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I guess we'll see...

I was the first one to vote in my town. I was standing out there at 5:10am - an hour before the polls open. I was there before the volunteers showed up to set up the folding tables and stuff. Sounds extreme, but in reality I'm usually at work by 5am. I got to sleep in for this.

At 6am, when the polls opened there were over 300 people behind me. It was pretty intense. People were having political discussions and debating the referendum questions and shit. Crazy.

I was discouraged from the start. I am a conservative for various reasons and live in an extremely liberal area. In effect my vote doesn't count every year. But I vote religiously every year, local or national. So I voted and my vote didn't count. Obama will be President.

You know, I don't have anything against Obama. He seems like a nice enough guy and will probably do an OK job. It'll do wonders for our international PR at the least. And really, things can't get much worse.

So good luck, Mr. Obama. I didn't vote for you but I welcome you as my new President. Congratulations.

An FM Mini Comic!!!

So I'm thinking now that you know more about me than those I share actual space with and such, I'll start giving you a look at the things I create. Here's a mini comic I drew in my little black book a few weeks back. Click on each page for the full hi-res scan. Enjoy!!

The Apocolypse is Here... But That's OK

So I hear it's the end of the world. I hear the economy is collapsing and the country's infrastructure is caving in. I hear that people are miserable and starving and don't have health insurance and the water is bad and the weather is changing and it's all my fault. I find it hard to believe. What the fuck did I do?

To be honest, my home economy is looking up: the job is busy as ever, I have all the overtime I can handle (still working 60+ hours a week), gas and oil prices are going down just in time for the heating season and my biggest worry is trying to SAVE enough EXTRA money for Xmas. Am I just lucky, or is it not as bad as they're telling me?

Unlike previous years, I haven't kept up on the election. I've been a casual observer this time around. Ultimately, I get the feeling it won't really matter either way; Washington is unable to make any real change in peoples lives these days. For all the fist banging and pontificating, not much will change over the next four years (excepting catastrophic event of course). Philosophically, I lean to the right I guess, so I'll vote McCain. I don't like the government having too much of my money and giving it away on my behalf. When I hear that the US gave billions of dollars in foreign aid or to help out victims of some typhoon or something, I feel I've done my part. I no longer feel obligated to give charitably as in effect the government has done so for me. If the government gave away less, and in turn TOOK LESS FROM ME IN THE FIRST PLACE, I would be inclined to give and ultimately be a better member of society. I don't like the government making these decisions for me. I prefer a government that trusts me to do the right thing.

Anyhoo, back to the coming Armageddon... I actually have been pretty worried about the state of things. But really, it's all rooted in what I see on TV. My neighbors seem happy enough as do my coworkers. There's a general state of malaise and melancholy, but again I think it's coming more from what people BELIEVE is happening as opposed to what is happening to anyone. Sure there are tangible signs of bad mojo in the air, but those can always be found when you look for them.

The only real thing that has happened over the past few weeks is the stock market crash. My 401k lost some big potential bucks there. And a lot of other people lost imaginary money too. And I guess that sucks. When you have your hopes and dreams wrapped up in the promise of invisible wealth it must be disturbing to your sleep and lifestyle as the smoke is blown away. Sorta like trying to drink water with your hands: you can get a good gulp now and again, but you can't hold on. In the end it flows through your fingers.

I prefer to keep my dreams close. I will work to the day I die as it is clear there will not be such a concept as "retirement" when I get there. But as long as my sons grow to be men I can be proud of and they proud of me then fuck the smoke dollars. I'll get by and things will be OK. As they are today.

I'm Not Gone!!!!!

Nope. Not gone. Been working like a dog the past few weeks. But I'm still alive. Catching up on bills and getting ahead for Xmas per the plan.

I'll write something substantive within 48 hours. I promise.


FM

A quick look at now

Today is a good day...

I slept more than my usual 5 hour stretch. Woke to the sound of our giggling children creeping to wake us. Had nice breakfast and watched a little quiet TV while the boys played on the floor with trucks. We all went outside and did a little light yard work. The boys rode their bikes in the driveway and sometimes stopped and pretended to fix my car. It was sunny and cool out with a noticeable autumnal bite in the air.

After the yard was done I had a good, hot shower and crawled into some clean, warm clothes. Right now Mrs Mungus is reading a book, the boys are playing video games in the basement and I have a second to write about how good things are.

Next will be dinner and some play time with the boys. Once they're in bed Mrs Mungus and I plan to watch a movie and maybe start picking through some of the crap in our basement to see if we can get a tag sale together.

We have come to the conclusion that money is much tighter than we have believed for the last few weeks. The traditionally over-the-top Xmas we try to do for the boys every year is looking to be a bit out of reach at the moment. So back to the extra long hours and a few months of belt tightening. Today is Saturday. No work today. Tomorrow is Sunday. No work tomorrow. More than a day before I really have to deal with that reality.

Of course it's good to know you're working for a goal. It's also good to know you're working for the goal of making your kids happy. The reality I am faced with (long hours, weekends at work, etc., to have the ability to get a few extra Xmas gifts for your family) could be much worse (low pay, no overtime, inability to pay bills or mortgage, etc).

I am thankful for what I have. Today is a good day...

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act V - The Final Chapter

Interesting fact about Old Man Mungus: I have always lived in a home that required me to walk to school. In my first house in upstate NY I walked to Kindergarten with my sister, the house in Woodstock was right down the street from the local public school and Manchester was no different (although the walk was significantly longer). Now I’m not gonna give you that “uphill both ways” bullshit, but it literally took half an hour to walk to my new Junior High School. Not a problem at this point in life, but later on when the drugs entered the pictured, “perpetual tardiness” was a common label by the school staff for me.

I remember walking up to the school and there being a large crowd of people outside. I thought maybe there was a fire drill or something, but it turns out this was the “line” waiting for the doors to open. Like the line for a Kid ‘n Play concert: parachute pants, those angled hairdos with the lines shaved into the eyebrows, Adidas sneakers with wide laces and giant gold chains hung around necks. I was in “high-water” Husky jeans and a plain T-shirt. My hair was a sad attempt at Michael J. Fox’s in Back to the Future – but the dual cowlick (one dead center middle front and one dead center middle back like Alfalfa) never let me pull it off. I was the whitest kid in the world – a fish out of water and I really didn’t fit in. I was shit scared.

I hesitantly strolled up to the screaming mob that were my new peers and inched my way up to the outskirts. I knew no one of course so I stood with my hands in my pockets waiting for something to happen. 7:15 a bell rang. I could see movement at the front of the herd as we all started filing into the set of double doors that had mysteriously opened in the side of the large brick building. I had worked my way up to the middle of the group now and for a moment thought I might lose my balance and fall. I was pressed up against strangers in designer clothes and pretty girls with newly blossoming breasts. My heart was pounding as I was pulled into the building and we were marched into an assembly hall. I was led to the 7^th grade section and sat with a girl with long dark greasy hair and a pink sweater with large glasses and a boy who was wearing an Ocean Pacific shirt with a surfer on it and had a skateboard standing between his legs. Back to the Future was my first exposure to skateboards and I hadn’t actually seen one so close before.

“Cool skateboard” was the only thing I could think to say.

“Thanks,” he answered and turned to talk to someone else. First attempt at contact with the local populace? Fail.

The principal reminded me of a sweaty frog. He stammered when he talked (my mom would later refer to it as “babbling”) and sloppily welcomed us to a new school year. At the end of his intro, the 8^th and 9^th grade classes were dismissed and sent to their new home rooms. The 7^th graders were kept behind and called one by one to the front of the auditorium to receive their home room assignments. My name is down the list a bit (starting with “L”) so I was able to get a good look at those called before me. The usual cast of characters were present: the jocks, the skids, the povs, the preps, the shop class guys, the pretty girls, the popular girls, the slutty girls, the black kids (who marched to the front with such bravado as to receive a smattering of applause), and the loser hick kid who smelled. Oh wait, that was me.

There was bit of laughter as I walked to the front of the room. I am physically a large guy, nearly 6 foot by this time and heavy. Not obese, but just big. Turns out (and I hadn’t realized it before) that my size is quite intimidating. I honestly never realized it. Here (although I was clearly poor and it was assumed by my size, kinda stupid) I had an authority of presence. The laughter was followed by a few Flava Flav “DAMN BOYEEEE!!!”s at my size and at that moment I was flooded with a certain confidence that this would be OK. I would be left alone and I could just do my thing and get through this. Yes I may be laughed at; girls would be scared of me (this was the case for many, many years to come), and friends would be few and far between. But I would (and did) get through it.

I actually made few friends that first day. I had someone to eat with at lunch and eventually got myself to a level of acceptance with the boys in my new school. I became something of a class clown due to a vast comedic knowledge acquired through my hours of classic TV viewing and late night talk shows (by this point I had a TV in my room – a 3” TV/AM/FM/Cassette combo) and had taken to staying up late to try and catch Letterman. I always preferred Letterman to Carson. He was “dangerous” (at least in the eyes of a 12 year old boy) and had this odd way of seeing things. So Letterman and “The Best of Saturday Night” all fueled my wise-ass reputation. Luckily, my Woodstock education was well beyond that of the kids who had come through the Manchester school system. I really breezed through 7^th grade and wasn’t challenged again scholastically until High School. But I had changed by then. I wasn’t the innocent hick anymore.

By 8^th grade I had befriended Vinnie (I’ve spoken about him before) who influenced me toward the darker side of things. By 9^th grade I was experimenting with heavier drugs like coke and acid and drinking pretty heavily. Mom had no control over me whatsoever and I knew it. I feel guilty in hindsight as now Mom has passed on, but I was a kid and I certainly can’t be blamed for acting out. OK, maybe I can, but there was no Dad around to kick my ass and Mom had no idea what to do, so she hid.

The summer between 9^th grade and High School really stand out in my memory. I was flown off to stay with Dad and his wife in California. I was 15 and full of myself. I considered myself an artist by then and carried myself as though I really had something to say. And honestly, I did. Dad had recently moved north to Sacramento and was doing quite well. I was pretty excited about the trip and decided to stay clean and sober the entire summer. Sacramento was an artist’s city and I looked forward to the galleries and coffee houses Dad was telling me about. When I arrived, Dad informed me that he expected me to pick up a summer job while I was there. I had never worked a day in my life, but said what the fuck. I knew it would have to happen eventually so why not here? Why not now? I tried my luck at applying for all the Del Taco’s and El Polo Loco’s around but it turns out I wasn’t Mexican. Even the grocery stores were overflowing with cheap labor. I don’t know if Dad bought it that I couldn’t find a job, but he made me a deal anyway: go get a volunteer job and I’ll pay you an agreed upon amount at the end of the summer to go home with. Cool.

I volunteered to work at the Sacramento Downtown Food Bank and spent my mornings packing paper bags full of basic food items – beans and rice, cereals, canned goods, etc. I met a lot of really cool people there including some of the homeless. I really enjoyed my time there. Dad agreed to let me sign up for some guitar lessons in the afternoon a few days a week. I ended up hanging with this cool stoner guy who was a hair band casualty but played a great guitar. He showed me a lot and I ended up becoming a pretty good guitar player as a result.

I walked everywhere I went only stopping for the daily cup at Java City. I was young, healthy, sober and happy. Again, I spent almost all my time by myself, but that was OK. I was good at being by myself and really felt like part of the community there. I really liked Sacramento and could’ve seen myself living there had things not happened the way they did. Then I went back to Manchester for my first year in High School.

Within the hour of getting back into my closet of a room, I had sparked a bowl of weed I had stashed in my desk all summer. It was a revelation. I had never been so high and didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling. There were only a few days before school started and that was all it took to wipe out the positive energy from my trip to Sacramento. Things really spiraled out of control. The day before school, my Mom came home from work to find our bathroom all trashed and spattered with blood and hair stuck to the mirror and sink. Using nothing but scissors and a disposable razor I had given myself the world’s most fucked up Mohawk. I had nicked myself all over and still had open un scabbed wounds when Mom burst into my room. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE????”

The first day of High School I sat down in my home room to shock and nervous laughter from those around me. There were scabs all over my head, I was wearing a black FLAK jacket and combat boots and had a crooked 2” wide mess on top of my patchy nicked up head. Those who knew me said “What the fuck” and those who didn’t know me said nothing. I already had something of a reputation as a crazy fucker and this just cemented it for folks. I would spend the bulk of High School in isolation and that suited me just fine. I was anti-social and declared myself an anarchist (although I did nothing to demonstrate this and have always been the gentlest fella you could come across – it was all an act for the attention I outwardly said I didn’t want – ahhh, the teen years). The Mohawk was refined over the years and ultimately ended up as 5 beautiful spikes from my brow to the back and ended in a foot or so of thin straight hair. By college I had taken to simply combing it to one side although in a pinch it remained functional as a Mohawk until one day I simply shaved it off – a look I maintain to this day.

This story ends at the beginning of adolescence - an event marked by the end of Junior High and the scarring shave of my head. But here’s a glimpse at the future that awaited me:

The art career never panned out more from my lack of drive than lack of talent. The family fell apart, I took to heavy drinking and ultimately would have died penniless and alone had it not been for the chance meeting of my future wife. That’s another amazing story waiting to be told. But not today.

I went through many interesting potential careers and eventually happened upon my current job, one that I love and hope to keep for many years. Kids have come as has home ownership and a growing sense of stability. In the early 90’s, Manchester was revitalized through the building of a world-class shopping mall. This immediate revenue was reinvested into the schools and downtown area as well as police and fire equipment and staffing. My wife and I made the decision to stay here and send our kids through the newly reinvigorated school system. So far so good. Now it feels like Home.

The isolation of my childhood provided a skill for self-contained entertainment which has served me well over the years. I am hesitant to get close to people and let them in directly. But I am perfectly willing to express my deepest darkest secrets through song, illustration or anonymous internet posting. I have difficulty sharing my hopes and fears with my closest friends – even my wife occasionally. Often it takes me time to analyze an issue or concern and I share it only when I have a proposed solution (after a time of shitty attitude or emotional distance). I am wired to function alone and sometimes operate in a mode of forced co-habitation, though obviously I am not perpetually miserable in the company of others. I often hide my discomfort through humor and continue to be the class clown of yesteryear. The joy I get from the smile of my wife and the laughter of my children cuts through all the anxiety and fear. And for the most part, I'm happy.

I have so many more tales to tell of those teen years: the acid experiments, the music, the artwork and the ultimate maturation into the man I am. And that will take some time. And frankly, as much as I have enjoyed writing this I feel I have been selfish in my self-indulgent autobiographical story telling. And I have other stuff to write about.

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act IV

A vision of the past is only as clear as the years in between then and now. I have imbibed in many a substance in my day and the clouds of intoxication have wiped many a situation from recollection. But the defining moments are never erased, only the low times in between. Those first hours in the house in Manchester were a defining moment for me.

Lack of grass or yard was the first of many changes I would need to accept into my new reality. The second was the house itself. The grand entrance and high ceilings of our Home in Woodstock was now replaced with a choked doorway and small dark rooms. It was a unique house, clean and with many architectural oddities - a narrow spiraling staircase, a large round three-panel picture window - and although I would eventually be familiar with all its corners and crevices, it never earned my love as a Home should. But as I said, I accepted it as a place to hang my hat and as the setting for the tragic events that would ultimately define the man I have become.

My new room was nothing more than an exaggerated closet, a narrow space between my bed and "Odd Rods" sticker covered dresser. A large desk was squeezed into the space at the end of my bed and blocked the door from fully opening. The door had a metal post that extended into my room, designed for clothes hangers to be held - my new closet. I hung the posters from my previous room but here they looked childish and immature, innocent throwbacks to a soon forgotten time.
After a near sleepless night due to unaccustomed house-settling creaks and moans I decided to check out the landscape of the surrounding neighborhood. I set out on my bike. I soon learned that "banana" seats and large U-shaped handlebars would not be an acceptable form of transportation in my new surroundings. But on day two, I innocently and confidently set off. The scenery of suburbia leaves something to be desired, especially when you have spent your life in a postcard worthy corner of New England. The duplex and triplex housing, the acres of asphalt and the traffic congestion were all new to me, not to mention the startlingly gruff attitude of the local inhabitants. To be honest, I had barely had a conversation with a black person let alone been a neighbor or gone to school with one. I had seen my fair share during visits to the city with my grandparents, but my grandparents had lived in their house since the beginning of time and were respected members of their community. I had never encountered intimidation before, especially from other races. And honestly, I was so inexperienced that I may not have recognized it when it happened. I must have been a sight - the country hick nerd boy with glasses on the retro 70's bike riding along the sidewalk, gawking at the people walking and figuring out how to use a cross-walk button.

In the weeks before my first day of school, I ventured outside and learned the area pretty well. I learned where to get comics and where to get gum and fountain drinks. I learned where the library was and where the local kids my age hung out. I learned the streets where people would confront you and ask you for money or if you "needed something." All this I learned alone.

The only major positive advancement that came with this relocation was the availability of CABLE TELEVISION. Cable was not available out in Woodstock. Matter of fact, it was another two or three years before it would be offered there. But here it was for me - a frenzied blur of MTV and Captain USA, ESPN and CNN. And all the networks with gorgeous reception (without having to adjust the "rabbit ears" for each new channel). This really was something of a breakthrough for me. It would eventually change my world and how I saw myself in it. The possibilities held in 30 channels (as opposed to the 4 I had in Woodstock) were endless. And for those first few years it lived up to its promise. The late 80's were my Golden Age of television and in my mind have yet to be repeated in the amazing diversity of programming available to me. Yes, today I have like 200 channels (many in glorious HD) but many of those channels are duplicates. At any one time I can find 7 or 8 separate shows devoted to renovating houses either for resale or luxurious surprise (for example). Again, future posts will illustrate my views on television, so I won't go on now. But let's just say again that TV was (and is) a huge part of my generation and skewed us a certain way. Today's kids are skewed another way due to the differences in the TV programming available. It's amazing that TV has this kind of power over society, but it does and we all know it.

I think I can wrap this up and get to the point by the end of Act V. I know this is long-winded and I hope those following along are getting something from it. It's a huge release for me and I find myself re-reading the posts for my own insight into the man who is me. Again, I've come this far and must finish it, so expect the grand finale within a week.

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act III

If you met me now you would never guess my backwoods upbringing. I can recall endless hours spent tromping around the woods building forts, finding new trails, swords and arrows - all that shit. I would come home FILTHY. Mom would have me strip down to my undies (or less) outside so I didn't track mud and dirt through the house. I would be marched straight to the shower and hosed down.

Nowadays, I'm seen as something of a city guy. Those around me are surprised when I speak of weekend camping trips with the family and cutting down tress in the yard and stuff. I'm like a closet hick. You can take the boy out of the country but you can't take the country out of the boy and all that.

So up until the age of 12, I lived in the woods. It was during this twelfth year that my father got himself a 16-year itch and moved out - presumably to bigger and better things. See, Dad (much as the man I have become) was a work-a-holic. He did the 60+ hour weeks and was driven by work primarily. Yes, he said his motivation was family (this is the mental justification for the work-a-holic) but ultimately he was out for himself.

Being a father of two myself now, I cannot imagine leaving my family under any circumstances. If my wife tomorrow decides she is no longer in love with me or is just up and leaving I would fight for her and my kids to the end. I would win her back one way or another - woo her.

You know, it's fucked up when you go through this argument in your head. Like, WHY DON'T I JUST WOO HER ALL THE TIME??? WHY WAIT FOR HER TO THREATEN TO LEAVE?? Now look, she hasn't threatened to leave. The old marriage is still in pretty good shape and healthy, but ya know... don't take it for granted dumb ass...

OK, back to the story:

So dear old Dad walks and leaves Mom, Sis and me to fend for ourselves. Mom gets a job as a computer programmer (pretty cool for 1985) and we move closer to where she works in Hartford. Welcome to Manchester, Mr. Mungus...

Before I get to Manchester, let me say that Dad DIDN'T quite leave us high and dry. Maybe for the first couple of years. But Dad DID get pretty successful and DID support us (and his eventual new family) pretty well from afar. And from afar I mean that Dad relocated to California - where (in the late '80s) there were big bucks to be made for the right folks in the right places. But yeah, it was pretty lean there when we moved to Manchester. We were semi-poor country folk in a bustling metropolitan suburb. And we got eaten up. All three of us.

It's kinda weird how it happened - it's like a blur: Dad invited me and Sis to stay with him for a few weeks over the summer. We still lived in Woodstock. Dad was already living with another woman - someone we knew from childhood. She was one of Dad's coworkers (he swears to this day there was no affair, but it's pretty likely that was how it went down). Sis and her, they clashed from day one. There was yelling and screaming and the like. Lots of "I hate you"s and "You're not my mother"s. But I got on with her pretty well. She was younger than Mom and a little hipper. We were there for maybe a week and we got the call from Mom. "When you get back to Connecticut, we'll live in a different town. I've enrolled you in a new school."

Sis exploded. Dad and poor new step-Mom had no idea what to do with a 16 year old girl. Slamming doors and hysterical crying was the mode of the day. And it was ugly. I don't recall getting wrapped up in my sister's madness; I was (am) more the brooding, internalizing type of guy who is much more comfortable staring at a wall, drawing a picture of people being chopped up or putting my face on my knees and slowly rocking for a few hours. This is before I really honed in my drawing skills and learned to channel anger and frustration into violent illustration so it was all quiet intensity from me.

Clearly, looking back my parents felt it would be "cleaner" to do the move while we were away - sort of an adolescent "trap." And for me, it was probably the best plan. Had I been there during the move I can imagine myself trying to sabotage the movers - setting up trip wires and piercing foot traps.

Sis and I flew back to Connecticut (I won't say "flew back HOME" - not yet) and were introduced to our new town. I remember the ride into Manchester: the shopping plazas and empty factories, the past-it's-prime Main Street complete with a dozen or so homeless living in the park by the library. We pulled up to a modest two-story house and got out. I was standing on pavement. A small patch of grass was pinched between our parking space and the parking lot of the adjacent flower shop. We had one tree. They officially took the boy out of the country.

I know I wandered a bit from the narrative of the previous posts with this one. But this is what came so this is what is. I do have an ultimate point to make with this, so bear with me. I'll get there. Act IV soon to come.

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act II

I suspect those who grew up in the American Mid-West were in a similar situation: During winter months I spent endless hours in front of the almighty television. I'll go into further detail in future posts what shows had the biggest impact, but let's just say I ran the gamut from daytime PBS to 80's prime time. There were times my obsession was bad enough I would play sick just to stay home and watch TV. Sad in retrospect.

I was never really comfortable around groups of friends; I've always been a one-on-one kinda guy. And when there was an individual friend who was spending time with me, I was devoted to the one friend unwaveringly. Always been loyal like that. Got me fucked over a few times. I make "best friends" easy.

During summer months when school was out, my parents would send me traveling to visit with family for weeks on end. Looking back now, I suppose they were trying to save me from additional long stretches of solo time. They would plop me on a bus and send me to Brooklyn, New York to spend a few weeks with my Grandparents (on my mother's side) or upstate NY (Monroe to be precise) for my Dad's parents. They did their best to keep me occupied: Both sets of Grandparents had huge gardens. I spent many an afternoon pulling weeds. My Brooklyn Gramps had grape vines growing in his back yard. I was in charge of the annual wine-making. He'd give me loose instructions and once everything was fermenting in sealed bottles, he'd give me a glass of some previous year's vintage (I was too young to know any better, but I hear his wine was like turpentine).

Brooklyn Grampa and my Great Uncle (Dad's Uncle) Sonny (real name: Sylvester) were painters by hobby. They both worked in oils and attempted to pass on the skill. I actually took to it quite well although my patience got the better of me later in life. I do pen-and-ink illustrations now as a hobby. Despite some basic instruction and pointing in the right direction, all of the above activities were done alone. Yup, despite best intentions I still ended up in isolation - only now I was in a strange locale with no friends around or people my age. For the years between age 9 and 16, I spent my summer vacations with Senior Citizens.

It's funny: as I write this I realize how my wife is forever saying "God, You're like an old man!!!" I guess those summers really influenced my temperament and interests. More on that later...

Act III will be a study in how these early experiences affected my relationships and work life. I'm pretty pumped to see what comes of this, so expect an update within a week.

The Self-Absorbed Man in Isolation

At the risk of being perpetually self analytical, I'm gonna tell you a little about my childhood:

I was born in upstate New York. My family lived there until I was 6 or 7 when we moved to north eastern Connecticut; Woodstock to be precise. I can't speak for other places as I only grew up where I did. But it seems to me there is something unique about that corner of the world. The populace is very aware of their history - a history riddled with superstition and witch burning. At all times you are surrounded by thick vegetation and dark forest and are told early on to be in by dusk.

Woodstock also prides itself on having the last "active" one-room schoolhouse. Every year in public elementary school each grade spent a few weeks in there. You were required to dress in late 1800s period garb, learned to write with ink and quill and played all those colonial games that you see in reenactment movies. Thinking back sometimes it feels like I have a vision of a previous life: the happy, young Pilgrim boy who one day disappeared into the woods never heard from again.

My parents rented a big, yellow cube of a house. It was huge. We rented from the owner of Woodstock's (at the time) only manufacturing facility. They made foot switches for sewing machines among other things. The owner was an eccentric rich woman in her mid to late forties. Her husband had died and left her everything including the mansion on the hill, the switch factory a small boy scout camp, a 3 star restaurant and our yellow house - all of which were on the same thousands of acres piece of land I considered my personal playground.

My one sibling is my sister. I've mentioned her before - the one who had the accident. At this time she was pretty and popular and had no interest in hanging out with her geeky little brother. So I spent the majority of my time alone. I had friends; I wasn't an outcast or anything. But living in a place where it was a hike to get to the neighbor's house left me and my friends at the mercy of our parents. Geographically challenged, I'd like to say.

I learned very quickly to entertain myself, a talent I possess to this day. I spent endless hours tromping around the woods by myself - scouting locations for GI Joe adventures and building forts and shit. I spent a lot of time inside my own head.

Let's us consider this the end of act 1. I can't spend all day reminiscing... The bills must be paid and stuff. But now I've gone and started, so finish I must. Act 2 soon to come.

It'll get worse before it gets better...

So it seemed like I was really on a roll there for a bit. The family was doing pretty well (despite the troubles trying to get pregnant again), work was coming together, the cursed car hasn't had any issues in a while... smooth sailing. And then it happened: Another role change at work. In addition to the current work load.

I am a supervisor of 25 people on a manufacturing shop floor. All the personnel issues, the Quality problems, efficiency, training - the list goes on. Now the fucking "scheduler" who organizes the orders through production starts really flaking out on the job: aggressive, confrontational behavior, delusions of power beyond his role. He was acting as a Production Manager, not a "scheduler." On top of his shit attitude, we have been taking lots of late orders and falling behind. He gets taken out/I get put in.

So let me get this straight: Full-time Managing position and full-time Scheduling position. OK, no pressure. Just the weight of the corporation on my shoulders. If I fuck up, a global organization fuck up. Millions of dollars are at stake with my every decision. No shit.

Me being me I have reacted by putting in more hours. 12 hours minimum. Luckily I have managed to maintain my "hourly" standing. Not salary. I work more, they pay more.

Little bit of a strain on the home front while I get settled. Every day I get a little closer to grasping "The Big Picture." It'll come. But today: I'm stressed.

As you know, I just write about the things around me. Others can write of current events, 80's toys or mutant bunnies. I have no format. I just throw down what comes. If it means anything to anyone - great. If it's just a bunch of garbled shit - sorry.

I've missed writing about all the crap I do on a daily. It's a nice release at these stressful times. So I'll be posting more often. Assuming anyone still checks in here, bear with me. It'll lighten up eventually. But I think it'll get worse before it gets better.

It's a shade lighter way down there at the end of the tunnel

The desperate state I was in has now passed. My nose is once again above water level. I can breathe again.

New job transitions suck. It has never seemed that way to me. In the past, a new job was always exciting. Time flies by as you're learning new stuff, interacting with new people, finding your little niche... This time: Holy Shit. The biggest problem was (and remains) that the guy filling in behind me needs immediate training. He has no idea how my former area works and it's my job to teach him (while starting my new role). So I guess this situation is kinda unique. They back-filled me with an unqualified dope.

Anyhoo, things are back on track: many of my new responsibilities have been delegated to others, many of my old responsibilities are being covered while Unqualified Dope gets up to speed and I can make some progress in my new area.

So I've taken a step or two back from the ledge and am starting to turn back towards the door. Things are getting better - slowly, but better nonetheless.

Just below the surface...

Since I got the "big boost" (as I've been calling it) the other week, I've felt like I'm treading water and slowly sinking. My "to-do" list is ever growing and many tasks have been re-re-re-prioritized to the point of almost being lost. I know what you're thinking:

"It's just fucking work, FM. Ease up on yourself. You're gonna burn yourself out."

And of course, you're right. It should be that easy, but it's not. I spend more time at work than anywhere else. It is the primary function of my life at this point. Yes, my family is first and foremost in my priorities. But in my head, all this working is FOR THEM (even though it ultimately keeps me from them much of the time). I work hard to make their lives better. I work so hard that right now, right this very second, my life sucks. I'm tired, I'm a ball of stress and my nose is at water level.

I've got a meeting presentation to put together (the meeting is tomorrow), a huge project due Friday (today is Tuesday), a 2 page self description for the new HR manager they have brought in (due ASAP), a budget meeting this morning justifying all the shit I spent money on, production scheduling three days a week, training my replacement for my former position while running my former area and learning and running my new area, all the while keeping the wolves at bay as the transition occurs. I'm up to my eyeballs.

When I read the above paragraph, I almost stop breathing. I slip beneath the surface, stretch my hands up and grasp for a hand that won't come and plunge into darkness. Gone...

But then I stop typing, stand up, peek in on my sleeping children, put on my shoes and coat, creep out the door into the early morning darkness, get into my cursed car and head off for another day of treading like the good little bee I have become.

Buzz, buzz...


Prologue -

My present situation cannot last long. I will fall apart soon. If this is a test, I am barely passing. My resolve is fading. I am losing my grip on things. I am falling behind never to regain control. I cannot imagine a two-day weekend let alone time to use the three weeks of vacation I need to use this year. I don't know whether to cry, scream or implode. Time will tell.

It's just a fucking job.

It was worth it

I really like my job. I like the people I work for, and the people I work with. Well, most of them. There's always one. A troublemaker. A morale killer. He is my equal in title and status. Or was, until today.

I work in manufacturing. We make shiny things. I won't go into much detail for the sake of anonymity, but that's it; shiny stickers. Over the last 8 years, I have worked my way from an entry level position, to the leader of my shift, to the leader of my department, to a leader in the corporation. The company has two product lines, rigid shiny stickers and flexible shiny stickers. I am in charge of the lucrative rigid line and have full responsibility for their production in all aspects. I set the quality levels and hold the group accountable to it, I provide training and assess individual performance.

The afore-mentioned trouble-making morale killer has my same role for the flexible product line. His area is segregated behind a wall where many secrets live. It is a secured room, not easily accessible, with multiple production machines hidden away. Over the years, he has hired friends, family members, drinking buddies, gambling associates to work for him. He plays favorites, does not hold his group accountable, barely provides training, and lies to our shared boss on a regular basis. Morale is low in his area, and it is slowly creeping out to other areas. We are missing orders, and have not ended the fiscal year in good standing. Today, all that changed.

Today I was given my annual review. An interesting process; I write a "self-assessment," my boss adds a few comments, and we discuss the future. I never sell myself short. I throw every minute detail of my accomplishments (no matter how insignificant) and make them out to be infinitely important. This year I went a step further. I added commentary about the morale killer. I voiced my disappointment in my boss for not taking him out. Man, I have some balls let me tell ya. It was worth it.

He has been given a choice (effective Monday) of taking a lower position or leaving the company. I have been given responsibility for his area as well as mine. Many of my other responsibilities have been (thankfully) taken away so I can focus on turning that area around. Oh yeah, and a promotion and a big raise.

My wife and I had a conversation last night after I broke the news. We agree that the sacrifices we have made (her staying home with the kids, my long hours at work not seeing her or the kids) has now been justified. I am somewhat concerned though. The addicted gambler who is close to losing everything is only inspired to carry on when he wins big. I am in danger of becoming a work-a-holic. There are days when I can't leave work AT WORK. There are days when I can't leave work for long hours because I must fix every problem before I go. There are days I forget why I'm doing it. For them. For us.

It's been a tough couple of years, but today... it was worth it.

A Change of Pace

Life is a whirl...

One day I was sitting around thinking about nothing when my youngest son walked up to me and said "Daddy, whatchdoin'?"

"Nothing," I replied a little gruffer than necessary. It had been a long day at work, the wife was a bit on edge, and thinking about nothing sounded like a nice temporary break.

"Daddy, play with me."

I said nothing. I looked him straight in the eye. He stared straight back. In my mind I raced through all the things I wanted him to know; the right way to be around people, how to handle assholes, when it's OK to have fun and when you must stand your ground. I passed through all the love I have for him, his brother and my wife. I shared the stupid things I've done in hopes that he may learn my lessons without him having to feel my pains. We moved on to responsibilities and what it takes to be a man. How working too much in an effort to better yourself and your family can be noble unless it becomes excessive and obsessive. Then it's just time away from home. I transferred my hopes for the future and the horrors of my past, the things I've never told anyone and the things anyone could plainly see if they cared enough to look.

His eyes are deep and pure. They hold the endless enthusiasm and hope that I must fight to preserve in him. I fear the day he starts to lose his innocence and passion for living. It happens to all of us, but maybe not him... not him. He's special. He makes chaos. He makes joy. He makes love. He makes fun.

His eyes shift and the thread frays and snaps.

"Daddy, play with me."

I smile, get up, grab his hand and follow him... wherever he wants me to go.

And the beat goes on.

I was 7 years old. The year was 1980. My family was making the long drive from Woodstock, CT to Buffalo, NY for my cousin Wally's wedding. We made the trip in one day. I don't recall how long it took, but I'd have to estimate (based on what I know now) that it took about 7 hours. Who knows, maybe more. It was a pretty uneventful trip, and as I barely remember most things before I was 10 or so, it's remarkable I remember it at all. Why do I remember this trip? It's during this ride that I wrote my first song.

I still remember a few lines. Nothing groundbreaking; I'm no Mozart. But it's a cute little tune:

We went through the river,
We went through the rain.
And then we turned and came back again.
Oh, yeah, yeah.
Came back again.

Like I said, I was 7. I don't recall writing any other tunes until I was 11 or 12. I was in Junior High School, and I had recently befriended the coolest guy I had ever met in my short little life: Vinnie Murray. Vinnie was awesome: he had a blue jean jacket that was almost completely covered in assorted sized safety pins. Where safety pins were missing, he had drawn the most amazing images of anarchy and punk rock. Vinnie was a black guy with a six inch tall mohawk. He skateboarded, was admired by all the little white girls (and had his way with them at will), he drank and did drugs and he was an incredible comic book artist. He was an inspiration.

Vinnie and I started putting some comics together. I had my characters, he had his. They got together and wreaked a path of death and destruction everywhere they went. We were like gods in our minds. Vinnie and I used to hang out at the local Record Breaker record store. When I say record store, I mean REAL VINYL. Now, up to this point, the only records I had bought were Chicago 17, Huey Lewis's Heart of Rock 'n Roll and all the Wierd Al Yankovic I could get my hands on. Vinnie introduced me to the independent/punk section of the store. My first trip in with him, I walked out with D.R.I.'s Dirty Rotten LP, Iron Maiden's Live After Death (a choice made solely on album cover art) and Black Flag's Damaged. A week later I was back for The Circle Jerks Golden Shower of Hits, Metallica's Kill 'em All and The Cro-Mags Age of Quarrel. I was hooked on punk from this point until I discovered John Coltrane in my early 20's. It was awesome.

Vinnie and I tried to write some songs together. Here's a small sampling:

Too Baked To Skate

It's Saturday afternoon,
Had too many bongs.
Try to thrash around,
But yer too far gone.

Road starts to spin,
Board begins to shake.
Do a skull grind,
Because yer fuckin' baked.

Not exactly Shakespeare. But songs like this made us legends. A band was formed but it got to Vinnie's head. He got into some trouble with the law (arson) and was ultimately placed in a facility to get the help and attention that he required to be a functional and productive member of society.

A second band was formed called Chemical Persuasion. I played guitar and wrote the songs. We played a few shows and had a good time. We played for beer money. Eventually we got a band room that turned into a party room and we started falling apart. Those were ugly times. Then my sisters accident and it was over. I pretty much holed up for a few years. I was the reclusive artist. I was depressed, and the king of excess. I barely showered, drank until sick, ate acid until it didn't work any more and smoked anything I could wrap a rolling paper around. I had a death wish. I gained almost 100 pounds during this time and lost nearly all of my friends. I dropped out of school and spent all day creating. Everything I did was awesome (whether it was or wasn't).

I remember drawing this picture of a mirror. The reflection is of a man who has just slit his wrists and blood is dripping into a reflected sink. Across the page in splashed red ink was one word: SUICIDE. I drew this picture and left it hanging on my easel when I went out partying. Some friends and I dropped a bunch of acid and climbed this mountain. We spent the whole night up there in the wilderness. When I got home in the morning all spent and gross, my mom was nearly in tears as I had not called or left a note. She thought I had gone off to kill myself.

I wrote a bunch of songs during this time. I recorded all of them. It's actually pretty positive stuff. I think it's the music that got me through. I haven't played any of these tapes for anyone ever. Not even the missus. But I listen to them sometimes when I'm down. They remind me how good things are now and how far I've come. When I met my future wife, the clouds magically lifted and I was suddenly happy. I wrote songs for her. I made beautiful things again. I wooed her with poems and art and insight into my vision of reality. She came to love me and I, her.

The band got back together in the late 90's. We wrote some songs and played a few shows. Then kids and a real job and time dried up.

I've since started another band. A few guys from work play instruments. The drummer lives 40 miles away. The bass player lives in Ireland. We have only played together in the same room once. Since then, we have made music online. I write a song and record a demo. The drummer lays down a drum track, than the bass goes in. If necessary we pass it around a few times to tweak and mix and such and then, VOILA!! a finished song. This band makes me happy. I get to be creative without a major investment of time away from the family. And it's the best sounding music I've ever written.

What's next? Who knows. A show? Maybe. Right now it doesn't matter. Right now I'm happy.

Fun is in the eye of the beholder

When I was a small child (my parents told me) I used to laugh in my sleep. Mrs Mungus says sometimes I still do. I don't remember any of those dreams, but I do remember waking up at times thinking "THAT WAS FUCKING BRILLIANT!!" My unconscious mind has a knack for creating hilarious situations. My waking mind keeps me entertained as well. And that's the problem.

Sometimes (usually at the most inappropriate times) my mind finds the most ridiculously skewed way of seeing things. Picture being called into an executive meeting (I'm no executive mind you, but for some reason I am often asked to represent my group for the uppity-ups in the front office), sitting back waiting your turn to speak, and suddenly noticing an individual in the room with a slight speech impediment. This man (let's call him "Jim") verbalizes "L"s as "W"s. No shit.

Bob (the Lab Technician): I understand how the system can be used to manage our inventory, but how will items be identified?

Jim: You mean how will you wable your wacker?

Bob: Excuse me?

Jim: You want to know what the wable will wook wike for your wacker?

Bob: Yes. What will the label for our lacquers look like?

My boss's boss's boss is in the room. And I am quickly losing it. And NOBODY else is in on the joke. I asked people afterwards. No one fucking heard it but me. The conversation turns to generating "wables for the wift" and I audibly snort. I excuse myself as though I am having some sort of medical emergency and collapse in the hallway. Holy fucking shit that was funny.

Have you ever been in that situation? Everyone else is in "serious mode" and you're in the corner chuckling to yourself, holding back explosive laughter? Yup, I'm usually that guy. The guy that laughs at funerals. The guy that seeks out those forbidden videos of people getting hurt or killed. The guy who watched "Faces of Death" for a laugh.

At times my propensity for finding the humor in the darkest situations has reached it's limit. My sister was in a really bad accident in the late 90's. The house was empty and I was home with a friend watching bad movies. We were pretty stoned. The phone rang and I was too high to answer it. The machine picked it up and my friend and I listened as my mother's shaken voice explained that sis was in the hospital and may never walk again. I swear to you I've never laughed so hard. "Picture that!!" was the only phrase I could say. I laughed and said it again and again. It was funny. Until Mom showed up. She asked me to come with her to the hospital. I got in the drivers seat (now totally sober), Mom in the passenger seat and my friend in the back. I drove my friend home. None of us said a word the entire ride. When we got to the hospital, my Dad (who lives 3,000 miles away in California - 6 hour flight) was waiting. How long had it been since the accident and me finding out? I was off fucking partying while my family was facing the first of many terrible trials? Did they try to find me or was I so far out of reach they dismissed me? Mom is gone now, so I'll never know.

My sister never did walk again. That's not funny.

Speaking of coffee...

Yes in-double-deedie, I do drink a lot of coffee. And booze. Sometimes coffee AND booze.

Saturday night at the Mungus house is drinking night. I don't generally drink more than two or three beers during the week (more than that is snooze time). But Saturday is another story. I go into work a little later than usual, space my caffeine consumption (so as not to crash too early), get the kids to bed a little early and... off we go. Generally I'll start with a caffeinated alcoholic beverage (winter time is Irish coffee time, summer I may indulge in a Sparks or whatever the latest 6-8% alcohol energy drink is) then move on to beer.

As times are pretty lean around here, beer brand is limited to the bottom of the shelf brands (Busch, Natural Ice, Milwaukee's Best). These not-so-fine spirits get the job done, but leave me dehydrated and with a splitting headache Sunday morning. Sometimes on special occasions (or around tax time or something), we'll splurge on some Sam Adams or something a bit higher up the wall. And on those occasions it seems the required recovery time is less. But again, these are special occasions.

Over the course of a standard Saturday night, I may need to intersperse caffeinated beverages in (to keep the Beast Sleep at bay). The standard procedure is: a pot of coffee is made in the morning. This pot is consumed. A second pot is made in the evening. One or two hot cups is made, the rest goes in the fridge for emergency speed consumption. If the Beast rears its ugly head, a quick mix can be swirled up and swallowed within 30 seconds driving back said Beast into the shadows for a while. Any remaining cold coffee is reserved for the Sunday morning recovery scene.

During the course of writing this, I have consumed 3 large cups of coffee. I don't stop to look at my hands very often, but when I do, they shake unconsciously. Sometimes they have a mind of their own. My writing is often illegible even to me, as my grandmotherly shaky scrawl meanders about the page. It's a crazed mix of cursive and block letters. Often, I don't know which style I'm writing in. I watch the words flow from my pen as if watching subtitles on a fast-paced foreign film. Wait! was that a typo? that didn't make any sense. What language is this?? What's going on?

I'll write more of my adventures with coffee in the days to come. Stay tuned.

Too much work and no play makes FM a dull boy...

As stated, I have a wife and two kids. The Missus and I have made the decision that it is best for the kids for her to stay home with them until they are in school all day. Then she can break away and finish school and ultimately have a career. We own a house and a couple of used cars. Yup, we're poor. Not like there are "red envelope" bills in the mail or constant harassing phone calls at dinner time, but there's no extra money for fun. Heck, there's no extra money for necessities. Luckily, I have a pretty good job and am paid by the hour. So I work. A lot.

As I write this, I am on a lunch break smack dab in the middle of my standard 11 hour day. My commute is 45minutes to an hour, one-way. So I'm away from home for a grand total of 13 hours. Sometimes when work is especially busy I work 12 or 13 hour days. That's 14 - 15 hours away from home. With 2 meals and some hygiene time, there's little time for sleep. Sleep is my enemy.

My enemy follows me from waking to sleep. It attempts to overcome me during waking hours. It taunts me with its comfortable embrace at inappropriate times. My safety is far from its concern. It tries to drive me off the road and jogs my coordination. It clouds my judgment and makes me think things are far more extreme than they are, good or bad. It waits for me when I least expect it, then pounces on me and makes me a liability. It makes me poor company. Quiet night at home = nodding off on the couch.

The wife and I struggle through my not being around so much. The big kicker: when I am around, I'm tired. I play it like I'm not, but I am. All the time. Sometimes I try to cover it up by hiding my exhaustion behind a veil of caffeine. After a stretch of 5 or 6 days of 4 1/2 - 5 hours of sleep each, the jig is up; I'm tired and there's no denying it. A pot of coffee after dinner can't keep my eyes open. But if I succumb to sleep after large amounts of caffeine I have nothing to look forward to but numb limbs and rolling and twisting dreams. Restful it is not. So the battle rages on between the Beast and me. Yin and Yang, light and dark, wet and dry, bitter and sweet - endlessly dancing and cutting and swiping until cold, dark and weary we collapse into each other and the pent up restfulness of years is loosed like a wave. And I drink deep. And sleep, forever sleep.

I need some more coffee.

My curse.

I had this car. I had it for fourteen years. When I bought it, it had 12,000 miles. Fourteen years later: 222,000. It still ran great, but I have a long commute to work. I got a little gun-shy and decided it was time for a new (used) car. I found one.

For the tidy sum of $3,000, I was now the proud owner of a 1998 VW Jetta Wolfsburg edition; sunroof, power windows, leather seats, low miles, the works. I loved this car (still do). It was the greatest thing ever... until the check cleared. Less than one week after purchase, the brakes suddenly felt a bit "spongy." When I sat at lights, the pedal would slowly drop to the floor until the car started rolling forward. Not good. Keep in mind, this is a private transaction purchase. Bought the car out of someone's front yard. No legal recourse. So I brought the car to the shop, and $1,400 later, I had me a new set of brakes. OK, I can live with that.

Two days after getting the car out of the shop there was a new development, hesitant shifting (it's an automatic). It took a while to get into second gear, then struggled to drop back into first. Transmissions are a car owners worst nightmare. After the third opinion, I opted for a complete rebuild. FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS. Now, I am a man of limited means. The wife and I bit the bullet and took out a line of credit to pay for all this. We had already taken out a loan to buy the car, this was gonna hurt.

THE DAY AFTER I got the car back from the transmission place, there was a big snowstorm that tracked up the Eastern US seaboard. Being the dedicated individual that I am, I showed up early for work (expecting that others may not show up due to the weather). An hour into my shift, someone from another area brings a guy through the building looking for "whoever owns the black car." Uh-oh. The individual driving the plow in the parking lot apparently couldn't make out my black car against the stark white snow bank. So he did everything he could to include my car one of his many big scoops. Broken driver's side window, mirror broken off and a totalled driver door. I took the stance of "it's not driveable," had the car towed and picked up a rental car at the plow companies expense.

Man, the rental car was nice: 2007 Dodge Charger. Balls compared to the little VW. Even ran OK in the snow. Rear wheel drive, but traction control made it smooth. Had it for a week. Finally the day came when I would get back the VW; new door and all. Picked it up and returned the rental. Low and behold, the customer service asshole discovered a small scratch on the rear fender. "You'll be hearing from our claims rep" he said. Fuck off. I have yet to return their calls. I'll probably get a summons before long.

I had a couple of good weeks with the Vee Dub, until the rain came. I'm driving home from work, a light mist in the air. My wipers were set for intermittent and all was good with the world. Then the wipers stopped. I flipped the switch up and down. I could hear a little motor whir, but no movement. Luckily it wasn't a downpour, or I would've been stuck. Got home and was able to re-attach the assembly to the motor. Real pain in the ass (not to mention the freezing cold temps. Ever try to use small hand tools with stiff fingers?? Sucks). Put it all back together after confirming it was working OK. Did one last check. No problem... except that when I shut them off, they stopped right in the middle of the windshield. You've gotta be fucking kidding. No time to fix it right then. I spent the next few days driving around with the wipers in my face... taunting me... saying "you got ripped off. This car is gonna kill you." I fixed 'em before the next rain.

Then the real cold weather settled in. It was 5 degrees Fahrenheit when I drove to work. I got in the parking lot, made to get out, pulled the door handle and... nothing. It was like the door was locked; no clicky, no openy. I try the passenger side... dead.

Now let me give you a little background about my self: I don't enjoy drawing attention. I certainly don't like drawing attention when I am in a position of weakness.

Directly across from me in the parking lot is a guy who works for me. Directly behind me, another guy who works for me. It would have been simple to open the window and wave over help. But I just couldn't. I started up my car and drove away. I parked a little ways down the street from my work and pondered my situation. Window? I'd fall and crack my head open. Sunroof? can you imagine if I got stuck halfway and accidentally released the brake with my feet? I'd be rolling down the street, helpless until I hit a tree or careened over a cliff? definitely out. Last resort? the passenger side back door. I slowly pulled the handle aannnndddd.... "click" it popped open. I slid the passenger seat forward, slid my seat back as far as it would go, and squeezed myself out. Freedom at last!! When I got outside after work, it was considerably warmer and the doors worked just fine. And continued to work just fine until the next snowfall.

I generally leave for work bright and early (4am). A new snow had fallen and I was leaving a bit earlier than usual to compensate. I opened the door, started the engine and took out my scraper/brush to clean off the windows. Job complete, I climbed inside the car to go to work. OK, that would have been too easy. Of course what REALLY happened was: the door had frozen while I was brushing off the car. Fuck you. No really, fuck you. I tried all of the doors. The driver door was the only one unlocked and it was frozen closed. Now let's us ponder this scene for a moment: car running, doors locked. It's 3:45am, my wife and kids are snuggly in bed inside while I am FREEZING MY ASS OFF outside. Oh yeah, the house keys are locked inside the car too.

I imagine banging on the glass of our bedroom window to wake up the Missus. She would not only call the cops, but kick my ass after they left. The only good news? the cell phone in my pocket. So I placed an early morning call and woke her up. I asked her to come to the front door and when she got there I would explain. She showed up, I got the spare car key and opened the passenger side door. Off to work.

I would love to sum this epic drama with a bit of sardonic wisdom. A great lesson I have learned as a result of this "life experience." But for now, I've got nothing. Fuck my car. Fuck my curse. Can't afford a different one, so I'm stuck.

The End.