July 14 - Manning Up For Dummies

Last night my friends The Itinerant Locals played a Mexican restaurant petting zoo.

I couldn't attend because it was going to cost money.

Besides, I had a rehearsal with Beatlemagica.

After rehearsal my friends in The Columbines were playing a show at The Beat Kitchen.

I didn't attend because it was going to cost money.

Tonight my friends in Begin By Gathering Supplies played The Abbey Pub.

I wouldn't attend because it was going to cost money.

Bank account: $2

Pants pocket: $3

So what happened?

Airfare to Europe: $800

Four weeks in Europe: $300

Four weeks unpaid at work: $2000

What happened to your supplemental income?

The Rush Limbaugh musical closed.

While in Europe I lost my slot teaching improv.

What about your writing endeavors? Aren't you pitching ideas to that publication you respect?

They liked one of the pitches. I interviewed a bunch of people, wrote it, and it will maybe be up online to read someday. If so, I think I'll get $25.

Are you getting paid to direct that Beatles show?

Are you serious?

What about...

I know, acknowledge, and understand that things could be worse.

I could have -$4 in the bank and a wad of a gum in my pants.

I could have a severed human tongue wriggling in my pants, and be aroused by it while lecturing third graders.

I could be wearing the pants Reginald Denny wore at the intersection of Florence and Normandie in Los Angeles on April 29, 1992.

Things could be worse.

What if every time I tried to play a trumpet, my own diarrhea came out of it?

What if the sandwich I made for lunch was responsible for an air crash that took the lives of a humanitarian basketball team?

What if juggling was a gateway drug to bestiality?

Right?

Yes, it could always be worse.

I suppose I'm tired of hearing myself say that over and over again.

I'm tired of being at the intersection of "That Was Fun" and "Now I'm Broke" with nothing to show for it.

In Reginald Denny's pants (eBay, man!).

It's time to part ways with the boring, dead end job excuses.

It's time to figure out how to become an adult Christian male (hold the Christ).

Verdict: Loss

July 13 - Hard Sell

Around 7am, Brian, an acquaintance of mine instant messaged me.

He was in London and things were not good.

He had been mugged.

The mugger took all their money and credit cards.

His wife had been hurt.

I bought it with caution.

"oh no - that's horrendous" I typed.

He said his head was not in a good place.

I've met Brian twice.

He lives in Los Angeles.

Why was he instant messaging me?

Why was he instant messaging?

Why was I instant messaging?

"thank god we have our life and passport" he typed.

Brian's syntax was not in a good place either.

It turns out Brian needed money.

I woke up Lauren.

"Are Brian and Karen in London?"

She was groggy.

"Babe, their computer got hacked."

I went back to mine.

"are you still there?" he had typed.

"Brian is offline," it ultimately said.

A few minutes later I got an email from Brian.

The subject was "My Plight!!!"

Good thing I am broke.

Otherwise I would have blindly given this strange human all of my money.

Who are these people?

What do they look like?

How do they spend their non-hacking hours?

Are they happy?

Are they just trying to make a living, like the rest of us?

How successful are they?

Are they hiring?

I placed two bankers boxes into a tiny, windowless office.

A large woman with a metal hairdoo sat miserably in a swivel chair.

On the floor in a black plastic bag, two gold frames leaned against the wall.

"It looks like you haven't finished decorating," I tried.

"Oh, that's all my X-Files crap I need to sell."

I laughed a little, enough to make it seem like it was with her.

"Do you know anyone that wants a David Duchovny basketball?"

I laughed a little more.

"Sorry, I'm selling things, too."

Why should I have to sell my stuff?

Again.

Maybe I'll instant message a few of my old Facebook acquaintances.

See how they're doing.

i've been better

my head is in a bad place right now

thank god i have my life and internet

Verdict: Win

July 12 - Lo$er

Broke.

It's embarrassing.

I maxed out what little I had on my credit card paying for gas for work.

No, work doesn't pay for my gas.

I brought old Sandwich Shop merchandise to the Wisconsin Weekend.

No one bought anything.

Mike had to pick up my breakfast in Madison.

"Money for tolls" paid for my dinner and a late night BP jalapeno cheddar jerky mistake.

Charity.

I thought I could stretch $45 until Thursday.

But I got an email from I-Pass informing me that my account was being replenished.

This leaves me with $5 until Thursday.

Then I got an email from my car insurance.

An automatic payment withdrawal of $86 will take place on Wednesday.

Seems I'm not going to make it.

I took my old turntable to an electronics resale shop.

It's a Technics SL-1200MK2.

In 2007 I spent $400 for it.

For some reason, I could only get one channel to work on it.

TECHNICally, it was an ML-1200MK2.

I took it back to the dealer, who was able to make both channels work with a special adaptor.

I bought an adaptor.

It never worked.

Then I went on a boat for four months and my life changed.

When I returned, I got out of an unhappy place and started in a new direction.

My dispatcher gave me his old West German Elac Miracord 750 III from the 70's.

Both channels worked.

The Technics was relegated to a closet, where its reminder of an unhappy time in my life waited patiently for a rainy resale day like today.

Though I wish it would have actually rained.

At the electronics resale shop, I lugged the heavy instrument onto a glass counter. An electro-savvy Eastern European man ended his phone conversation.

MR. ELECTRICO: You want it fixed?

ME: It works.

MR. ELECTRICO: You giving it to me?

ME: I'd like to sell it.

MR. ELECTRICO: Ah, the truth comes out.

I acknowledged the playful environment he had created with a nod, a smile, and a half-laugh.

But now it was time for business, and his cadence fell somber and tragic.

MR. ELECTRICO: I don't need these so much. I have six on the shelf and twelve downstairs. When one sells - woop! - I bring another up from downstairs.

ME: Let's see what you got. Y'know, 'cuz this is a-

MR. ELECTRICO: I know what you have.

He didn't have a Technics, but he did have the Gemini equivalent. It was selling new for $165.

ME: I was hoping to let it go for $200.

MR. ELECTRICO: Why would anyone buy a used one for 200 when they could have a new one for 165?

He laughed. I thanked him anyway and lumbered my continued burden to the door.

MR. ELECTRICO: Maybe try a pawn shop.

Inside my skull, sparks of defeat made my hair cry. Then he shouted at me.

MR. ELECTRICO: Live forever!

I tried Lauren instead.

She lent me $100.

She also bought this week's groceries and made dinner.

She's going to let me have her leftover jalapeno gnocchi for tomorrow's dinner, too.

Verdict: Loss

July 11 - Bitter Tears Farewell To Summer

Last Bitter Tears show for a while.

This will allow Alan to conceive of new stage costumes.

It will also allow Mike to get married.

And John to return the T.A.M.I. Show DVD I lent him.

Tonight's Sunday show in Milwaukee will allow me to:

Get home at 2:30am

Try to sleep

Fail

Stay up until 5am

Sleep

Get up at 8am

Drive in a heat coma

Spend the rest of the week listlessly trying to catch up on rest

Fail

Verdict: Loss

July 10 - Stars vs. Scars

Madison, Wisconsin.

Bike friendly.

Healthy options.

Forward thinking.

You can live in a house.

And it can be by a lake.

And you can afford it.

Oh!

And also, the beach isn't closed due to high levels of E coli.

Huh.

Why aren't there people honking horns and screaming at each other?

How come going to the supermarket isn't an overcrowded battle for territory?

Where are all the completely worthless assholes that aren't college students?

Hey, where'd you go?

I can't see you.

It's dark out.

When I look up all I see are little silver dots.

Why do I live in Chicago, again?

Verdict: Win

July 9 - G.P.Asshole

I don't own a GPS.

Last year I spent $10 on a 7-county street finder map of Chicagoland from 2006.

I figured I saved about $100 or so.

Then during a bumper-to-bumper crawl in South Elgin, I searched the heavy, 500 page hardcover tome for a residential street nearby. I didn't find the street, but I did find the bumper of the car in front of me.

That summer I spent over $500 to repair the nice man's bumper.

I figured I lost about $400 or so.

I still don't own a GPS.

Too expensive!

Today I had to deliver an envelope to Mishawaka, Indiana.

It's near South Bend and Notre Dame and all that stuff.

An auditing firm wanted their envelope delivered to a media group by 3pm.

I printed out directions and headed out around 12:30pm.

Lovely day for a drive.

That asshole heat that plagued us all week took the fucking hint and left us alone.

But not before buckling the pavement on Lake Shore Drive, like an asshole.

A couple of days ago our maintenance man lost consciousness from the asshole heat, and smacked his head on the floor.

He's 60 years old.

Fuck that asshole heat.

I exited the tollway in South Bend at 2:15pm.

While looking for Douglas Avenue, a major thoroughfare, I took in South Bend's sites:

The winding St. Joseph River, the Notre Dame campus, the College Football Hall of Fame.

It seemed a decent type of town.

If only I could find this Douglas Avenue.

Maybe googlemaps was wrong again.

I kept driving until things got impoverished and barren, and cutely seedy motels started springing up in the weeds.

While consulting my road map in a bowling lot parking lot, I realized I had driven the entire length of South Bend.

"BOWL YOUR WAY TO A FREE MUSTANG," the bowling alley sign shouted.

I didn't have time to do that.

It was 2:35.

Uh oh.

I drove across town again only to discover that Douglas Avenue doesn't have a street sign.

I had to call my boss.

I had to call the media company.

If only I had a GPS.

But the envelope arrived in the lobby of the media group at 2:52!

Oh, wait.

In Indiana it was 3:52.

Who knows.

Who cares.

I escaped rotten Chicago for a whole afternoon.

Lauren's been teaching sketch comedy to a bratty batch of teenagers.

She's also teaching improv to adults.

And waiting tables in the evening.

Now she has a summer cold.

Sweat vs. Snot.

Vs. Cramps.

Summer.

Sucks.

Dead.

Cock.

So she splayed out at home, stuffed up in our un-air conditioned apartment while The Bitter Tears played their last Chicago show of this asshole season.

Verdict: Win

July 8 - I Get It, "I'm Old"

Time Magazine was donating some items to Chicago Public Schools.

They commissioned our messenger company to deliver the items.

For once, worthwhile work!

Now I can scratch Peace Corps off my Bucket List.

Harry Reese designed the Time Life Building.

It looks like a large brown box.

On the 19th floor a crude cardboard replica waited for me.

It stood six feet tall, sat four feet wide on either side.

The box weighed as much as I did before I got "fat".

I wrestled it like an insubordinate vending machine onto a tipsy cart.

It took a few tries, and cost the walls a few nicks.

A fucky, grunty experience.

The magazine was also kind enough to donate six unwieldy dry erase boards.

The 4' x 8' dry erase board proved most difficult to:

* Lift

* Carry

* Move

* Fit into freight elevator

* Fit through doors

* Fit into second freight elevator

* Like

But I got 'er done!

I mean.

I helped to make a difference.

Oh but wait.

I still had to fit this crap- I mean these tools for success - in the van.

While staring at the van, an old bike messenger friend approached.

It was Max.

Max has been on the streets for almost two decades.

For years we worked for the same messenger company.

Sometimes, as a sign of the end of the day, he would broadcast the accordion busker's river ditties through all of our brick radios.

He's a short guy with long stringy hair.

He looks like a ratty version of Eric Burdon.

When I started messengering he had brown hair.

Now his grey locks poke like dead straw out of his weathered leather Freddie Mercury hat.

We made eye contact.

"Hey Max," I said.

"Hey," he returned suspiciously.

He didn't recognize me.

Five steps later he snapped his fingers.

"Oh wait, I know you. 37!"

Actually it's 58, but who cares.

"Yeah, Tony," I smiled.

"Tony!" he exclaimed like a human pizzeria.

He looked at my task.

"You're gonna fit all that in that?"

"Yup."

He smiled.

"Gettin' old, huh?"

"Yup," I confessed, cautiously jumping down from the dock to the van.

Max helped me load in the enormous box for a couple of seconds.

"I'll do that when I'm old," he announced.

I continued my fucky, grunty duty.

"I said, 'I'll do that when I'm old!'" he repeated, a little louder this time.

"Thanks, Max. I heard you the first time." Those fucking dry erase boards - I mean those inspirational, life-changing dry erase boards - had accidentally torn up the interior of the van.

"I get it," I said to Max in lieu of farewell.

Maybe I don't miss bike messengering as much I thought I did.

After all, now I deliver knowledge.

Verdict: Win