FUCKING VULTURES

Today Roomie and I had a very productive morning; she feed her friend's cat, I got my glasses adjusted, library (so excited to read "Secret Historian"), cleaned, etc, whatever. Also emptied our mailbox for the first time since Friday. Holy Shit. Our mail person must hate us.

Anyways, in regards to my recent troubles, I received no less than 18 letters from attorneys seeking to represent me. Thanks...but no thanks. I already have an attorney on retainer. It disturbs me that the State of Illinois apparently sells lists of people they charge with crimes to marketing firms, that then in turn re-sell that information to other marketing firms. Fucking Assholes.

I should know. I used to work for a company that did something very similar. And I hate them. A cruel irony, indeed. But FUCK them. Who knew there exists a cottage industry of feeding off of others misfortune. Perhaps I'm simply that naive.

PS - My new banker is smoking cute. Tall, skinny, dark hair, right up my alley. And he lives near the bar I work at. Random, I know. What a strange week. "First round is on me" were my parting words to him today. And I meant it. Am I a vulture too?

I LOVE BEING THE "DJ"

In addition to my usual Barback/Busser/Bartender/Server duties at work, I am also expected to be the DJ. This isn't a "task" per se, more like a perk, and also...REVENGE. I'll explain.

The club I used to work at, when I was a Doorman, contained a sound system much, much too powerful for it's space. Those fucking speakers raped my ears for a year straight, often times with amazing, world class DJ's, and other times with utter, complete shit that wouldn't be welcome at an underground Rave in Dayton, Ohio.

So - when the owners of that club closed that place down, and opened up the bar I work at now, they simply brought over the same sound system. The new space is easily 3 times the size if not more, and the speakers/sub fill the room with no problem. And since the floors are concrete, the walls exposed brick and the ceiling 2 stories tall, the reverb is best described as LIKE WHAT.

This is where I come in. The employees on duty are expected to fill the air with out own music - we can play whatever we want. Really. I simply plug in my iPhone and either play shit off my stored music, or off Last FM or Pandora.

Great example of how fun this can be; last night a bunch of dudes were compelled to order a boot of Bitburger. Being the cheesy (though harmless) frat boys they were, the Bartender shouted over to me, and said:

Bartender: "Hey J! But on some Boot drinking music!"

Me: [stocking beer] "Like what?"

Bartender: "I dunno, something German!"

Me: [confused] "What, like Kraftwerk? David Hasselhoff? Polka?"

Bartender: [throws a coaster at me] "Come on!"

Me: [thinking...] "Oh, I totally fucking got it!"

And I put on Guns N Roses "Welcome to the Jungle" at about a MILLION DECIBELS, just to be sarcastic, and yet...it worked perfectly. Dudes went nuts! I love playing shit like that. Sometimes on lazy Sunday afternoons I'll rock stupid shit like Hall and Oats, just see if anyone notices (and I kinda sorta maybe like it a little bit...sometimes).

But by far, my favorite shit to play is dirty, Dirty, DIRTY hip-hop (after Midnight) and give those fucking speakers a fucking work-OUT. It's only fair; those sonic boxes of doom bullied me long enough, so now it's my turn to return the "favor". Patrons of said bar be damned! Or rather, be forewarned!

SHOW ME SHIT!

Perhaps it's because it's spring, or maybe because I'm impossibly horny but one thing is for sure: I'm no LONGER hibernating and as a result, I fear I'm leaning too much on my friends for support. Case in point was this brief conversation with Neil today:

ME: "Hey dude, what's up?"

NEIL: [ordering a beer] "Nothing...you?"

ME: "Um, I'll make this quick, I need you to come over, take your pants off and learn me Photoshop."

NEIL: "OK."

I've been so fucking unproductive that all this energy within me is about to blow like that volcano. The lack of actually doing something other than cleaning and working and working and cleaning has made me an un-happy boy.

But the solution(s) is/are clear: I need to get off my lazy ASS and do some shit for myself. But I need a few helping hands. Luckily I have awesome, capable friends that love compliments. Plus, I re-pay them in beer and weed. And perhaps hand jobs [the emotional kind]. Kidding. Sort of.