Today’s soundtrack: you’re all I want, my fantasy
Today at 9:22pm: Ignoring weird guy staring at me on the N/R. I hate the N/R-trains.


Running out of music. I am cranking Def Leppard’s “Photograph” right now to remind myself of a world where Space Shuttles held together, the Twin Towers were the tallest thing around and telephones couldn’t give you cancer.

It’s fucking busy, dude. My column is overdue, I’m setting up this college gig for the University of Wisconsin-Madison, prepping for a hapkido test on the 21st, and taking a workshop on self-publishing. I decided this year I have to fucking publish something, either a travelogue or a collection of short stories or a book about sphincters.

Once upon a time I had a literary agent waiting for me to produce something, but I waited too long and now he’s out of the business. I let myself procrastinate and get sidetracked, letting life pull me this way or that. I have to quit fucking around now or I’m gonna be a looooooser.

I hope you want to read and are willing to pay ten bucks for a travelogue written by me. If you’re not that’s okay, you can always continue to read my free blog. Perhaps you’ll enjoy my adventures as I shift from Struggling Writer to Busboy to Freelance Busboy and finally to Busboy Serial Killer.

Michael Jackson singing “Billie Jean.” Remember when that motherfucker was still black? Those were the days.

The Corporation hasn’t called me in since last Monday, which is actually good because now I can focus on my own shit. The column is giving me major agita; I can’t get shit to flow. I need writer’s laxative.

I used to have writer’s diarrhea, that was the best. Shit just kept coming out, you never knew when. You’d think you were done and sit down to watch TV, then more words would come and you’d have to run back to the keyboard.

Sitting in the corner of the keyboard, the ESC key mocks me. ESCAPE. Reminding me that right now, somewhere in the sky is an aeroplane with an empty seat. An unbooked cabin in a cruise ship. An empty room in Havana, a bare Parisian sidestreet, an unkissed girl in Shanghai.

I have wanderlust mixed with A.D.D. There’s a cure, but the pill is unwieldy. It’s shaped like a Boeing 767 flying someplace I can’t properly pronounce, like Angkor Wat.

I’m staring at my keyboard here and just realized there are a bunch of keys mocking me. FN in the lower left, which clearly stands for “Fuck Noe.” Next to that is CTRL, obvious shorthand for Can’t Take Rain Logging. Well fuck you too Mr. Keyboard. I own you bitch, I push your buttons, I hold you down.

There’s another key on the lower right: END.