Environmental Love Hole

Today I woke up, took a shit, and slugged down a gallon of unleaded coffee; Tasters Choice instant blend, for those taking notes. I know I promised not to bastardize this forum with full-throttle diary entries, but I also feel responsible for allowing a certain transparency into my daily routine, lifting the proverbial curtain on occasion. To the detriment of some, no webcams will be installed in this manse, or wrapped around my head. This is the fortress of unemployed solitude, not a funhouse where I do handstands for blog hits and ad revenue.

On a brighter note, I’m happy to have received positive feedback on my bottle recycling plans. The gentleman who so greatly approves of my intention to bank coin while saving this polluted earthly hellhole is a Connecticut-based hapkido warrior / accountant with a bad back. The man is addicted to bottle recycling. He wants to make love to bottle recycling. It’s an illness – worse than my autodidactic tendencies to catalog music or play air drums – as sadly, it disrupts his social calendar on an excessive basis. He is a married man, but his true mistress is the can machine, haphazardly tucked away in the nether reaches of your local supermarket, often marred by broken glass and engulfed in an avalanche of garbage; sloppy, boorish, and in this particular case, emblazoned with a big neon “Fuck Me” sign above the input hole. Those who approach this abomination do so with a lustful twinkle. They are either (a) white trash, (b) geriatrics, or (c) shaggy-haired Greenpeace activists with IMPEACH BUSH bumper stickers on their shitbox Volkswagens. Dating the can machine is the equivalent of dating a paraplegic. She ain’t pretty, but she ain’t going anywhere, and she might even pay to play. Yes, bottle recycling is my friend’s dirty laundry, his wicked bitch. Well, that and his inclination to disrespect a Norelco beard trimmer by using it on his lower person. Poor Norelco beard trimmer, forced to lacerate a snarled Vietnam jungle twice weekly without the advantage of Agent Orange.

Christmas In January

So really, who needs a job when I’ve just begun cataloging my Christmas music collection like a raging autodidact; clad in pajama pants and a white terrycloth robe, playing the role of a man who detests the very notion of financial security. Hell, not only am I cataloging, but I’m removing the hiss from older recordings via audio-editing software, locating original 45rpm cover artwork for reasons unknown, and hunting for year of release. In aggregate, this gives me clearance for OCD bragging rights in the most severe support circles. For whatever it’s worth, my wildest act of "Damn The Man" rebellion has been a carefully groomed goatee, cultivated with a Norelco #3 blade setting, precision trimmer, and beard scissor. When coupled with the robe and checked pants, I’m a 'Pulp Fiction'-era Eric Stoltz, minus the crackwhore girlfriend. “Use the opportunity,” people have encouraged me. “Don’t just sit around. Take a vacation. Take a broadcasting class. Start painting.” If not for concerns regarding my mortgage payment and electric bill, perhaps a weekend in Fiji might clear my head, thanks for the suggestion.

Of course, I’m more inclined to begin a strict bottle recycling plan. Growing up, the “can man,” presumably by some divine act of the Lord, put his kid through college by combing the trash bins of Main Street on a quest for aluminum booty. His weekly take, the perfect thumb in the eye for the hacks at the IRS. In retrospect, I suppose that kid of his got a massive financial aid handout, and thirteen years of bottle deposits scored a new toaster. For the record, guess who’s unemployed, who’s got a job, and who’s still busting his ass for nickels. The poor guy'll be dead before he ever gets that espresso machine. But he's banking coin. I'm not. Game over.