The Formula To Happiness CH.1

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                                                      The Formula To Happiness

                                                                     CH.1

S

o it starts right here. I suppose this is good a time as any to get down to the work. I’ve been a mess over starting this task for the last nine weeks, but where to get the ball rolling is no longer an issue. Before just now, the “ordering” of the story…the Curse, my relationship, the scientists, the notebooks…were driving me almost totally out of my mind. How to start it, where, and with who were previously of great importance to the me of here and now…but now I am just too tired to try and convince you I give a shit.

            Seems like it should be a cinch from my trusty folding metal chair here at THREE for FIVE TACOS in Carrboro. Feeling total control over my surroundings. At least for now.

 Three filthy white day laborers and a plump, well-manicured Mexican walk through the door and begin ordering up a mess of tacos, tortas, and beer. The clock on the wall over my table looks like it’s ticking…not half, but maybe a third slower than it should be. Not a good sign where I come from. Just sitting here completely relaxed-looking…like it would make sense to. No one here knows me, where I’ve been, or what I’ve gotten myself wrapped up in. Just another shady gringo that has mysteriously decided to perch himself on a chair at the local all-Mexican restaurant and corner-store.

            I get temporarily distracted again—and this happens a lot—now by a Telemundo program called, “EL GORDO & LA PRINCESA”, which seemed a little to close for comfort to my high school experience growing up in the rich north suburbs of Chicago. It was right then I realized if I’m to re-write the bulk of this “stuff” here at a certified “Bodega”, I should want to invest in some Spanish lessons that I won’t fail out of like I did in high school. Let alone twice. 

            I HAD the bulk of it written…just to keep everything straight. But once the “Gruesome-Twosome” as we had started calling them found out I was going to blow the whistle, they connived to have it stolen. Which I guess means they still have one project or another to protect.

            But yeah. They stole my fucking book. And more specifically, the four notebooks with the story in it.  Detailed entries on the formula and all the Heaven and Hell that surrounds it. But again, I’m too worn from thinking to give a rats-fuck anymore. I’m guessing it’s just too late.            

           

            I still get plenty of the twisted thoughts, though…most likely on account of all the strange chemicals still rotting away the interior of my spinal column or wherever. On occasion, I still blame the like for my poor posture--which can leave me sitting there curled up like a shrimp if I’m not paying attention. But then again, so can the shock of watching an earlier version of yourself disintegrate into a levitating bundle of whirling DNA strands and shimmering particles before your eyes. These things can really happen.

            While I sit here trying to peacefully reconstruct the last few years in writing, “The Bad Thing” takes over my line of thought, once again…

            The “Bad Thing” was an unfortunate line of thought Tucker and I were forced to develop at the hands of a couple of ugly Chicago cocaine dealers who wanted to steal my formula…THE formula… the Formula to Happiness; which, to no avail, was somewhere in the four notebooks those fucking chemists stole a few years later.

            Even though it started as a series of bad jokes, the bad thing was eventually the best way of keeping us safe, and grounded to where we were.

Why am I even explaining this? Fuck it.

The key to summoning this line of thought is to fit a few things into the equation.

1) Who and what were you were dealing with,

2) What was the worst possible thing that could conceivably go wrong, and

3) What was the most extreme action we could take to counteract the situation immediately? 

Simple. Get your bearings, then go flailing straight off the deep end.

These were the tenets of the “Bad Thing”.

Tuck and I originally started off by considering, 

“What is the BEST way to deal with...(any particular crisis)”?

Seemed much more reasonable at first.

 Why would anyone want to start with a purely, go-ape-shit-style response? But regardless, “What’s the Bad Thing?” became a common question heard from many of us.

             The problem came when we learned that demographics like the west side Puerto Rican drug dealing crowd and scientists from over-funded, secret Psych/Chem labs don’t usually make for good friends. They don’t make the “cut” by factoring what’s right, most responsible, and best for everyone into their weekly work nut. So we had to adjust our…perspective. After just three months around a few of ‘em…and one severe beating, one (dropped)“conspiracy to commit kidnapping” charge, and at least two solid fuck-arounds with other-peoples’ money, there didn’t seem to be a better way of handling them. The people involved. I’ll clarify as we proceed.

            There are a lot of “bad things” all around us—but as for right here and now, back at Three For Five Tacos; the BAD THING would be that these Mexicans recognize me…maybe from the newspaper or a dream they had.

I’m told I show up in a lot of peoples’ dreams now…

Suddenly I become aware that I am getting some very possibly real icy glares from a few of the folks behind the counter.  Were my thoughts from before bleeding through to this very junction in time? In “Bad Thing” reality…which, I’ve GOT to try and impress upon you can be about 90% as real as true and physical reality but just in another space…out of nowhere, things have gone completely a-rye with the Mexicans. I see one in back who just made eye contact with the mustached manager and I just KNOW he’s about to pick up the phone and call the police or the F.B.I. or whoever. On the other end of the bar I notice the previously friendly female server slowly reaching for something under the counter, which I can only assume is some sort of weapon. A weapon she may feel the need to use against me. Two dudes by the bathroom are sizing me up as if they had plans to tackle me for restraining purposes...one has a knife on his belt. “Sweet Jesus of jumping time and space,” I thought. “What have I done?” Things were quickly heating up.

            The Bad Thing, in this situation, would cause me to…no—to force me to actually brandish the emergency sawed off shotgun I have in my press case. I always thought it was handy because of its dual purpose as an audible “shit has gotten way out of control” alarm. Once that famous “SHOOK-SHOOK!” noise cuts across the room everything either freezes or comes to another head quickly. I leap out of my seat with a violent jerk. Here we go.

“SHOOK-SHOOK!”

“NOBODY MOVE!” I scream as I gesture with the gun for everyone in my path to the door to line up against the far wall. Just to let them know I mean business, I turn and blast one of the tall, stacked piles of homemade tortillas off the bar and into oblivion. Between the food explosion and the noise it gave everyone a bad jolt, even me. But it provided the split second opportunity I needed to grab my bag from under the table, and dart for the safety of darkness behind the neighboring chicken wing restaurant. Solitude…safety from the crunch of colliding presents.  

I blink twice.

A hushed noise like a caught-mouse screeching under a wet bath towel coming from behind me catches my ear.

“Eye…ey ah…sare?” It gets louder as I snap back into place.

“SIR?” The voice trembles again.

I look down and the gun isn’t in my hands…and I sure wasn’t razzing the shit out of any employees or sprinting across a small parking lot. I’m sitting twenty feet away from where I was just standing.

“Ey heav two tacos, sare,” the small waitress says with a smile and a plastic ketchup bottle of green sauce in hand as she sets down the tacos.

Tacos…yeah. I ordered these. I was back in my folding chair. Just like that, it never happened…almost as quickly as it had.

            For the moment, I can rest easy amongst my non-English-speaking friends for all they are now worth to me: a safe place to work--serving homemade food and a good selection of cheap cervesas where it seems unlikely that I will get killed. Just what I needed. No unexpected bleed-through, either, with the exception of a single, spent shotgun shell lying on the floor. Good. Excellent.

                                                *                        *                        *

Play "Teeth Like God's Shoe Shine” by Modest Mouse at a blaring volume…

            ITS BEEN a lot harder to keep everything straight lately. Ever since that fateful night when we tried to reproduce The Formula To Happiness, things changed. Even understanding full well that any attempt at intentional reproduction could have the most disastrous and tragic side effects—side effects of perhaps planetary consequence or worse, we couldn’t resist.

            It’s been alleged that the compound, the formula itself, could never be artificially manufactured or sold—that it was a thing of nature…of natural cosmic cross-wiring—and could only be produced through a series of nearly backwards occurrences of the Butterfly Effect.  You know—as in “You step on a butterfly today and three years from now the world as you knew it doesn’t exist anymore”.

            This natural occurrence is especially important to understand…regardless of what you want to call it. I’m sure it has gone by countless names throughout history. The concept of carelessly changing ONE thing and the ripples it causes reach WAY further into the world than you’d ever calculate. Kick a stone on a sidewalk. Smash a single dandelion. Drive 10 miles per hour slower for ten minutes. Things change.

People meet. People die. Things literally explode.

            Now apply that to the actions of just three people over the course of just one day…or the actions of just ONE person, but consider how the falling dominos of the Butterfly Effect can move in reverse. See. Already a real mind-fuck, isn’t it? That’s exactly what we thought at first, too.

If you are one of the people throughout history who have gotten close enough in proximity to the Formula once activated, once actuated, like we did—considering and instantly understanding these kinds of things become second nature. Even automatic. It’s almost as if I don’t just understand the variables, I see the outcomes. Almost instantly with a second’s focus, I can see a thousand outcomes shattering forth from any incident, any action. New moments in the future are instantly formed as old ones that were solidly in place crumble. The various outcomes crash and smash into other explosions of possible outcomes…and by the time it all lands, you are standing in present day reality. Now, how it is exactly that we can see or get mental impressions of incidents that have not occurred yet, or move back and forth between different versions of the present is a complete mystery. But it has something to do with exposure to the formula…that much I am certain of.

Creeping Jesus! Suddenly, I peer out the window here and see Tom Howe across the street. This wouldn’t feel so out of place, except that Tommy…my Tommy, is not only 1900 miles away, but in a hospital. I mean it really, really seems like Tommy…but maybe 15 years younger. Same clothes he would have worn in high school, same white jock-style baseball cap and determined walk. But clearly not a 32 year old man. This was a kid; a youngin’. And he was walking straight towards me. Without explaining, purely based on what I’ve told you already, you can imagine the issues this could cause, can’t you? You can start to, anyways.

“If it IS Tommy,” I think out loud, “Even a Tommy from 15 years ago, he already would have known me, so it is possible that he recognizes me.” The bottom line to this one, though, is that I AM now 15 years OLDER and sporting a full beard. Even if he COULD recognize the “me from now”…ah, it can’t happen. The “me of now” doesn’t exist to him yet. Here and now, in Three for Five reality, it all makes perfect sense.

            We all began to appreciate the true gravity of what “everything will change” really meant a long time back. Wait. Maybe it’s a long time FROM NOW, and I am the one who is seeing things from behind?

No, stop. DON’T OVER-ANALYZE. Over-complication is the Devil’s Magic Carpet. Mark Wolfe taught me that in THREE realities, little does he know. Valuable information if none of my “me’s” don’t completely write off the sentiment in a bout of “I-know-best-mania”…making that life-saving lesson completely unknown to the current me who is really the one who needs it…

NO! STOP SWITCHING! Stop with all the then, now, me, me’s, forward, backward…shit, you see how easily it is to get dangerously lost in this line of thought. It can last for days or even weeks. It’s like some form of catatonia. 

I have to get up and physically distract myself with a cigarette just to stop a possible rift and my head from blowing wide-open. The brain, as we unfortunately learned, is like a melon in a microwave; too much, too fast, and KA-BLOOM!

“Ha ha!” I think to myself, “See! I’ve stopped it…for now—so no brain explosions!”

Not nearly as reassuring a thought if you take it word by word. I continue inside my skull, “Just thinking this shit could end the entire world…and you want to sit here and ponder life… FUCKING MORON! Your adventures sure haven’t made you much wiser…” It was about all of the self-flagellation I could dish out in under a minute. I KNEW the rules; had learned the hard way.

            I’ve seen a literal genius try to do the mental math it takes to really digest five minutes in “me of then” time vs. “me of here/now” time and watched his body start to wretch in terminal confusion just before his brain redecorated the walls of “The Lees’” Humboldt Park apartment. Sssss…shla-POW! Big Lee and Little Lee never officially forgave us for the mess.

To LAURA MASTERSON, Jan 5^th, 2013

From THE DOG PALACE, Chicago

Hi BoBora…

 Not to write you only to bother you, but yes, I needed to bother you a little more. In case you’re wondering, I’ve yet to toss myself out the 23^rd floor window of “The Dog Palace” here on posh Michigan Ave., so I suppose I’m all right for now. I just wanted to say how much I appreciate you treating me like family…SAYING it is one thing when we’re all schwilling down rum and cokes around the Christmas tree and cleaning up cat puke, but actually being there for a non-blood sibling with an ever-evolving crisis is a real horse of another color. I just KNEW I wasn’t screwing Big Bri when I introduced you two. You are a winner. And I mean that.

Your Ex-Almost-Big-Brother-In-Law,

-Matty BoBatty

                                                                       

Boy, that letter was a kick to the groin to come across. Got to love being simultaneously reminded of happy times that don’t exist anymore and dark times that aren’t that far behind you. Shit…that reminds me—it’s about time to try and fill you in.

AT THIS early juncture it’s appropriate for me to pose a very central question to you. When is the last time you really fully considered and answered the following question with total honesty?

“Are You Happy?”  It’s really something if you try saying it out loud. Try it.

“AM I HAPPY?”

The Beginning of The End

 

By Special Guest Contributor, Mr. Neal  Tarshis

       

On July 1st 1916 something happened that changed the way that wars were fought. Over 60,000 British troops at 7:30 that morning , carrying 70 pound packs, boiled out of their sodden rat and lice infested trenches and entered the desolate barbed wire territory of "No Man's Land". It was the infamous "Battle of the Somme...". The Germans were shocked to see the British advancing standing up and marching in hundreds across formations. The Germans soon overcame their shock and let loose with thousands of Maxim heavy machine guns. The slaughter was horrific. In one unit of 3,000 men only 50 were still on their feet as the charge collapsed! Thus the "romantic" era of cavalry and the bayonet charge was over and the wonders of technological warfare became the norm.

Wake Up, America....

By ADAM DOLIN,
News Wire Editor, Guest Contributor, & Ronin

 I see a country that is no longer split. No longer "bi-partisan." A country that has no solutions...only complaints. A country that will so passionately preach those complaints that they will go to the reaches of saying things like "the problem with this economy is that we have gotten away from being a catholic nation. If you want to fix the economy, listen to our forefathers who created this land as a catholic nation, and return it to that state."
I see the 50+ responses to that sort of a post, and the extreme belief in it. I look at the other posts that these people submit. I see the glenn beck clips. I see less of them, but i also see almost as many people that subscribe to articles with the title "Right-wing extremism may be on rise, report says."
Report says...REPORT FUCKING SAYS??? Who has the right to report, and why are there so many extremists that follow them?

The person that posted the article about us needing religion to fix our economy happens to be a very dear friend of mine. He posts Glenn Beck's "news cast" on a daily basis. Sometimes an hourly basis...and unfortunately, I can't say any different for the other side.

He is the same person that continuously posts messages (and gets very heated responses) about the hate crimes and "terrorism" that has been caused by religious extremists from the middle east...and I would like to pose a question to every american soul that has a BRAIN OF THEIR OWN.

Where did those extremists that blew your shit up start coming up with those ideas? Was it the hatred of your own personal feeling of superiority? Was it the hatred of what America is becoming? Did it start from one person who was capable of getting up on a podium and preaching to a group of 100 people that what they believe is right? Was it that person's ability to speak the way that I am right now?

Well let me pose one more question...from an editor to the president of the national affairs desk......what happens when those other 100 people that post their affirmation of what the "leader" believes, continue to expose themselves to the same media that he does? What happens when those same uneducated people, who are just looking for something powerful to latch onto decide to do something about it? What happens when they decide that because they don't know anything whatsoever, and don't care about that fact, that they will start subscribing to the same media that their "leader" does. And what are the consequences that this world will suffer when they decide to act on it the same way that the extremists in the middle east that they preach about did?

Are we any different than a middle eastern between the ages of 17-34 if we go and blow up one of their buildings? Why? Because we are american?

The second most disturbing thing about this problem is that those middle eastern males between the ages of 17-34 know what they are talking about. The most disturbing thing about this subject, is that clearly...american males that preach this way don't. They are simply fed powerful propaganda and "news reports" from people like john stewart and glenn beck. Not to say that john stewart and glenn beck aren't right about some of the things that they say. But it becomes a problem when you have a nation of morons who gather their information from the biggest extremist in the country. It becomes and even bigger problem when they start preaching the same bullshit that they hear. It becomes a catastrophy when those people build a big enough netword of people that don't know what else to latch onto because they are too lazy to think for themselves. And it becomes the end of the world when they begin to act on it.

So in honor of The Woody Creek chapter 11, I am reaching out to anyone that is in the age group of americans that will be the future of our world, AND are capable of thinking AND acting for themselves.

I am asking for those people who have their specific talents, and are passionate enough about using their brain for a greater good. Not passionate about using their amazing talents for negativity. I am asking for the support of people like you, to realize that YOU CAN THINK FOR YOURSELF. You can be thankful for what you have. You can find the positive in a negative situation. I am simply asking that you do that.

With all of the negatives that our society exposes us to, our minds are trained to pick a side. Once you've picked your side, whether you have any clue about what you are talking about or not...unfortunately your side is made up.

But what if there was a side in the middle. A side that tries to find the good in life, and cultivate it. Rather than exposing as many people as you can with your talents to the negatives in our society, why not be an innovator? Why not get the public to realize the positives. And what happens when a nation of extreme negativists turn into a nation of people that want to feel happy again?

I need people like you Matt. I need people like me, and people like brian lapins, and people like llonatan axle, and people like Tal Ben-Shahar, and Martin Seligman. I have submitted these same ideas to Dr. Seligman (president of the American Psychology Association and National Positive Psychology Association). And I WILL get a response. And I will not only get a response, I am ready to make a difference in this world. Because it needs people that are willing to start a website called the "national affairs desk." And it needs people that are willing to find the positive in a society filled with greed, finger pointing, and ultimately...............finish that sentance yourself.

I will be a poster boy. I have created the connections to be a poster boy. I will get up on stage and I will tell the public that they are MISGUIDED!

But I need minds like yours.

So thankyou for reading my soap-box message board post. If you would be so kind as to post it on your web-site, it would be much appreciated. But this society will end if all we have are two groups of people, or three groups of people, or four groups, or a world of people that are only capable of finding things that are wrong with the world, and never anything that is right, or a solution to their problems. We will crumble as a planet, not just as a nation, if all we are capable of focusing on are the things that are already destroying us. We have focused on that long enough. It is time for a new era. A new era of positive thought. An era of thought that will move us FORWARD, instead of dwelling on why we are moving backwards.

I have an attorney, an investment banker, a college professor with a PHD in positive psychology, a close friend who literally aced his LSAT, a brother with an MBA and 4 other BA's in business, accounting, statistics, and valuation. I have a strangle hold on the insurance industry, and am now licensed in every state in the country to sell not only what our people NEED as far as insurance goes, but also what they NEED as far as investment, and life insurance go. I have the capability now to show the people our age, who have no idea what to think, but are never the less subject to having their thoughts controlled...ways to counter act the fact that our generation will not have social security. I am licensed in every state of the US to sell insurance, banking products, and securities of every kind, and I have the contacts to start a revolution of people that WANT to be educated. The only reason they aren't is because the generation before us did such a good job with their generation that they didn't take the time to teach us how to do the same thing.
So I guess this is my form of an extremist post. I am extreme in the way of saying fuck you to all the close minded morons, who make opinions that are SO strong, based on nothing but the words of a glenn beck.
Please feel free to pass this message on to anybody who has an open mind, and has been misguided to this point in their lives. Because we are at a point where either the people like you and I will educate our world...or the uneducated will destroy it.

By National Affairs Desk Syndicate Senior Editor,
ADAM DOLIN

An Old Friday Release: "These God-Damned Awful Things"

A Friday Release Special Report from the Job

“These God-Damned Awful Things”

Part I

Can I ride out the stress, the madness, the all-in-all “antsy-ness” of eleven hour shifts at the consulting firm where I am employed? Well my friends, yes, I can. How, may you ask, is such a feat manageable under these circumstances…the itching, writhing, restless, even chaffing-YES, CHAFFING monotony of 10+ hrs in a 2 ½ ft. work desk shaped like a cheese wedge-actually forcing your legs uncomfortably close together. I have personally met a cow named #14369, who lived at slaughter farm that has a better, bigger spot to spend the day in. And he sure won’t be there for years, either.
The answer to my problem-and doubtless uncountable other co-workers’ new mal-ergonomic malady is a readily available and consistent supply of Xanax-actually a chemical compound called alprazolam hydrochloride, which is a middleweight anti-anxiety medication. Just ¼ of one of these strange looking stick shaped tablets will medically alleviate all symptoms of anxiety & tension. One-half tablet will do the same with the exception of the increased dosage providing a calming “buzz” of sorts quite similar to Valium (or to the clinically inclined, hydra-5-diazapam hydrochloride). Venture into the 1.5(3/4 tablet) mg. dosage and you will be noticeably intoxicated. Slurred speech is common and stumbling while walking is a guarantee. Severe drowsiness may accompany such a dose. Usually too much for a beginner.
For the seasoned pro, I recommend a full “bar”- a clinical two mg. dispension of the drug--lasting 20-24 hours. You will, be it to a positive or negative end, experience several hours of memory loss.
Time flies by, the brain turns to jelly, and by now (since many folks convince themselves too take even more in this state), you will be falling over or babbling like the village drunk.
In most cases, this dose can knock your average drug consumer out into a miniature, yet harmless, drug-induced “coma”. If you DO retain the tenacity to stay conscious you’ll just end up good old-fashioned wasted. Not to mention that use of more than 1mg. of Xanax can increase the effect of alcohol as much as up to 5x. That means now that drinking two beers equals drinking ten! My brain begins to trail off in a ridiculous direction that only a large dosage of Xanax could induce.
These were my final thoughts, literally. Don’t ask I was already half asleep...
“Nancy Rod Billywho, a ’68 ‘vett engine, a fully fueled 2002 USAF Stealth Bomber super-sonic jet, and a healthy cheetah and my brain…all on the starting line waiting for the big crack of the go-gun. Nancy Rod is a new addition to the race line-up. She is actually a Blood Diamond rebel thief. She tries to counteract the harm done by the diamond cartels by planning and executing robberies of inter-continental shipments and deliveries. She is used to running; having to be quick on her toes for the sake of her own life. A human spark plug--she will make for a great competitor. More on Ms. Billy-who to come. And though it moves like a shaking bowl of Jell-O- my brain still leads the heat into the second lap of the race..."
Xanax may also cause you to momentarily lose focus on the particular task at hand and start describing bizarre racing competitions between things that just don’t fit and don’t belong on a starting line together…right.
I’m just going to rest my eyes for a second…




These God-damned Awful Things
Part II

Ah-ha, and good morning…I think--or perhaps early afternoon. I could be more certain, but some son of a bitch stole my desk clock which was propped up against my flat-screen monitor only about 3 inches from my sleeping head. Amazing! Which one of my brass-balled co-workers could have pulled such a “streets of shanghai” maneuver without waking me? Nevertheless, before we attempt to get to the bottom of this, I would like to take a moment to thank my long-time coworker and soon to be ex-close friend,  Dave Ettenbury, for taking blame for this gibberish-- that is if it should ever be discovered by management or the police. And there will be no denying it-you lanky, clumsy, playboy! Because Dave my friend—I wrote the original on your stationary.
Onward.
Apparently, while I was putting the finishing touches on “Part 1” on Friday at my work station after-hours, I went unconscious—and if it made sense to point a finger, I’d point it at one of these god-damned awful things-these “hell sticks”--the Xanax; the current bane and simultaneous point of my office existence.
What type of monster would find me passed out slumped over my desk-unresponsive- on a Friday night and just use that opportunity to steal a $3.99 wall clock and ruin the beginning of my weekend? What was the thought process there? “Hey, there’s Matt Byr…uh--no wait--Dave Ettenbury slumped over and not responding…should we try to wake him, call the paramedics, or steal the cheapest thing on his desk and just leave him?” Although the unknown amount of time--be it hours or days ( could it be Sunday?!) has left me so baffled that I can’t even stand, I do retain the energy to pull up the IP Phone (which, in my position here at the company is illegal- but I broke in to the hard-drives boot-up service menu and re-enabled the phones functionality for personal, covert use.) and order up a sizeable meal from Market Square. Good old Market Square Restaurant--the “anything you want for a price” style diner that makes about two dozen daily deliveries to my office during the work week. But would the demand for hasty delivery be granted on a weekend? Certainly, for a price, given their seemingly “sliding scale” delivery fee-it may just be cheaper to take a cab and pick it up myself. If I ever do gain back the strength to stand up on my own, given the 2 ½ bars of Xanax still in my blood--I’ll be needing grilled cheese with bacon-(well done) and tomato, with fries, chicken noodle soup, a beverage, and I suppose an order of cheese sticks-just to toss around…and at once.
Moreover, if the restaurant tries to fuck me on my “high-quantity” ketchup demand--we may just end up with a missing short order cook or delivery boy who “was previously very dependable but has now somehow gone missing”. And I want bread for this soup--and they know this, but may just leave me to suck down my chicken noodle in shame with no rolls, no butter, and a spoon with a funny shape (only in the north suburbs of Chicago would a restaurant waste money on sending a formal, plastic “soup spoon” with every bowl full). But the inner-workings of an overpriced diner’s purchasing decisions are of little interest to me.
What I was originally trying to strategize, before I passed out, was how these goddamned awful things can benefit my workplace as a whole… as an extended, over anxious family--as a community. My need to share my discovery/ secret weapon is almost more than I can bear! They must know-they must all know what they’ve been missing-and I’ll be the motherfucker doing the enlightening.
So here’s the nut of my original plan: To crush, divide, and if possible evenly distribute 120 bars (about 3 months worth of prescriptions) of Xanax into, say, 10-12 of the “unopened “ Hinckley & Schmit 5 gallon water cooler jugs…now “safely” stored in the warehouse.
This way, we can administer small dosages of the drug to any and all thirsty individuals just looking for some cold water. Floor wide sales and dials would go through the sheet metal roof! No one would ever leave their desk. And forget all the loud blow-ups and arguments amongst the managers….they will henceforth become quiet, 2-way discussions. The only problem, technically at least, with this plan is that we must also consider a conceivably NEGATIVE situation. For instance; Dean K. and Larry Ling come out of Dean’s office…thirsty after putting the fear of God into an employee for downloading & printing pornography here at headquarters. They make a bee-line for the water cooler. Unfortunately for them and everyone else, the 10 crushed up bars in that jug have settled to the bottom-now unevenly distributing about four full bars each into their little blue Dixie cups of “water”…I’ll stop there. Use your imagination to finish out the day for our two now heavily drugged corporate directors. I must work out the kinks.
By the way, how the shit do I get home from this place on the weekend? Fuck it-a good meal and ¾ of a bar should put me right into the “figuring things out” frame of mind. Or maybe not. I guess we’ll have to wait to see if I ever execute master plan #13. I’ll keep you posted. Until I find a way home or till the next Friday Release, take care.

Friday Release: Letter to the Management

The Friday Release 9/18/09 - An Oldie but a Goody...

Sincerest of apologies for the 2 week delay on a new Friday Release, but my keyboard was giving me problems, so I had to "put it down"--like the rest of my malfunctioning electronics that have gone before the keyboard. Whether they are fixable or permanently damaged matters not...not to me at least; a kink in the hose is a kink in the hose.

My system, once the appliance or piece of equipment becomes troublesome, is to wish it well and hurl it Earth-bound from my 4th floor fire escape...and with an appreciative salute, looking down below at all the smashed bits and pieces, I give silent but sincere thanks for all the good times we once had together. Then I run back indoors before anyone can identify the "maniac" who almost regularly whips microwaves, stereo systems, remote controls, dvd players ( they are my favorite ones to put an end to) and various computer equipment from someplace high up on the side of the building. Onward...

It's Monday around 7 AM , 8/31 in this tiring year of 2009, and I can already feel the summer slipping out of the city. Just me and a few other half-asleep early morning commuters humming down Lawrence Ave. on the 81 bus, and I'm just trying to rationalize the madness that has ensued this last few weeks.

It was the last week of August, to boot, which has always been a king-hell loser of a month, and also the hands-down unluckiest page on the 12 month calendar.

My old band even wrote one of our most "popular" songs: "Unlucky August". I would surely be one of the first to sign a petition calling for the exile of August from the calendar year, and, for safety's sake, close all successful businesses during the time period that used to be August, close all schools, individually quarantine those involved in happy relationships as to avoid their impending blow-up argument or total demise-- due to the month, the cruel bastard August.

But the curse of August (and truly, no offense to those born in August), is too large a nut to crack here and now. I'll just say, that IF there were a particular time of year to avoid-- it would be August. Especially when you're like me... going through an eviction, scrambling to get enough cash together, looking to find a new apartment to let you in, while trying to get packed and moved while neither me or my girlfriend have any common days off work together--making scheduling an easy moving date im-fucking-possible.

For my relatively young age, 29, I've had a vast array of living arrangements--studio apartments, 1-4 bedroom apartments, and 2 condos. I've stayed with friends, lived alone, lived with 6 roommates. Lived in a skyscraper in downtown Chicago, lived in old swamp land in Florida. I've stayed in shacks and mansions of all types. I've lived on a farm. I've spent alot of time on the road traveling with bands as well, which, after awhile, the in and out of towns for weeks on end starts to feel like something similar to moving.

Anyways, Ashley and I think we found an apartment...luckily the judge in courtroom 106 downtown gave us a couple of weeks to scram...so, I figure I'll depart with writing a letter to my landlord--just to get some things out in the open since I'm leaving anyways.

To: Mary Burlsberg

bldg. mgr/landlord

Mary:

I've never been the best tenant for landlords; as I am loud, constantly overpopulating my apartment with boisterous, chemically impaired guests, loudly sexually active, and, saving the best for last, typically broke and unable to always pay rent promptly.

But sweet Jesus--when I moved into your building, being a defunct 1930's era historically- certified Capone brothel, my first act after moving in was to trap one mouse in my bathroom, and cold-bloodily murder another with a dictionary.(I was calling myself a murderer for weeks, in shame). In addition, I also had to find a way to stop myself and my food supply from being decimated by the live-in battalion of both Red American and Asian cockroaches, so I thought for sure I'd get a little flexibility from the management.

Secondly, I surely didn't know about the buildings' geriatric mafia-like organization; 80+ year old citizens who lurk in the dark places of the building ready to ask personal questions or eyeball fuck my girlfriend at any time. For a moment, I was looking into group rates, with a discount of course, on castration procedures for the lot of them; but at their age not only don't they use "it", but it was simply out of my range of financial options.

You collect their rent (or do you?)...So you obviously know Fred. Fred (possibly the "GodFather"to the organization) actually demanded monthly extortion money out of me for "laundry room protection", claiming the he'd "hate to see anything go missing or happen to my clothes while they were in his "territory". To this I paid little attention until I went to get my clothes out of the dryer, and several of my left socks were gone. I noticed the laundry gangster starring at me so I went over and asked if he'd seen anyone near the dryer I was using.

"Sorry fella" he said, "never failed to surprise me just how much stuff disappears doing laundry..whats missing? Some socks?"

I wasn't buying his bullshit.

He continued, "Next thing you know a shirt or nice pair of slacks will up and grow legs on ya."

Although this was both humorous and worrisome--I decided to take action. For days I stalked those who I knew or believed to be involved. But as you can imagine, waiting to witness, in-person, a group of octogenarians committing a crime or planning a heist was truly like watching paint dry. So I decided to cut to the chase and go straight to the laundry terrorist himself--close to 90 years old with a voice box, rickety cane, and that uninviting odor of a nursing home. Which, in hindsight made me realize people don't smell like nursing homes--nursing homes stink like the people.

"So whats the racket?" I asked Fred.

The old bastard acted like he had no idea what I was talking about. Shit, I thought, is he trying to be clever or is this poor old fucker suffering from dementia?

A couple of days later ALL my damn socks vanished from my load of laundry. So, I grudgingly agreed to the steep $7/week protection payments he had originally offered-which really I suppose at $1 a day is a great deal to keep my undergarments safe. Fuck it, I thought. And since then, no other items have gone missing. Only in Chicago, in an old ex-Capone operated building, could an elderly mob organization have the balls to extort for "laundry room protection" , but better to be safe than sorry in the windy city.

Oh and yeah, I don't like being asked if "I've been drinking". Firstly, because I work 15 hour days, and thats why I'm usually red-eyed and exhausted. But mainly because I don't drink. Never-the-less, you'd ask me on a semi-regular basis. No, god damn it, I have not been drinking... and even if I had told you what I had been doing, at your age you'd never understand anyways.

"No, ma'am, no booze," I'd cackle, "but I did just twist up a 'B' to bring back all the benzos I ate earlier, and in about 15 minutes I'll be rolling ( ROLLING BALLS! I think to myself)-and I'm no threat to you." Which I'd say calmly as I extend my arms for a hug.

Having to break it all down would've killed my damn roll so I decided to fuck the wordy explanation for your sake, not out of shame or embarrassment.

Then there was the burglary. Ahh... and a frosty rage creeps over me at the mere mention. Let's see. Anyone who lives in this building knows there are no less than 4 members of the said gorilla faction of old folks lounging the day away in the lobby at any given time between 7am and 6 pm. My apartment was broken into and robbed between 1 & 3pm-- so I would love to know, how exactly did none of the seniors I interrogated see a damn thing when they are, in fact, perched all day long in a semi circle around the only publicly accessible door to the entire building?

A hum- fucking-dinger, huh? The perpetrator had to get into the building, break into my place, and go in and out of the building at least two more times-even with a partner, to carry all the shit out. Even if it was a tenant of the building, wouldn't they have been spotted or asked where they were going with all their stuff? Maybe there was a studio apartment protection tax I was not aware of. Either way, all our things are gone.

Shit, at this point do we even need to get into the bed-bug incident(s)?! To which, in honesty you were helpful and sympathetic, but never the less a nightmare of a situation when they did happen. But since the bedbugs have been effectively driven from the land of apt. 204-- I guess I I'll drop it...nearly... teeny, horribly itchy, red bites mysteriously appearing all over me and my girlfriend, and blood marks on the sheets!! OK ...I'm done now for real.

I suppose I'll just wrap it up by saying: we quite possibly never should've crossed paths-or maybe it was twisted fate. And out of all the bullshit-- late rent, 5 day notices, and the never-ending cloud of pot smoke seeping out from under my door-I'm glad I had you for a landlord. You've been more than accommodating and above all, helped me keep my home in your building for the better part of 6 years. And, for that, you have my thanks...and I wont soon forget my years on Virginia Ave.

Sincerely-your worst tenant,

Matt Byron

National Affairs Desk, Chicago