Max: No Sleep, No Job, No Relevance

Jeebies and I eagerly, very much like a child waiting for a stall in a public bathroom, attended a concert tonight. It was a show performed by a talented, as opposed to untalented, individual at one of those bizarre festivals that claims to be something but presents people with something else. Let me explain. Maybe it's me but when a festival markets itself as a 'Jazz Festival' the least I would expect is, well, the venues to be filled with jazz and some blues. Once upon a time this was the case but now it's filled with everything but jazz - only the usual jazz staples are available like Salsa, techno and rock. Call yourself, organizing committee, the International Music Festival and move on. Once again, purists get shafted all in the name of pleasing the lowest fucking common denominator seeking a fricken quick fix through free shows. Routinely and predictably, the usual next day conversation between friends is to tell them it was the 'greatest show you've ever attended.' For some, even if this was their first it would not stop their slight embellishment.

Anyway, the concert tickets I bought were tickets to a rock show at a Jazz fest. It's retarded. Mentally challenged? Handicapped? What is the PC term for retarded fat person? Forget the annoying troublesome fact that no one seems to get nervous, like a neurotic fiend, over such things like I do. A Cuban duo opened. Smooth, sultry and charismatic they were. "Does it exist a bad Cuban guitarist?" I wondered.

Two girls, females, women (what is the PC term for them these days?) were sitting next to us and Jeebies, and you need to know that Jeebies has the attention span of a freshly hatched lizard, began to swarm around them like a school of Amazon piranhas. Before he could actually and swiftly offer a gesture they began, without a flair, making-out. French-Italian-Spanish kiss style. My invention. They were, my ubiquitous audience, a lesbian couple. "Fucking sweet." he says knocking me with his elbow. Why elbows always catch me on my most vulnerable spots is a question to pose to Peter at the Gates one day. I merely mentioned, strictly in plainspeak dead-pan, the obvious that they were gay. Queer. Seeking attention? Some do. To which he responded "Everyone knows lesbians are bi-sexual." He was right on this lusty and muggy occassion. After the show, which was stunning, we had ourselves a party that would make Father Iannucci question and therefore lament humanities moral constructs. Can't wait to tell my friends.

Counting wolves, to battle the insomnia, I was thinking about my father during the night. It was 2:41am to be exact when I decided to embark on such a journey. My borderline fascist, pro-capitalist father. He who has an inherent hatred for anything socialist - and needless to say he's not too fond of perenial under-achievers. He, to unhealthy levels, who detests big slothic nanny-states. What a political-science and psychology study. Often he would go off on rants and soliloquoy's that would make Shakespeare and Dante proud. Or Cicero or any of the rambling men you spot on a street corner in remote parts of your respective cities. Ahead of the logic, as usual, lay an intricate and carefully designed riddle that none of us (siblings and friends alike) could never figure out. Following his artistically mad comments, was akin to walking on a tight rope. You could follow just a little before you inevitably lost balance and fell off. Memory brought forth a time when my family sat around the table, at a typical supper, teasing him during one of his famous polemic tirades. I, in the familiar comfort of pop-culture referencing, suggested we plaster him with question marks. You know, like the fucken Riddler. Laugh we did. Smile he did not.

Misanthropist I may very well be. Perhaps this is why I have no job. Or seek to go through the interview process - which is one of the most degrading and pointless exercise ever invented. As if the wild pink lemur, who nostalgically reminds of Rev. Jim Ignitowski, behind the desk in a dubious suit doesn't know the person he is considering is a complete useless collection of fibres and tissue. A human without the nourishment necessary to make them relevant. Pseudo-humouring, bull shit talk and cv's on steroids. It's all a crap shoot. Everyone's an ambitious go-getter (all-suave-talk mediocre lick dick chump) who thrives under pressure (usually the first to crack or avoid it) and talks the truth (the most articulate and talented back-stabbing gossiper this side of the St.Lawrence, Mackenzie and Mississippi) on this day.

"So? How do you see yourself five years from now?" The dumbest rhetorical question ever. Considering that most companies usually miss their quarterly projections, that's one gosh astounding question to ask. Fucken jerk off who ever came up with that one. No doubt, from a special psychology firm that conducted exhaustive studies that determined what to ask potential employees. For this, he had bestowed upon him (or her, or it. I just don't get modern lingo) from the regal masters of middle-management a trophy for best employee of the month - in all their vortexual perplexed glory. People become millionaires for such things, you know. Which does not say much for the beastly consumers who determine this outcome.

Maybe I'm not a misan-etc. Maybe I just don't know how to interact with others. I never ever was at ease with humans. Humans are so complex in all their codes and decodes. Yeah, it's probably just me the problem. If it really is a problem. Maybe it's a form of autism. 'Rain Man' resonated with me on some level. I confess to be, to all of you, a person who, for some mystical unexplained reason, reads 5 books at a time. I have stacks of books, newspaper articles and magazines that are scattered everywhere waiting to have their print and words absorbed by my over-stretched mind. It seems I'm always out to over-load a body that ironically does not know how to sit and stand still.

Ever notice whenever you're at a bloody (sometimes they deserve to be) function it always seems everyone has a cool or better job than you? Everyone, recall they are better than you, is always off to this city and off to that city. They are exotic buyers and creative managers and all that shit. All jet-set fuckos. Yet, they all act and talk like complete fucking assholes. Know-nothing shitheads who have the best jobs in the world. "Look at me!" Worse, to add to insult, when they tell their stories of how 'lucky' they were to 'stumble' on these fucking great jobs. Not by tirelessly sending cv's like monkey chumps, not by rolling up sleeves and knocking on doors, not by earning their stripes going through the ranks, but having the grace of god dang timing.

My timing, not that it should astonish anyone, is heinously and criminally off. It's to the point where one could claim I'm a 'loser' and I would not object. I'm the guy who is next in line only to have the sold-out sign go up when it's my turn. They, being tiny magical little wise sea or lake wizards, say you create your own luck. Can I book an appointment with these creators of gargoyle inspired cliches?

Since I am on the subject of things that irritate my smallish bones and loose ligaments, here's more. Like, um, for instance people who, um, say, you know, um, a lot, you know. I notice that on the radio too these days. 'Esteemed' people being interviewed about serious subjects saying 'um' is not my idea of direct and complete credibility. Yeah, yeah the message is the content. But still...Or people who jog in 40+ degree celsius weather because 'they have to". As if going off their routine will ruin them. Or people who get addicted to everything and use hyperbole's to make their point. 'Oh my God, I hafta have my coffee in the morning or I'm gonna die." Or "I have to break the gang-bang record." Moderation, it looks like and I guess, is not a strong suit of many people.

Sometimes, but most of the time, I just don't know how I, in a world so out of tune with my chords and keys, get by.