I'm a cockroach after the bomb-carrying on

Alright. Well-where to begin. Where to end. At the same place I suppose. Here, on my floor watching American Idol (go Blake!--at the moment). In an ideal world House would be on now. But I have two weeks before I get any more yummy House-osity. Maybe I'll finish that damn fic I'm working on. Me doubts.

Oh so I hate my job and I hate the people I work around. They're all idiots and liars. And one or the other is bad-but an idiot trying to craft a lie? That sort of thing is enough for me to change my opinion on the death penalty. All day all I want to do is throw a book at whatever dumbass I'm being forced to deal with at the moment tell them to get fucked with something hard and sandpaper-y and storm out of the building. My blood pressure shoots up and my chest hurts whenever I go to work. Fuckers that couldn't find their ass with both hands and a topographical map get full time jobs and I'm stuck in temp hell. 99.999% of the people I encounter on a daily basis have IQs lower than my shoe size. The only joy I get is when some damn fool calls with a question like the betch that wanted info on St. Patrick's Day and I went into full militant Irish socialist mode and began to rant about the mis-representation of the Irish by the American populace during that bastardized holiday. She didn't know what hit her.
"You do realize that the St. Patrick's Day you see in this country is nothing like the genuine holiday right? It's not even close. Shamrocks and leprachans have nothing to do with the Irish! Do you know anything about the history? Do you have any idea what the Celts have survived to be the vital and important cultural force they are today? Do you realize what it means to us when we're relegated to drunk, fighting, half-witted stereotypes? How do you like it when someone stereotypes your people?"
She wasn't bright enough to realize I was fucking with her. But I meant every word. The Irish aren't about fighting (okay, we fight, a lot) or drinking (yeah, we drink, a lot) or little red haired men in green derby caps (no, really, that's just ignorant) and don't fucking kiss me because I'm Irish (just don't fucking try to kiss me if you want to live). Boils m'blood it does. Shit like that ignorant claptrap.

I guess what I'm saying is: I wanna work somewhere without flourescent lights.

ANYHOO-I'd decided I hated life too much to experience joy so I wasn't going to go see Tommy tonight. But then I got a phone call before I left work. During which time I said possibly the most inappropriate thing I've ever said whilst sitting behind the front desk: "I was just going to go home and shoot some morphine..." OK-really. No excuse. My 'boss' was standing not three feet away. It rivaled fucking with the dumb betch about Irish history for only good moment of the day.

**AI Note-wait, go Chris! Also-Simon just called Ryan sweetheart. They're so hot together. I so want the link to that interweb sex video.**

Where the bloody hell was I? Oh yeah, driving across town to see Tommy Womack at Grimey's. I made record time-like, 10 minutes from 28th N to 8th S-I didn't do that good when I went to see Todd and took the expressway. It was bitchin'.

Tommy was (as he always is) awesome. He played for quite some time-45 minutes maybe? Honestly, I was so much enjoying the show I dunno how long he played. Just do yourself a favor-if you know Tommy or you've never heard of him-go out and buy There I Said It. The dude that writes music for USA Today gave him props. But don't believe that guy-believe me-Tommy Womack's There I Said It is an album you need.

You also need Americanitis by Will Kimbrough (who, along with his baby girl, is the cutest thing on the planet at this present moment--they should be illegal, they're so adorable) and Todd Snider Peace, Love and Anarchy (B-Sides and Rarities). That last one isn't out yet. But you need it.
/I'm not just promoting the hometeam or anything. They really should be required listening for anyone that likes music that doesn't suck. I have spoken.

So, after Tommy had warmed up singing "Here Comes a Regular" and played a bunch of songs off his new album (all of which I'd heard either live or whilst sitting in his van) I bought the one 'Mats album I don't have (Don't You Know Who I Think I Was?) and the TW CD. Since I only rock intermittently I had to get my CD signed.
(A/N-y'know, I don't think I've ever recounted a conversation when someone that was nearby might read it. Forgive me if I quote wrong. I'm trying)

**AI Note. Go Phil! You're all bald and cute and shit! Oh-Ryan, my bevested sweetie pie-why are you mocking Britney? You're better than that!**

Conversating at Grimey's about a topic that has nothing to do with Simon and his manboobs.
*Pointing at my empty PBR* "That's the worst hangovers I ever had."
"Really/ My worst hangover was...Ketel One vodka."
"Vodka, really? I never got a hangover from vodka."
"Well, I was drining straight from the bottle-and I was about 20 lbs lighter than I am now. But I'd also drank, like, 6 Heinekens. Then I passed out on a tour bus."
"And you have no idea what happened after that."
"I woke up in a hotel in downtown Pittsburgh and I'm not 100% how I got there."
"You probably don't want to know. There's probably a whole bunch of memories you've repressed."
"I was thinking about going into therapy and trying to regain those memories."
"I hope it was Black 47."
"Nope." (it was them what live in these parts and my drinking companion looks a lot like Ethan Hawke. Only he's about ten years older. Just so you don't think I'm a complete lunatic. A cab was involved.)
*Guy I've never seen before* "No,you don't want to know. Just drink more. Drink a lot more." *I guess he was there...*
"You should definately never try to remember that night."
Should've Been rock stars are worried about my sanity. I so rock.

So it's moments like when I'm leaning against the "Preloved" section and glancing at a Wilco CD that I don't need to buy because Mik has it she played it when we were going somewhere last spring with the dog and cigarettes and bitterness and Cokes in between our legs in that awful station wagon with the cheapass CD player that skipped if you looked at it funny and remembering the summer of 14 Songs when I was 17 and my car had a tape deck and we drove around listening to that and the Reality Bites soundtrack me and my sister innocent world untouched hippies with $5 between us enough for gas and a stop at Taco Bell and still there was change left. It's when the music makes me forget for a minute that life isn't just a desk and a ringing phone and cheatinglies you don't fool me none of you. Life isn't just like that-it's a Daddy dancing with his daughter, guitar solo, in joke, free beer, rock song moment that doesn't mean that much except it's everything because it's what makes the stupid endless days seem less endless and more like a means to and end.