I went to Trader Joe’s on a Sunday afternoon, which I must remember never to do. At least I didn’t punch a hole in anything tonight when I got home.

A particular person shops at TJ’s: mid to late 20s, probably not wealthy but on the road to success, sophisticated about food, bargain hunting. There are a lot of young couples in there on a Sunday afternoon picking out the sweet corn and gouda and frozen tamales for the week ahead. I feel at home there at first, seeing all of these people like me who share my taste and my background. Guys in band t-shirts, girls wearing checkered Vans.

Of course, I’m not at all like them. I’m fifteen years older, forty pounds heavier, alone and adrift. I never left my teens, but my body did. And all these young couples have what I never have, and what I never will. I fell off the middle-class college-kid track into something dark and grimy and never got out. I wasn’t pretty, or socially adept, or wealthy, or even successful. And then I was under water for ten years. And now I’m just kind of screwed.

And there’s never been an “us” that went shopping on Sunday and had little domestic arguments about whether to get the two-buck chuck or the cheap Belgian beer, and then trundled home in the little sedan to cook dinner and watch a movie. There never was an “us” at all.

At this point, there won’t be, either. The couples don’t notice the middle-aged man alone who is looking around at a world he never visited.

As so often happens when I’m reminded of my station in life, I got a bit ill. It was temporarily hard to move around, and my legs were heavy and trembling. I took my purchases home, cooked and ate dinner, drank some ice-water, stared into the back yard.

I really don’t know what the hell happened, or how I got here. My whole life now feels like that time after a car accident, where you’re thinking: Hey. That really was me who hit that. That really is my car that’s crushed. That really is my bruise and my blood. What the fuck.

I can no longer shop happily.

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Dog not dead. Dog resting on patio. Dog happy. Go, dog, go!

Happy birthday, Dan

Everyone else has one. There’s one for Metallica. One for Tori Amos. One for Weezer. One for the Pixies. Even INCUBUS got one.

I have my plan for fame, wealth, and giving back to the community all in one. I’m going to do it. It’s going to be at every record store, on every website, pirated on every P2P network.

My grand plan:

THE STRING QUARTET TRIBUTE TO LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN.

I can’t figure out why this hasn’t been done yet.

1. I have no fuse.
2. They have guys there in knee pads who just run up and suck you off!
3. There’s no “I” in “slave”.

L.A. Times photographer catches guy being all metal and stuff at Mt. St. Helens

EMS Vocoder Demonstration (12MB mp3).

Possible uses include: learning about vocoder sounds; disciplining the cat; breaking your lease; going insane.

You’re a nice guy and you appear to be a very competent physician. Your expertise has been valuable to me, and I appreciate the way you go the extra distance to give me appropriate care at reasonable prices. In general I would recommend you to anyone needing management of medication for depression. Thumbs up!

However, I have one concern. During my time in your waiting room today, I experienced approximately 20 minutes of our local soft mellow pop station, KOST 103 (“The Coast”). This station played an assortment of music including Whitney Houston, the Spinners, a number of unknown generic smooth R&B songs I hear at the grocery store, and two commercials. I was then promised that they’d have a “block” of great hits from Phil Collins, as well as Wham!, Simply Red, and the Eagles. At this point, fortunately, I was ushered it for my consultation.

I would like to point out that rigorous double-blind studies conducted by researchers in major institutions have shown mellow soft rock and R&B stations to be a causative factor in Insipid Twat Syndrome, the Bolton-Taylor Prepsychotic Rage Effect, Mansonism, the trots, and opiate abuse. Children raised in a soft hits environment are 40% more likely to become serial killers who make dolls out of their victims’ skin. And exposure to the Eagles has been determined to be at the root of 14 of a reported 19 school shootings in the last 20 years. Adolescent rats exposed to KOST 103 in particular developed tumors on their noses, and the tumors had little devil heads on them, and the devil heads were eating little babies, and the babies were screaming.

In order to improve your long-term patient success rates and avoid a horrible shrieking amok attack with knives and splatter and bloodwrestling in the waiting room, I would suggest an alternative program such as classical music, real jazz, or silence. All of your therapeutic efforts will come to naught if you come out and find that your patients have made of your secretary a blood sacrifice to the Unclean Thing in the Air Vent so that the Michael Bolton might Finally Stop.

Also, as an aside, you weren’t very reassuring today when you stuttered six times trying to say the word “productivity”. But hey, it was a Friday.

Hugs,

Substitute

“My girlfriend, she’s the first girlfriend that’s hit me and I haven’t hit back.”

1. The throttle lever could become stuck leading to loss of speed control and possible collision.
2. The starter ring gear may crack, causing fragmentation and debris, which may act as a projectile at high speeds. A projectile could cause serious injury or death.

Sounds like a typical day snowmobiling to me, actually. Except with more beer.