn’t even recognized by the French.

Anyway, the power outages continued on and off into the night. As a testament to my lack of emergency preparedness I had only one flashlight and several Yankee Candles from my mother. That meant that if I wanted any kind of illumination I had to endure the smell of apples rolling in on an ocean breeze and falling into a great big sack of potpourri while being beaten by pine branches. After about an hour of this I became light headed and started hallucinating that I was in Candy Land.

Today I skipped breakfast, rode my bike to work, and had a Weight Watchers meal for lunch. Tonight when I looked in the mirror I realized I had dissapeared.

The thought hadn't occurred to me that I had cheated death until I was back in my van driving on the highway.

I had finally gotten the damned thing back from the shop after nearly a full week. I may say nasty things about the van, but if you ever try to separate us we'll both slowly die like little Elliot and E.T. I was in terrible shape by the time the guy at the garage called me and told me that the parts had finally arrived from the magical Land of Narnia and I could now come pick up my newly repaired vehicle. I had been riding my bike to work all week and this exciting news caused my already weary legs to buckle and I fell into a satisfied heap on the floor.

Once I had checked in and paid the bill I was told I could find the van in the back parking lot. I walked around back and gave my van a mean look, like I was a parent who had been called away from work because my child had set fire to his desk and was being held in the principal's office until I came to pick him up. I almost said, "I hope you're happy. Just wait until your mother finds out about this."

But the sad truth was that I couldn't stay mad at my van. I was relieved that I no longer had to ride my bike to work; although I promised myself I would continue doing it because it was, "Good for me." Being able to drive again made me realize how much I had missed it. I proceeded to do the chores I had been putting off (grocery shopping, trip to the Target across town) as well as a thorough test drive over Waltham's bumpiest roads (which is to say I avoided the single road in Waltham that wasn't bumpy). It was like we were old lovers, skipping through a flowery field hand in hand. Somewhere, someone was playing the song, "So Happy Together," (And it couldn't have been me because the radio in the van doesn't work either).

But tonight I made my way up I-95 and 93 like an old lady. I was shaken by the thought of the wheel falling off again while I was on the highway. Last time it was a side road, I was lucky. The odd tapping sound, no doubt related to the wheel falling off, had gone on for weeks. My wheel could have fallen off at any time, like doing 70 on the highway trying to stay ahead of the BMW crawling up my ass.

That's when I knew I had cheated death. The grim reaper sat next to me in the passenger seat tonight. I could feel his icy breath as he leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Next time you won't be so lu- WATCH OUT FOR THAT BUMP!! Ha ha, got ya!"

Shout! Shout! Shout at the Devil! And tell him to sit the hell down because I can't see the god damned movie screen.

So the wheel fell off my van.

I should have expected it. The tapping noise had long since stopped by itself. That meant that whatever was loose had become permanently lodged somewhere or just plain fell off. That should have been the first warning sign.

I can only imagine that the, “Safety Inspection,” administered two weeks ago at a garage that will remain unnamed, was done by someone with as much auto knowledge as me.

Mechanic 1: “Does it have gas?”
Mechanic 2: “Yup.”
Mechanic 1: “Did you check the oil?”
Mechanic 2: “Yup.”
Mechanic 1: “Does it need more?”
Mechanic 2: “Can’t tell.”
Mechanic 1: “Is there a map in the glove compartment?”
Mechanic 2: “Two.”
Mechanic 1: “Alright, it passes road inspection. NEXT!”

When it happened I didn’t even have to get out of the van to know what it was. It wasn’t so much that I knew there was going to be a problem with the tire; it was more because someone, at some point, said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if the tire just fell off.” And because my life is just one big running joke anyway, it was inevitable that this, “Funny,” thing would happen. You could set your watch by the strange shit that happens to me.

Anyway, I was driving around, looking for a Barnes & Noble. Next thing I know the van jerks forward and then comes to a grinding halt. Like I said, I knew what had happened right away. All I could do was turn on my emergency blinkers and get out. Fortunately I was on a side street and not on a main highway.

Of the two or three things that held a wheel to a car, only one was still intact, so the wheel was actually still attached to the car in a dangling-eyeball kind of way. Also brake fluid was leaking out. Well, it could have been brake fluid; for all I know it was marmalade.

After putting up one of those orange triangle things about 100 feet back from the car I ran to a payphone in a nearby mall and called USAA. After navigating the USAA touch tone phone system I was promptly put on hold. I’m sure I was on hold for much less time than I thought, but for the duration I was lightly banging my head against the wall. This no doubt disturbed the shoppers at the mall.

I arranged for the tow and went back outside to tell the rich dumbfucks that orange triangle and emergency blinkers meant go AROUND the car, not stop behind it and honk.

So, the car’s in the shop till at least Monday afternoon. Since I’m probably switching jobs soon I still can’t afford a new car, so I just keep paying to get the van repaired. One of these days the mechanics may just do something right.

11:00
Well, another week, another paycheck, another 30% for taxes, another 20% for rent, another 20% for health insurance, another 25% for utilities, food, and student loan payments.

Actually, I just managed to lower my health insurance payments by $200 dollars. We can certainly file that under “F” for “Fuck YEA!”

It all started several months ago when I became my own independent graphic design firm. Without an employer to provide my health insurance I was forced to sign on for COBRA. COBRA is a sort of extension plan where you can continue using the health coverage through the workplace of a parent of guardian by paying the full monthly price. I won’t tell you exactly how much I was paying, but suffice it to say I was getting a monthly rectal exam without actually having to go to the doctor.

After making my payment for August I received a letter stating that the price was going up and I still had to pay the remainder for the month. I felt as though I had just donated two testicles and was being asked for a third. This was the final straw. I decided to explore my options through the National Association of the Self-Employed and managed to find a pretty comprehensive health plan for TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS LESS than what I was paying. I called up COBRA and instructed them to tell Cobra Commander to roll up my policy and smoke it because I’m bailing out and I want my money for August back.

It’s little moments of triumph like that that keep me going.

12:30
Addendum – Several minutes after publishing the above entry I was struck down with severe abdominal pain. I actually doubled over on the floor.

I called my mother, the nurse, and asked for her diagnosis. The obvious analysis was gas, but after two “Gas Aid” pills and several Tums the problem persisted. She reccomended that if the pain did not dissapate I should go to Urgent Care at the hospital down the road. My insides were on fire so I had no problem with this idea. Then I realized I had no insurance. Technically, my COBRA was never paid for August and my new insurance didn’t take effect until September 1st, just over 24 hours from now. I had managed to remain perfectly healthy for the thirty days I was uninsured. Tonight, on the eve of the 31st, the last day, I got sick. I laughed. It hurt, but I laughed. There is a God, and he fucking hates me.

45 agonizing minutes later it turned out to be gas. Possibly an adverse reaction to the pills the doctor had reccomended to me in order to, guess what, eliminate gas.

I'm still laughing.