Thursday, April 29, 2004

Hak Nam, Kowloon Walled City. 35,000 people living on 6.5 acres, existing without internal or external government, with a fully developed infrastructure (power, water, commerce, housing, etc.). A den of vice rising 14 stories over the rest of Kowloon, home to Triads & drug labs. They tore it down in 1993. Wish I coulda made the trip. Also, wish that the one book I can find on it (CITY OF DARKNESS, Watermark Publications) runs like $60. Assuming it's findable. Amazon's listing it as out of print and the publisher's site shows the last publication date as 2000.

Anyway, heading to bed. The thing I've been working on crossed 47 pages tonight. Dunno whether to be proud that I've put down that many words or scared that it'll fizzle out.

Have a good'n, kids.

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Here's a good one (you may have to register with the Washington Post, but it's free):

The American Civil Liberties Union disclosed yesterday that it filed a lawsuit three weeks ago challenging the FBI's methods of obtaining many business records, but the group was barred from revealing even the existence of the case until now.

The lawsuit was filed April 6 in U.S. District Court in Manhattan, but the case was kept under seal to avoid violating secrecy rules contained in the USA Patriot Act, the ACLU said. The group was allowed to release a redacted version of the lawsuit after weeks of negotiations with the government.

"It is remarkable that a gag provision in the Patriot Act kept the public in the dark about the mere fact that a constitutional challenge had been filed in court," Ann Beeson, the ACLU's associate legal director, said in a statement. "President Bush can talk about extending the life of the Patriot Act, but the ACLU is still gagged from discussing details of our challenge to it."

A Justice Department spokesman declined to comment on the case.

Just a friendly kick in the ass, if you were operating under the impression that the government was playing fair these days.

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Holy fucking crap. A Russian Roulette game in flash. I'm not sure that it's worse that it's out there, or that I went looking for it...

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Tuesday, April 27, 2004

The thing I'm working on has begun to demand of me bad story ideas. Not that it wants to be a bad idea itself (Heaven forbid!), but it wants one of the main characters to have bad ideas. Many, many, many bad ideas. And it's kinda funny, but after like the first three truly bad ideas I came up with, I'm kinda stuck. The first three were pretty good bad ideas, but after that I couldn't come up with anything but rehashes of E.T., THEY LIVE & LOVE STORY.

So, your mission, if truly you love your Billyhank, is to send me all your terrible, horrifying, disgustingly bad story ideas, resting assured that you will be given credit in the end of what will hopefully be a pretty decent novel. Think the Internet is fleeting fame? Try being a credit in a first novel by an unknown. You'll be permanently archived and almost completely anonymous. And the thought of that should bring joy to the preverse parts of your soul.

Sleep well, kids, and get those emails a'crankin. The addy's down to your left and time's a'wastin'.

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There's a deep mystery surrounding Dick Cheney's energy task force, but it's not about what happened back in 2001. Clearly, energy industry executives dictated the content of a report that served their interests.

The real mystery is why the Bush administration has engaged in a three-year fight — which reaches the Supreme Court today — to hide the details of a story whose broad outline we already know.

One possibility is that there is some kind of incriminating evidence in the task force's records. Another is that the administration fears that full disclosure will highlight its chummy relationship with the energy industry. But there's a third possibility: that the administration is really taking a stand on principle. And that's what scares me.

Could there be a smoking gun in the records? Well, maybe Mr. Cheney was already divvying up Iraq's oil fields in 2001, but I'd be surprised to find anything that clear-cut. It's more likely that the administration fears that releasing the task force's records would alert the public to the obvious.

Those of us who have been following such things know that the Bush administration is so deeply enmeshed in the energy industry that it's hard to know where one ends and the other begins. Campaign contributions are part of it, but it's also personal: George Bush and Dick Cheney are only two of the many members of the administration who grew rich by relying on the kindness of energy companies. Indeed, the day after the executive director of Mr. Cheney's task force left the government, he went into business as an energy industry lobbyist.

In return, the Bush administration has given energy companies a lot to celebrate. One policy decision alone, effectively scrapping "new source review" in regulating power plant pollution, is worth billions of dollars to industry donors.

Paul Krugman's latest column from the Times. One of his less fanciful pieces, but one that's pointing out some scary bullshit the administration's been pulling. Which too few of us are aware of, it seems.

Go, read. You might have to go through the registration, but it's free, and your head will be a little smarter for it.

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I found my ex-wife's wedding dress in the attic when I moved. She took the $4000 engagement ring but left the dress. I was actually going to have a dress burning party when the divorce became final, but my sister talked me out of it. She said, "That’s such a gorgeous dress. Some lucky girl would be glad to have it. You should sell it on EBay. At least get something back for it." So, this is what I’m doing. I’m selling it hoping to get enough money for maybe a couple of Mariners tickets and some beer. This dress cost me $1200 that my drunken sot of an ex-father-in-law swore up and down he would pay for but didn’t so I got stuck with the bill. Luckily I only got stuck with his daughter for 5 years. Thank the Lord we didn't have kids. If they would have turned out like her or her family I would have slit my wrists. Anyway, it’s a really nice dress as you can see in the pictures. Personally, I think it looks like a $1200 shower curtain, but what do I know about this...

...I felt compelled to update this ad once more due to all of your emails. The first thing I have to say is thank you all for your support in my time of need. It was a truly harrowing experience. Some of you men know exactly what I mean.

Seeing as this has turned into my little public forum, I just want to address a few of the emails that kind of left me scratching my head.

I now have five marriage proposals. You would think my speaking of the ones I already got yesterday would have put a damper on it, but you women sure are persistent. One woman actually said she doesn’t want to marry me, but wouldn’t mind being my ex-wife. Hmmm. Let me think about that. Nope. No thanks, already got one. (Pssst. Didn’t I mention I had one? Who wants an ex-wife that can’t read? Now, I know what you guys are thinking - "If she can’t read, then the divorce would be smooth sailing." Well, that would be all well and good but I didn’t say her ATTORNEY couldn’t read. You following me on this?)

The funniest auction you'll ever see. I guess this is about the only way to go about selling your ex-wife's wedding dress. Current hits number in the hundreds of thousands and the bidding is up over $99,000,000. You should probably get over there right now.

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Monday, April 26, 2004

Uh, shit....nevermind. Get back to work, consarnit.

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People who refuse to register for the government's planned ID card scheme could face a "civil financial penalty" of up to £2,500, it has emerged.

David Blunkett said not making registering a criminal issue would avoid "clever people" becoming martyrs.

And he promised strict limits on the type of information stored on ID cards.

Under Monday's draft bill, carrying false papers will be a criminal offence but MPs have until 2013 to decide if registration should be compulsory.

I'm posting this to remind myself that the Brits are even more aggresively fascist than their bastard child-nation.

Seriously, what the fuck.

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Just sitting here, waiting for a virus check to finish up. Comp's acting all funky, locking up and refusing to run pages correctly. Very frustrating for the Northwestern Billyhank.

Nice day here in Jet City. Rode the bike home through a sunny 80-degree afternoon, weaving through a thousand, thousand people clogging up the Gilman trail, the sidewalks around Lake Union, the roads of Sand Point. Sweated my fat ass off, but that's nothing new, is it? Got some of the headache-inducing shit out of the shop so work won't, hopefully, feel quite so threatening every morning. Although now I'm on to working out the quarterly taxes, which, goddammit, seems to go WAY past the responsibilities of your average production manager. I hate figuring out my own fucking taxes, fer pity's sake.

Watching AMERICAN CHOPPER, kind of, out of the corner of my eye while I'm typing. I like this show not 'cause the bikes are cool (quite honestly, I'd rather be behind the wheel of a clapped-out '83 IROC than astride an OCC chopper), but because everybody, I mean EVERYBODY, is reading off cue cards for all of the fill-in-the-narrative-gap voiceovers. Everyone; the guys in the shop, their painter kid, the people building frames for 'em out in Michigan or wherever; truck drivers dropping off parts. It's cracking me up, the deadpan delivery, the extraordinary reliance on cliche to get through the simplest of speeches. I'm still curious as to whether or not someone's writing for them, but tonight Vinnie gave the same speech about powdercoat ("I like the look of powdercoat, but the problem is, it makes things thicker. And for some reason, this time it was even thicker than usual") that I've heard three times before about why they were having problems putting together a bike, which makes me think he's just coming up with this shit on his own. Even the laziest, slackass writer has a little more variety than that.

Admittedly, it's gotta be a fairly difficult thing, putting together a motorcycle out of a few stock parts and a lot of welded stock, but if you can't run a bolt into a hole that YOU measured, drilled & tapped, it doesn't mean that you've got a difficult job, it just means that you fucked up. Admit that you fucked up and get on with your shit. And, really, considering how much shit I've fucked up in a professional fashion lately, I know of what I speak. It sucks to be wrong, but it's worse to be a sniveling, craven cowardly excuse-making bitch.

Right, that's it kiddos. I think there's a story or two to post, but that's it for the personal jazz. Enjoy thyselves and try not to fuck with anybody smaller than you. 'Cause, really, where's the goddamned challenge in that?

p.s. Hey, any of you regulars, all three of you, anybody want to see a redesign? I've been fucking with the template a bit lately and I'm thinking it might be time to just bust down the old site and stick up a new one. Any thoughts?

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Sunday, April 25, 2004

One more before the witching hour:

This, my friends, is a slightly photoshopped JPEG of what is apparently an armored RV capable of brushing off a .50 calibre round. On ebay for an opening bid of $65,000.

Truly, this would seem like a neccessity for the modern world. And, therefore, I need one of you rich folks to purchase it and deliver it unto my doorstep. Just roll along Sand Point Way and look for the apartment with the orange lights on the deck. Send me an email before you show up and I'll meet you downstairs to say thanks and go so far as to shake your hand.

Btw, SEALAB 2021 is one of the finest things out there, isn't it?

Sweet dreams, y'all.

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We, Buttons & I, have Halloween lights strung all over the balcony and have since, uh, Halloween-ish, I guess, and I'm sitting here and to my right are the big windows that look out on the porch and the orange lights are burning and the night air is cooling the living room and Teen Titans are having their adventures, there's iced coffee in front of me, cars are zipping by on Sand Point Way, my stomach is full, Buttons is sleeping, I still need to do dishes and pack my bag for the morning, and everything is just right, for the moment.

Also, I got through the last mission of VICE CITY yesterday (I know, I know, but I only got the PS2 in January and I've been busy) and about a week-and-a-half ago I got my first barbershop haircut in ten years. Billyhank is no longer the halfass skinhead he's been since 23. And, yeah, the Chin might have gone bald first, but I'm catching up pretty fucking quick. Figure I've got three years of faking it before I get myself back down to skin.

Nothing really to write about, to be honest. Buttons & I were talking about seeing Kill Bill Vol. 2 today but her past life interceded so that didn't happen, work's been suck-my-ass hellish for the last few weeks, for no real reason, so that's been grinding me down. Just the minutia of daily life, I'm supposing. The tiny, trivial things that barely matter and still manage to throw you into a killing rage. Doing laundry; losing your seat on the bus; arguing with your boss. That kind of shit.

Ah, enough. Things are okay now. Talked to the Chin this morning and he's doing better than I thought he was. CD's out and available (btw, Chin, MikE!, when you read this, it's your reminder to SEND ME SOME FRIGGIN' CD'S), although the process of getting them was a bit of a fuckarow. Also, it sounds like the punk-rock-singing-acoustic comp is ticking over nicely. I know the Chin & Screaming Al have some guys signed up already: Joey Shithead (D.O.A.), Henry Cluney (STIFF LITTLE FINGERS), Sab Gray (IRON CROSS). Some good shit. Cross yer fingers for 'em.

All right, the coffee isn't doing shit for me and I'm seeing double. Good fuck, it's only like 10:30. Somebody just shoot me now.

My love to the wife & kids-


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Also, friggin' Gmail is killing me. Does anybody else out there have it and, if so, do they have a problem opening their fucking messages?

Information age, my ASS.

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Also, just to remind myself to get tickets, Bruce Sterling is speaking at UW on May 21th (Thursday, 7:00 p.m.). Y'know, the last time this happened, Neal Stephenson & Alton Brown were speaking on the same night, same time. I went and saw Neal with a whole roomful of nerds (the story's somewhere in the archives, but I don't recall it being all that scintillating) & it was fun, but I'm half convinced that if I'd gone to see Alton in a tiny room full of quirky cooks, I could possibly have convinced the man to go for a beer afterwards.

Probably just wishful thinking, really.

Ah, me.

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Heya kidlins.

Look, there's no point in telling you why it matters to me today more than any other day, but if someone cares about you, ESPECIALLY if that someone has no reason to do anything but hate you, fer FUCK'S SAKE, don't make 'em worried & crying just so you can have your own drama.

I love, love, love my girl...

Sweet dreams, kids.

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Saturday, April 24, 2004

Round 3: Hack a website. This one, specifically. A site that wants you to hack it. (Tip: check the source code for the first password. After that, you're on your own, 'cause I'm pathetic enough to still be stumped by level 2).

Have fun, kidlins. I'll try to check in later and see how you're all doing.

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Round 2:

Ultimate flash Sonic. Y'know, I haven't played any of the Sonic games since I had my Sega Genesis, but playing this is making me remember why I blew so many hours watching a little blue hedgehog whip around all those fucked-up levels.

Just too much goddamned fun, really.

Also, GROW, which you've probably already played, as it's been floating around for a while. If you haven't go check it out now, 'cause, really, it's just fucking bizarre, and damned cool. (Tip: once you get frustrated trying to get everything levelled up, just keep clicking the icons after the round has ended. If memory serves, the icons will keep levelling, but your score will stay the same. And really, who cares about the score? S'all about the animations, baby).

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Heya kids. It's a bee-yoo-tiful Saturday in Jet City, so it's time for some fun & games on the web. I've gotta head down to the U Village at some point this morning to pick up a b-day present for a pal, but before then, I promise to dig up at least THREE fun things for you to do on the web, next time you come see me.

First up:

A questionnaire for all the mind control agents out there. Now, since I assume that anybody here is one of the controllers and not one of the controllees, you're invited to go over and fill out this fella's q & a. You may as well, because if you slip and put something in there he shouldn't know, shit, you can just go back and erase his memory later, right?

Just don't tell him that the actual transceiver is implanted in his ass. These guys always pull the fake outta their skulls and figure they're done. Ah, the simple folk. Okay, that's activity #1. Go have fun.

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Wednesday, April 21, 2004

Bad, bad couple o' days, friends. Bullshit at work, still haven't gotten last thursday's paycheck, too much rain again, and just this fucking malaise that won't quit. Can't write, which is goddamned killing me. Keep sitting down with the same thing I've been hacking on since I got to Jet City and the words just keep getting staler & staler.

I think, seriously, I'm kidding myself about this writing gig. I may have to collapse the blog and toss my laptop, 'cause, really, it's all just getting a little goddamned depressing.


Go to bed.

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Sunday, April 18, 2004

Sad & creepy. A page with some persuasive arguments toward the idea of the WTC attacks having been carried out...shit, dunno how to say it. That the planes that hit weren't the same planes that took off, that there were missile pods and underground explosions. Stuff that I've thought about myself and haven't wanted to, stuff that makes me want to cry and scream and tear the face off the world, makes me want to find out for once and for all what the fuck happened.

And, y'know, I can't remember now if Al-Qaeda ever claimed responsibility, or if there's just been a worldwide assumption of the obvious. Anybody recall?

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Curious as to why I'd post a picture of this man on my blog?

Yeah, me too.

Click the pic for the story of how & why a pudgy, middle-aged nerd would expend the time, effort & expense to construct a first-class TRON costume for something called the "Penguicon". Also, for many, MANY pictures of this man posing for the camera in a unitard, making a funny face and presenting a near-perfect example of male-pattern baldness. Really, the pics make it all worth it. I mean, you'll be horrified, but you'll laugh, too. Although, if you're at work, you might have some explaining to do. And I'd stay away from the fetish answer if I were you.

Then again, if I were you, I wouldn't click on the pic. Some things are just too goddamned weird to see the light of day.

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Thursday, April 15, 2004

And just because it's kinda weird and Jet City local:

A site, apparently, about keeping chickens in Seattle. Which, I guess, isn't a terrible idea, but it's not exactly the first thought that pops into ones head when heading into a pretty heavily urbanized area. Or, if it is, it shouldn't be, and the one who's head that is needs to get it fucking fixed.

Right. I'm tired. Have I explained that I'm just motherfucking goddamned friggin' exhausted lately? It's so weird. Like I'm getting scopped with smack about ten minutes after I drag ass outta bed in the morning. Just fucking wonderful. Only thing that seems to fix it, temporarily, are mass amounts of sugar and caffeine. Just, really, really, really weird.

I ain't no goddamn son of a bitch. You better think about it, baby.

Love that song.

Goodnight, y'all.

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For nearly 13 years, until October 2003, I was a tax collector for the Internal Revenue Service. I was a field officer, spending the majority of my time making unannounced visits to businesses and individuals who owed federal taxes. I never expected a warm reception and rarely did I receive one.

And whose doors did I knock on? The carpet installer, the day-care center operator, the Wal-Mart clerk, the carpenter, the print shop owner. The majority of the taxes I collected were from the small-business owner with fewer than 20 employees. I long ago lost count of how many weed-choked fields I have trudged across to inspect some broken-down piece of farm equipment; how many musty warehouses, dilapidated mobile homes, cluttered shops and offices reeking of sweat and that peculiar odor of human desperation I have sat in; the number of ill-educated tradesmen, struggling entrepreneurs and desperate homemakers I have interrogated, demanding the impossible and promising the full fury of my federal power when my demands could not be met.

It is no secret that the nation's tax code favors the wealthy and protects big business. (An astounding 63 percent of United States corporations paid no federal income tax at all in 2000.) The individuals and businesses I encountered during my career did not have an army of tax lawyers, certified public accountants and lobbyists to guide and protect them. Most netted less than $30,000 per year. Most operated out of rundown store fronts in tired strip malls. Most were honest people who knew my arrival was the death knell of their American dream.

It should come as no surprise: the I.R.S. goes where the money's owed, and the money is owed by the little guy. When the service was reorganized in the late 1990's, it moved collection personnel to the small business/self-employed division; the other compliance division, which handles medium and large businesses, has no collection employees at all. Squeezed between a complex tax code that favors big business and an agency that marshals the entirety of its resources against him, the little guy doesn't stand a chance. He doesn't have the money to pay or to find a way out of paying.

A day late for most of you at this point, I have to imagine, but still interesting. The author, Richard Yancey, apparently just published a book about life inside that most despised of wing of the government machine which sounds pretty fucking interesting, right?

Btw, Neal Stephenson has published the sequel to Quicksilver, called The Confusion. How come nobody told me?


So, how y'all been?

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Sunday, April 11, 2004

Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirthday, dear Buttons...happy birthday to you...

Love you & love you, monkeegirl-

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Saturday, April 03, 2004

Really, I've got just one thing to say today:


Somebody finally wised up and built the world the Akira bike. Seriously, why the hell did it take this long? I've got no idea if it really runs (site's in Japanese and Billyhank is barely literate in English), but there're pics of a bare chassis showing a complete-looking drivetrain. Only going to the rear wheel, though. I guess Canada's aftermarket two-wheel drive conversion was too much for these engineers to pull off.

But, really, I need one of these, kiddos. NEED one of them. I know that this would be the right bike for me 'cause, really, I just recently realized how much I want a motorcycle. So, okay, all you lottery people who commonly read this site are on notice. The weather's getting beautiful here in the Pac Northwest, so it's time for somebody with way too much money to send one of these my way.

Oh, and, yeah, I'll need one of these to go with it, naturally, size 2XL, Long:

Thanks y'all. Now, who's got the TRON light cycles?

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Thursday, April 01, 2004

Okay, just bitching about this one to Buttons, so I figure I'll share.

Okay, I take the bus back and forth to work, right? And the 74, which started out as a nicely empty bus when I began riding it, has become pretty damned crowded over the last couple of months, to the point that Billyhank hasn't been able to get his favorite behind-the-rear-door seat for fucking weeks.

But, no matter how much I might desire a particular seat (and not to be stuck on the bench in the back where you're apt to slide around with every touch of the brake and mashing of the accelerator), there are rules, y'know? First off, whoever gets to the friggin' bus stop first gets on the bus first. Simple logic, no? Right, okay, then, if you're a young-ish male, such as Billyhank, other rules begin to form. First off, nice little old ladies (two of which can now be commonly found on the homeward-bound leg of the 74) get to go on first, no matter when they show up at the stop. Period. No exceptions. Even if it means she gets the best goddamned seat on the bus (the one behind the rear door, naturally), even if you've had a shitty day, or she's not even that nice (although the two women on the 74 are both pretty nice, to the casual observer) even if your feet hurt or you've got a headache or you're on crutches or have a fresh bullet wound or whatever. LITTLE OLD LADIES GET ON THE FUCKING BUS FIRST.

Right, so that's easy. Other rules make themselves apparent as situations occur. Anybody with a kid under the age of, say, eight gets to go on before youngish males, although, really, little old ladies should go before them. But, again, someone with a kid needs our support, if only so they can make the kid happy, so the rest of us don't have to listen to the screams as we wend our way throughout Jet City.

There're other rules, but those are the only two that really apply to today. Still reading? Wow. I'm impressed.

So, okay, I show up at the bus stop and there's one nice little old lady waiting (the other one was coming; I passed her walking on the way up to the bus stop) and a youngish mom (Billyhank-aged, roughly) with a kid that's maybe two or three. Okay, got the picture? Three folk at the bus stop, another on the way, three of whom have automatic precedence over the young-ish unattached male in attendance. Bah. Annoying, but, hey, those are the rules, and since I'm pretty much making 'em up to suit my own little moral code, I've gotta adhere to 'em.

Right, so we're all standing there, kinda scattered around, and the mom's bouncing the kid around, making it laugh and little old lady #2 shows up and says something that I can't hear because of my headphones so I smile and nod and we all get busy waiting for the bus.

But before the bus shows up this guy shows up, normal-ish looking, maybe five years younger than me and I immediately go into bus-door-blocking procedure, which pretty much means that I angle my ass towards the guy with the intent of stepping sideways once the bus pulls up and I can figure out where the door is going to be, so that I can allow the little old ladies and young-ish mom ingress while keeping my own place safe. I know it's petty and small and anal, but, well, fuck you.

Anyway, so the bus shows up and people start lining up and one of the little old ladies knows the drill so she steps in front of me and the other one kind of looks up at me and I smile and she takes the cue and steps up next to the other old lady, but then the first old lady tries to be polite to let the other old lady get on first and then the young-ish mom steps up and I step back for her, too, smiling. So, we're set, right? Now, the bus is just pulling up, so the grouping is still kinda dynamic, you dig? There's always that six foot window of where the damn bus is gonna land. Right, so it finally stops and the doors open and some guy's getting off, so the two old ladies step back to him by, and then kind of look at each other for a second, like seeing which one's gonna get on first, and that guy who showed up LAST (remember him? See previous paragraph for details) comes outta nowhere, buttonhooks around the old ladies, the young-ish mom and a suddenly REALLY pissed off Billyhank and jumps on the bus first.

Really, it's a good thing I don't go around armed.

It's stupid, maybe, that I'm this pissed off about something so small, but, seriously, what happened to courtesy? What happened to a basic understanding of social protocol and nicety? I mean, I watch this fuck running around nice old ladies and moms with kids and jumping onto a crowded bus in an act of sheer, unbridled selfishness, and I have to wonder what the fuck is wrong with this place. I've spent the last decade of my life hanging out with punks and alterno-kids and I can't think of too many of them (none, really, although the Chin or MikE! might be able to) who wouldn't have felt the same way I did, or who would have done what that selfish bitch did. It's just one more thing that makes me wonder if it's worth it, being kind to people, to act in a fashion that respects others in the faintest hope that they'll respect you in return. Is it just me? Is it just this one action that's hacking me off 'cause I had a rotten day at work?

No, no I don't think so. I think that the world has decided that because we've thrown away so many traditional things (some good to have thrown away, some maybe not so much), that we can dispense with politeness and some degree of social decorum. Christ knows that I'm not the most elegant or mannered man on the planet, but, shit, some things are so basic that they're practically instinct. Unless, apparently, there're old ladies and young mothers between you and an empty seat. In which case, hey, every dickhead for himself, it seems.


Goodnight, y'all. Sorry I didn't come up with any April's Fools shit, but, really, I'm just not that kinda guy. Sweet dreams, kidlins.

p.s. And, yes, the dickhead took the good behind-the-rear-door seat and Billyhank got stuck on that slidey back bench, consarnit.

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