FOR THOSE STILL LOOKING FOR GOVERNMENT EMPLOYMENT, OR ANY EMPLOYMENT FOR THAT MATTER

Just a brief message from the submarine without a periscope:

For those unemployed unfortunates who occasionally hit this blog looking for a copy of California Standard Form 678, Examination/Employment Application, I've decided to offer up a little help in finding the damn thing. Just go to the following site and you'll eventually stumble across it:


California State Personnel Board

I need not point out the fact that one has about as much chance of landing a paying position within the California bureaucracy as, oh, I don't know, pensioned state retirees in the suburbs shutting the fuck up about how government employees are bankrupting everything in sight. But, hope springs eternal -- except, of course, when it doesn't.

So, good luck! You're going to need lots of it -- which I know all too well.

(Back to our regularly scheduled drooling torpor.)

CHUMMING

Taking a well-deserved breather from blog-trolling and applying for jobs such as Chum Reintroduction Coordinator (who says that there aren’t any government jobs to be had these days?); while I’ve been put in mind of the atrocious employment situation, which I can hardly avoid, Chris Hedges administers the coup de grace, at least for today. He’s talking about his former bosses at The New York Times, but it’s far too easy to see the universality of his words:

When you allow an institution to provide you with your identity and sense of self-worth you become an obsequious pawn, no matter how much talent you possess. You live in perpetual fear of what those in authority think of you and might do to you. This mechanism of internalized control -- for you always need them more than they need you -- is effective. The rules of advancement at the paper are never clearly defined or written down. Careerists pay lip service to the stated ideals of the institution, which are couched in lofty rhetoric about balance, impartiality and neutrality, but astutely grasp the actual guiding principle of the paper, which is: Do not significantly alienate the corporate and political power elite on whom the institution depends for access and money. Those who master this duplicitous game do well. Those who cling tenaciously to a desire to tell the truth, even at a cost to themselves and the institution, become a management problem. This creates tremendous friction within the paper. I knew reporters with a conscience who would arrive at the paper and vomit in the restroom from nervous tension before starting work. If Rossi had examined the effects of this institutional hubris and the pathology of the paper’s self-infatuation, if he had looked at the paper’s large and small failures as well as its successes, he would have pushed past the myth of the Great Oz, peddled to him by the paper’s editors and minions like Carr, and uncovered its troubled core.

Now, that’s what I call motivational.

Back to the darkness.

THE AUDACITY OF HOPELESSNESS

What I can’t figure out is that, for some reason, it all looks so “normal.”

That’s usually the first thought that intrudes, unbidden and unwanted, whenever I make one of these infrequent forays out of the existential mole-hole. I briefly poke my head out of the involuntary sanctuary in which it’s lodged -- an ambiguous limbo-land tethered to one or another of the socio-economic reality cracks designed and constructed by our obvious betters, the Masters of Everything -- and I marvel at the overwhelming “prosaicness” of things. The commuters, the atomized automatons, the properly enthused suburban media-consumers, the comfortable anti-union pensioners, the pseudo-Randian declaimers, the energetic youngsters doomed by their ignorance . . . They blithely go about their dubious business as if they didn’t get the memo concerning, you know, the imminent collapse of civilization and the end of the world . . .

Man, I just knew that resuming this blogging thingy would be a mistake. Jeeze.

***

OK -- take two: Six months of wasted motion trying to justify a return to this nonsense. It’s a tough proposition, and it’s not particularly surprising to see that so many bottom-tier blogger colleagues have abandoned the field. Ah, those were the veritable glory days in blog-land, weren’t they? The second coming of the post-modern version of the Bush Crime Family, circa 2006 -- no shortage of outrages from which to draw energy then, you know. The torrential output of snark and bile was truly impressive, even here; a maelstrom of muck, a deliciously vile shitstorm of vituperation, anger, and undifferentiated frustration; a wonderfully chaotic creative mess of pretty good writing, most of the time. Unfortunately, something happened to that scene, something unexpected, perhaps terminal. What a shame.

Well, we could argue endlessly about what that something might have been (I have a few ideas), if anyone seriously wants to explore that rhetorical cul-de-sac. I don’t especially. I mean, I know why I have been in cold storage the last couple of years -- as to my largely disappeared compatriots, could be just about anything. Presumption being merely one vital component of blogging (it simply wouldn’t function without it), I might venture that my friends’ recent experiences probably mirror my own, to a certain extent: unemployment, near-homelessness, destitution, hopeless despair, those sorts of things. A motivated sense of purpose in this weird virtual realm can’t hope to compete with such pressures. A certain amount of tension and conflict is indispensable to the process of creativity, I think most thoughtful people can agree; the sheer, stifling glut of such tension and pressure, salient features of present circumstances, is just fucking ridiculous.

***

So, the question begs -- why now? What’s the point in resuscitating this imposing monument to obscurity? I don’t know. Extreme boredom, maybe. Desperation, perhaps. It certainly isn’t the conviction that it’s going to solve anything; as a mild distraction from disturbing, indistinct impulses toward self-immolation, it might prove useful. Or not. Whatever. In any case, I’ve suppressed my “better” judgment and resolved to re-launch this audacious pea-shooter, this hopeless yapping chihuahua of a blog, and ride it as well as I can, as long as I can. Straight into the crapper, in all likelihood. At least I’ll have plenty of company on that particular trip, and I might even get some of the bad taste of despair out of my mouth in the process.

Like I said: I knew this would be a mistake. Oh well.

WRAPPIN' IT UP

Since this entry will most likely be the very last one for the calendar year 2010, I thought it would be appropriate enough to summarize my attitude towards the twelve-month period just now limping to a finish. So, without further ado, here goes:

fuck, shit, piss, garbage, vomit, stench, noise, pain, dust, tooth decay, collapse, depression, assholes, smog, greed, arrogance, indifference, stupidity, anger, tension, blood pressure, flat tires, emptiness, failure, disaster, broken computers, disintegration, debt, bill collectors, 13% “official” unemployment (Sacramento County), snapped shoelaces, pot holes, gray hair, deterioration, dents, scratches, bruises, idiots, suburbia, unclipped fingernails, asphalt, perspiration, bad coffee, junk, ignorance, bald spots, rug burns, bankruptcy, war, dislocation, homelessness, deforestation, mass murder, gridlock, toxic waste, hollow spectacle, ants, plastic, deception, endless babbling bullshit, hidebound opinions, clueless certitude, the internet, public libraries, old people, young people, animal fat, monotony, monkey-motion, boogers, racism, Krazy Glue, beer, diesel fuel, seatbelts, Honduran underpants, rust, teabaggers, busted furniture, dogs, hot air, death, phony cordiality, hypocrisy, professional sports, bank charges, sheetrock particulates, bad breath, jury duty, sinus headaches, unconstitutional searches and seizures, cell phones, weight gain, dirt, grime, constipation, corruption, the Clown Train, crap-heads, fender-benders, larceny, propaganda, nitwits, halfwits, fucktards, douchebags, turd-eaters, consumerism, tee-vee, Romanians, suicidal tendencies, wasted motion, revulsion, hackery, lies, squalling toddlers, squalling adults, know-it-alls, know-nothings, snobs, pinheads, shitheads, bastards, spammers, rain, poverty, fraud, ass-gas, dope, hot mustard, heater cores, torpor, sloth, decadence, laziness, gag reflexes, online contests, pitch-correction, tonsil wash, cut-and-paste, crimes against humanity, birdshit, voicemail, debit cards, atomization, wood screws, hub caps, calluses, bitches, cutesy-hyper Valley Girl talk, parking lots, SUV’s, windshield ice, dead squirrels, dumbfucks, pretension, regression, compartmentalization, stereotypes, enormous gaping pie-holes, street signs, large noses, fat lips, giant thighs, scrawny asses, tailgaters, corporate chain coffee dumps full of spastic chittering cross-eyed chimps . . .

If I've left anything out, I sincerely apologize. Whatever.

WARM AND FUZZIES FOR YOUR HOLIDAY DELECTATION

Gray, wet suburban murk; ugly gloom made worse (if that’s even possible) by the pinheads and dumbfucks who blight an already wrecked, blasted landscape with their dubious presence; non-stop christmas vomit-noise; thoughts of self-destruction clamoring for attention; myopic, infuriatingly insipid vocal-chord polish heaved around in great toxic waves, mostly about professional sports or various tee-vee shows (among other stupidities) . . . Just a normal December day at the bottom of the bottomless hellpit.

What a bloody-assed cluster-fuck of hobnailed asshattery. And that’s on its better days, which, believe me, don’t happen all that often. Makes one wonder just what my goddamned point is then. But that’s a problem pretty much all the time, so who cares? Honestly, I could just shit myself blind right about now. Hardy har.

***

Sitting in a public library on a weekday, and you’ve never seen so many desperately depressed people interspersed with the usual clutch of older folks who don’t appear to give a crap about much of anything, bless their little hearts. Overweight women with cell phones and squalling little monsters in strollers round out this weird tableau of profound hopelessness. Why am I here? It’s a mystery. Could be because habits are hard to break, and consuming free wireless internet bandwidth to no good purpose has certainly become an insatiable top-drawer habit that ain’t going anywhere, at least in the near term.

***

LATER: The coffee-dump zombies won’t stop talking; how is it that some poor, retarded unfortunates were born with their speech apparati up their noses (or some other, less flattering openings in their corporeal envelopes)? Were their parents crack addicts? Did their progenitors accidentally swill, oh, I don’t know, a steaming mug of lacquer thinner, instead of the customary discount beer or industrial vodka sold in plastic bottles? That might begin to explain a few things, above and beyond the superficially trivial (but no less enraging) flatly nasal delivery of apparently endless supplies of malodorous ass-wind inexplicably re-routed through the truncated confines of their fucking heads. But then, why would it matter? I just wish they’d shut up and go away -- the last thing anyone needs is to actually figure out what makes these untermenschen tick, for crying out loud.

We’ve all heard and read plenty of criticism of your average American and his or her unwillingness to engage in meaningful conversation (among an endless litany of outrages and perversions). This criticism is well-warranted, of course. However, I would posit that the only thing worse than suburban androids who don’t talk about anything are suburban androids who do talk about anything. The drivel is absolutely astounding; you’ve never experienced a more amazing melding of minds, a more confident public display of iron-clad self-righteous certitude than that provided, for example, by a garbage truck driver and a washed-out wad of fuck who picks up trash in strip-mall parking lots. What an impressive exhibition of brain power and sheer intellectual prowess -- what is it about suburban rubbish handlers? Who the hell knew they had so many opinions on so many topics of critical importance? I definitely didn’t. Seriously, they leave no stone unturned: corporate business practices, basic economics, the Oakland Raiders, governmental inefficiency and over-regulation, historical expositions on the surprisingly diverse evolutionary path of dumpster lids, opaque references to homeless people who sleep in cardboard boxes and how they’re all criminals . . . and all that is just for starters! In fact, they’re now standing out in the rain, right at this very moment, still flapping their gums! Unbelievable! To be so committed to the “removal of all doubt” about one’s abysmal ignorance. I’d be most impressed if I wasn’t already thoroughly disgusted by the whole fucking thing. AHHHG!

***

Still rainy-ish outside, still no good news to report on anything in particular; no jobs, no hope, no escape, no point, no reason. No nothing, except expanding gut-flab and backaches.

***

Happy holidays! Sigh.

AN "INDEPENDENCE DAY" MESSAGE

I just wanted to raise my bruised head out of the glurp, the cloying, syrupy goo of unemployment and desperate destitution and stationary panic -- if only for a moment, to suck down a few pointless breaths before resuming the long, steady sinking into . . . whatever it is I (we) am (are) actually sinking into. Could be anything. Anyway, trying to reconcile the indistinct implications of “Independence Day” with the crumbling existential sewer in which we find ourselves is difficult enough; understanding how the noisy, stench-riddled expenditure of platitudinous bullshit and cheap Chinese-made fireworks fits into the picture is, well, quite beyond my rather limited imagination. It all must mean something, right? It must.

Then again, maybe not. Whatever. In any case, days like today always seem to put me in a mood. Particularly when said day is just another in an endless procession that has gone on way too long. I wish I had an answer to this nonsense. Anyhow, for reasons unknown I was put in mind of the following quote from Dalton Trumbo. I’m not sure if it has anything specific to do with the Fourth of July (probably not much), but it resonates with the times nonetheless, somehow, someway. From the introduction to Johnny Got His Gun, he writes:

“Why should I look, it wasn’t my fault, was it?” It was, of course, but no matter. Time presses. Death waits even for us. We have a dream to pursue, the whitest white hope of them all, and we must follow and find it before the light fails.

So long, losers. God bless. Take care. We’ll be seeing you.

Have a happy July 4th, everybody. I’m going back to sleep.

POSTING TO RECOMMENCE MOMENTARILY . . . REALLY

Not that anybody actually cares, but, well . . .

New B.S. coming soon.

POSTING TO RE-COMMENCE MOMENTARILY

Can't you just smell the anticipation?

FRANK McCOURT, 1930-2009

I'M BEGINNING TO SUSPECT WE SHOULD'VE JUST HANDED THIS CRAPSTORM TO McCAIN

I don't know, man. Obama's evisceratingly incomprehensible cabinet appointments, his copping to so-called "screw-ups," more than half-a-million more jobs poofed out of existence last month, my own disastrous unemployment crisis and financial disintegration ... maybe Lumpy McCain and his far-north Ho should've been elected instead. Obama owns the looming catastrophe, whether he wants to or not -- more and more people I happen to talk to can't even remember that there was such a thing called the "Bush Administration ..."

Sorry, people. Optimism is pretty much an unhealthy luxury I can't afford these days.

WE WILL GET BY

This one's for Lee over at Captain Quahog -- tickets to see the Dead? You lucky bastard.

SURE WOULD LIKE TO GET BACK INTO THIS BLOGGING BUSINESS

If anybody has any suggestions for jump-starting one's better blogging instincts, for re-vitalizing one's moribund snark glands, I'm all ears. Seriously. In the meanwhile, here's a nasty sample of the real reality I've been dealing with lately:

California unemployment rate reaches 9.3%

Happy days, happy days ...

WON'T GET FOOLED

In honor of all the unreasonable expectations the incoming administration is already being saddled with, and the halfwits who are starting to gag uncontrollably on their misplaced, utterly empty illusions -- already.

I laugh ironically, painfully ...

A BRIEF ALTERNATIVE TO WATCHING THE WORLD FALL TO PIECES

My niece Karmen and my brother Dan, "Still Early":

MORE WORDS OF WISDOM ...

A PICTURE WORTH SWIPING

A thousand pardons to profmarcus and company ... this is just too priceless to pass up.

SOON TO RETURN TO THIS BLOGGING NONSENSE ...

Can you stand the excitement? I can't ...

Back to the inexplicably useless blogging phenomenon, sooner rather than later. The only question is ... why? Whatever.

LOOKIN' FER A JOB ... ON A TUESDAY

It's been one hell of a long time since I felt even remotely motivated to yet again indulge this blogging nonsense. Too many real-world pressures pounding my attention span to a wimpy little pulp, you see, not the least of which is struggling with the unemployment thing in the dark age of Bush. Ick. Anyway, came across this from Mike Malloy's website today ...

Tuesday Afternoon

The song, not the time of day and day of the week. Justin Hayward wrote it, what? forty years ago? Oh, my.


Tuesday . . . . afternoon,
I'm just beginning to see, now I'm on my way
It doesn't matter to me, chasing the clouds away.

Something, calls to me,
The trees are drawing me near, I've got to find out why
Those gentle voices I hear, explain it all with a sigh.

I'm looking at myself reflections of my mind,
It's just the kind of day to leave myself behind.
So gently swaying through the fairyland of love,
If you'll just come with me you'll see the beauty of

Tuesday afternoon, Tuesday afternoon . . .

I thought of those lyrics when I checked out this morning's headlines. Quick advice: Don't check out this morning's headlines. Anyway, join me tonight - Tuesday evening - because it's just the kind of day to leave myself behind.

Whatever.

HELL OFFICIALLY FREEZES OVER

Yeah, I know -- it's been a hell of a long time since I paid a visit to this brain-damaged waste of time. Not that anybody gives a shit, I'm sure; I'm just between sloppy drunken episodes in the long-running and utterly hopeless job quest that has gone on for fucking months. Whatever. Anyway, I came across a blog post that (apparently) I never posted, and I'm just buzzed enough to stick it online. Yes -- I've seemingly resurrected this nonsense, and hell has officially frozen over.

My unposted blog-spew follows:

I've spent the last several months desperately attempting -- fruitlessly, pointlessly -- to ignore as much of what's going on as possible, to stop riding the wobbling see-saw of hope and despair, to unhitch Fortuna's debilitating wheel from the bent and greaseless axle of my troubled consciousness, by paying only so much attention as is absolutely necessary. I've tried to move myself even further towards the margins and fringes, not so much to garner perspective but obliviousness, to shut out what little awareness of things I might actually have. A psychic pit-stop, a mental safe-room, an extended breather from the immense psychological burden of giving a shit within a cultural milieu that prizes self-centered indifference above all else ...


Needless to say, this useless endeavor has been an unmitigated failure -- not to mention being misguided and ludicrously hypocritical as well.


Luckily (or not, I'm not sure which), I've been rudely jolted out of my self-generated torpor through the highly unlikely agency of what appears to be an endless troop of homeless people, purposefully rummaging around in the long row of garbage cans across the street from the grimy brewpub I happen to be sitting in. I seem to be the only quasi-alcoholic here who notices this interesting activity, occurring as it is but a few feet from the front windows of this tackily hip crap hole; from the neatly-dressed executroids in their SUV's, to plainclothes cops with guns, to the self-conscious grunge-fucks who ride up on their carefully de-engineered bicycles while smoking "organic" cigarettes (the basic clientele of this place), they're all pretending not to see the garbage can people they practically have to wade through -- or drive over -- just so's they can get their desperately needed booze fix. I watch this low-rent spectacle and I think: what's worse, that there are so many in the "wealthiest nation on earth" who must forage through the trash to survive, or that the people responsible for producing the trash in the first place act as if the rubbish-harvesters don't actually exist?


The irony of deriding confirmed consumerist assholes for actively ignoring the blatantly rising tide of poverty, homelessness, and all the other fun features of predatory capitalism, while at the same time complaining about how difficult it is to ignore all the grotesque ugliness myself, is not lost. In fact, "irony" is probably not the correct term -- "hypocritical stupidity" better approximates the situation here. Whatever the case, the idea that ignoring something will make it go away, whether that something be dumpster-diving street people or the neo-con appetite for destruction, is patently ridiculous and self-defeating. Leave it to a group of hard-case trash pickers to dish up an unexpected reality check; to remind me that, all the pseudo-snark and sophisticated cynicism aside, I'm basically no better than the disconnected money-worshiping corporate fuckwad in his Escalade, righteously plowing through the paper-thin fabric of this tattered society with nary a worry or concern, or a thought really about anything. What an eye opener.

Then again, I might actually have published this crap -- I can't remember. Who cares?

WHILE I'M TRYING TO DECIDE IF I REALLY WANT TO CONTINUE WITH THIS THING ...

... why not scoot over to Vichy Democrats, a collaborative blog that has some of the best writing -- and just plain thinkafying (?) -- I've come across, in ever so long, among the sour sewer-spew and rotting brain-cabbage that most of the bogworld is. That includes my own, if anyone feels compelled to call me out on such an unfair characterization.

(Hey, Thersites -- sorry that I haven't had an opportunity to get back to you. The dramatically fuzzy imperatives of despair and unemployment have made their presence felt a little too strongly of late ... I haven't been able to keep ANYTHING up-to-date)