fiend for speed

I called my father's house at six thirty in the morning yesterday. He'd once told me he's awake by five thirty, but it was Sunday. I roused the man and his wife from bed, but they took no apologies. Could be because I'm a fountain of good news, lately. What with favorable paternity test results, and wakefulness before the afternoon. What I didn't tell them was that I'd been asleep since six o'clock A.M. the previous day. Which, is no fault of my own, being on heavy sedatives to control a mental disorder. Of course, I'd skipped my nightly meds of the day I'd slept through, and was thus feeling cocky enough to place the call so early in the morn. But, what matter is it to anyone? With a part time job and Social Security funds flowing from Washington, and now, no kid; I'm not exactly shouldering heaps of responsibility. I said I'd gotten to bed early the night before. A bit of an untruth, but really just truth lacking detail, you'd say? A close friend explained to me that, in his experience, if the truth is written, and written well, one can usually get a person to forgive you no questions asked. My father and step-mother will most probably only chuckle at my outrageous hibernation before depriving them of their final minutes of REM sleep, that Sunday.

However, I've been maintaining a half-truth as to a purchase I made some time ago. I knew visiting family members would take note of my large new wide screen monitor. What they don't, or didn't, know is that it's attached to the brand new computer tower, with which it came packaged. It was a hefty purchase, done entirely for entertainment purposes. It's got one trillion bytes of space for game files, and a video accelerator card that will knock your stockings off. The kinds of productivity I use a computer for were more than covered by my previous machine. Word processing, web applications such as Blogger, miscellaneous other Internet tasks, two-dimensional graphics editing, and web design are all done pretty easily on systems dated as far back as five years. The machine came with the very pretty, new operating system, Windows' Vista. The new monitor has a gloss coat to it, which compliments the system well, looking as if it were forged from polished glass. No, I couldn't hide the frivolousness of twenty-two inches of high definition. But, the computer tower is black, and fit nicely into the bottom right compartment of my desk, out of sight. So, yes, folks, I dropped a wad on an out-of-sight gaming machine. And, if I'm going to be so idle as to play computer games, I may as well use one tenth of my screen resolution to further my writing career on the subject.

When I called my father's, I asked just which art museum in my town was hosting a woven poncho that my step-mother made several years ago. He said he'd have breakfast, come down, and take me there. My step-mother planned to go cross country skiing with a friend, so it'd be just us. Which, is not necessarily preferable, but nice. We saw the museum, which had some very expensive pieces hanging, especially since the last exhibit I saw there. The poncho looked machine woven, very impressive. There was a small photography exhibit, and I queried my father on some of the techniques; he's a photographer by trade. One photo really bugged me, however. It was of a tree, a photo shopped tree. I looked at the light rainbow noise gauzed over the picture and realized, cripes! I could do that. Really, it's a matter of a few simple filters. In fact, I could dig on my hard drive for a picture with the same set of effects. So I bitched a little about my photographic purism... and realized I might have the skills to sell two hundred dollar prints just like it. I had a little change of heart. Ah, but my father is the right person to visit a museum with. With most family members, every particle of my soul is screaming to get the hell out of there and go to the mall. My dad's great, though. We did spend some time with the poncho, but we were out to lunch in twenty-five tops.

We had Mexican, and headed over to the big strip mall dominating a large stretch along the freeway. Sure, Best Buy is supposed to be your one stop electronics store, but Radioshack sits two storefronts down in the mall. Sure, Best Buy's got your Guitar Hero guitar control pads, but Radioshack carries a real guitar. Cheap and chintzy, but still the better alternative. I found that Radioshack also carried a sound card game port to universal serial bus adapter, for cheap! Where as none were to be found at Best Buy. I'm generally gravitated toward the aisles of games at Best Buy. So, although they didn't carry my adapter, I sniffed around by the car racing DVDs. My car racing games of choice are that of the future. No, not ones that have not yet been written. Ones with a setting in the future, or on other planets, or worlds in the universe. The original F-Zero for Super Nintendo will always be one of my favorites. It didn't appear as though the selection offered any futuristic games. Just, some Need For Speed games, with today-cars in cities of today. Then I realized, I am in a store, and this store is selling portable communication devices that take and send photos and movies, and there are video cameras__high quality__that you can hold with your thumb and forefinger... There are televisions with several millions of pixels on display__That kid's shoes are blinking! For cripes' sake! I am in the future! I grabbed the cheapest Need For Speed auto racer, and tracked down Dad, hanging out by the Blue Ray TVs.

As we approached the counter, my father offered to buy me the Need For Speed game, since he had been sick around my birthday, and claimed he didn't give me much. I said it was alright, but if he wanted to, that'd be great. Pretty swell. I'd been checked out by this saleslady before. Real cute one, also very young. She wears her hair parted to one side, one side hanging down over one eye. Ooh. We'd bantered a bit the last time I was in, also buying video games, then too. She asked my dad if he had a members' card. He didn't, but I did. I slid it out of my wallet, but a bit of paper was severely stuck to it. I said something extremely witty, but for the life of me, I can't recall what it was. I thanked her, and sort of felt her watch me as I turned toward the door. Girls have a real effect on me sometimes. Though the graphics by today's standards are terrible, I was mesmerized by all three installments of Tomb Raider, and swinging little Lara Croft around the mazes. In the new Half-Life series, you have a female sidekick, very realistically rendered. My last game purchase was Microsoft's Flight Simulator. I enjoyed very much flying a double prop through the great arch in St. Louis, and perhaps there's some subconscious symbology in that. Though, I might have made more of an effort to learn how to land if the player had a female co-pilot, or even flight attendant. I wasn't sure Need For Speed: Carbon Collector's Edition would have anything to satiate my need for graphical sex.

My dad was getting sleepy, so he dropped me off at my apartment with my new game and adapter for a vintage game controller with which I planned to drive my cars around. I got the controller set up, inserted the DVD, and got ready for the big install... (Smoking, nose picking, a few strums on the guitar.) We're ready. Well, what do you know, right out of the cage and we've got a female. I can't remember what she said her name was, but out of a sleek mobile came a girl with cleavage__and a public service message? She says, "The moves you make in this game are not real... obey the laws of the road... wear your seatbelt... blah, blah, blah..." Interesting how the anarchy-sim Bioshock didn't come with a disclaimer for players not to actually shoot people in the head with a revolver. Or, for Flight Simulator__don't climb into the cockpit of a jetliner with zero hours of flight time in your experience. The girl shows up again at race time, strutting around the cars as they rev up, and shouting "Go!" to start the race. Something was wrong though, she had the physical aspect of a really hot dwarf, kind of squashed. I checked the video options of the game. Humph, it was set to a square monitor resolution. I have a wide screen. No settings for wide screen. Humph. People write hacks to make this kind of thing not a problem, so I headed for Google. There were a few dead ends, since I have the Collector's Edition and not straight up NFS: Carbon. I uncovered something that looked the most promising of anything I'd seen so far. It was "Need-For-Speed-Carbon-CE-Widescreen-Patch.rar" So, I clicked it, and it gave me a few instructions on how to download and open the file, nothing I really needed help with. Then it told me I just installed something that would allow me to download sexy screen savers, which are the kind of screen savers I tend not to use, as to be polite to my guests. Not to mention, it wasn't what I clicked on. Then, without touching anything, it wanted to show me a sexy movie, "Brother rapes Sister." Also, not what I asked for, and very not sexy, to me. It took me three restarts to clear the installation from my computer, and was quite a setback. Anyway, I found a wide screen hack, and the wheels of the cars aren't at all egg shaped, anymore. Plus, Ms. Safety Sanchez looks a bit taller.

The game is fun, despite some scathing reviews I encountered on my way to the wide screen hack. And I suppose it should be. The game is two years old, and built for video accelerators that are much older than mine. Going as fast as you can is all fine and good for winning races, but there are other ways to enjoy the game. For one, you can keep it in second gear, and take in some of the stunning scenery. It's strangely futuristic. Your crew member will bitch at you over the CB if you do this, which is another reward. And, you can pull a U turn and run the race backwards. Your crew member really gets pissed if you do this. And, if you're anything like me, you can drive an automatic transmission, instead of manual, and actually place. The sports cars really are beautiful works of art, like the long stiletto heeled leg of an expensive hooker. The vehicles are futuristically indestructible, too. My foot is getting heavy just speaking of all this. I must have really been moved to put it down long enough to write this. But alas__I really do have a Need For Speed...

today's tom sawyer

Once, I believed I had the greatest responsibility in human nature to fulfill, that is, taking part in the raising of a child. With responsibility comes more responsibility, which is why I found myself making copies in the dead of night, during the pregnancy and first few months. I'd been out of work since I dropped my schooling. It's arguable that a full time third shift job will tear at one's health just as much as funded unemployment. Some known to me would attest, I was a mess before all of this. Kinko's office and print center eventually wore me down to a nub, too. Lucky for me, and my ex's daughter, humans regenerate. You'd think these monkeys were half phoenix; I rose to take on more late night employment at a local television station. I'd been cutting my meds in half with a razor blade each night when working for Kinko's, just to keep my head above the desk. Now, I cut them with a quart of coffee. Arguably, just as effective. As well as the money I'm bringing in, I've stabilized as a person. The electric shock of parenthood was like the zap they give the kind of mental patient I may have become had none of this occurred.

I started working at the local t.v. station early fall off this year. Upon hiring, I was asked to sign an agreement that included a promise not to share company secrets. I'm not sure what qualifies as a secret. After all, my family has been to tour the station, including the control room where I spend most of my time. A fax came through once, describing an auto accident, including names of victims. It stated in caps lock that the information was not to be released until the next morning. I did nothing with the fax, and even kept my fingerprints away from it entirely. Perhaps the reception of these kinds of faxes is a secret, but I'll risk it for journalism's sake. I read once of an Apple computer employee that got canned for blogging a new product prior to its debut. I had an electronics instructor in college who would punctuate each ramble with "...and stuff ...and things ...and that." No lie, twelve times a class period without a hint of salt. So, I have gotten the idea to divulge what I believe are the stations secrets, replacing all nouns with 'stuff,' 'things,' and 'that.'

My manager came in to talk to me yesterday. He said he wasn't directing this stuff at anyone in particular, but that the things weren't getting in the stuff, and that. We really need to get the stuff in the things, so be sure to do things so that they do. The night shift hasn't been getting the stuff in the things, and that, so the morning shift has too much stuff to get in the thing. "I need a refresher on how to get the things in the thing..." I said. His head kind of twitched to one side, realizing I was admitting guilt for ignorance of putting stuff in things, and holding up the morning shift. "Come in a half hour early and we'll get you trained on [and?] that." He comes off like he's gonna be all up in your stuff. But, my manager is pretty nice, and stuff, and things.

Underneath, it's a lot of techno babble, and really gains very little in translation. I probably needed not hide it, anyway. Here's a story from work of personal observation. Each taped show needs to be "timed" so that local commercials will air over the right portions of the tape when aired. It involves a television monitor and a console. I rewind the tape and stop the it each time the monitor goes blank. Then, I write down the displayed time on a small piece of paper to be entered into a computer, later. It was a tricky little task at first, for me, but I soon got the hang of it. See, when you're close to the blankness, you need to switch the console from "shuttle" to "jog." This allows you to fine tune your position on the tape, and get an accurate time reading. Of course, you often overshoot your mark on "shuttle," so you might be "jogging" for a number of seconds. I'm getting pretty good at jogging at a good speed, which involves spinning the dial on the console very quickly with your finger pressed into an inverted nub. One day while jogging, I couldn't help but notice how the tight circular finger motion was like the vigorous massaging of a clitoris. I think of this each time I am timing a tape now. I'm still not bad at it, but my finger slips from the nub when I start to believe, and I go for the labia.

No, my job is not without its rewards. The Coke machine nearest my house has raised its toll from seventy-five cents to one dollar. However, the Coke machine at work still requires only seventy-five. I know I'm admitting to an awful unhealth, but I'll down three Diet Cokes on a ten hour shift. (This is after my quart of coffee.) So, I slip three dollar bills into the reader, get three Diet Cokes, and it spits back three tokens I can redeem for a candy bar. Which, my body is quite craving after teasing my metabolism with chemical sweetener. There are often leftovers from parties or conventions hanging around the break room, too. And, I don't think it's any company secret that I ate the last two thirds of the apple cinnamon cheesecake from the Christmas party.

I work alone, and have in the majority of my jobs. I do get some interaction at the television station. I was nearly given a heart attack by a couple of Southeast Asian immigrants who only needed to clean the place. I heard talking, and a quick glimpse of who I thought were teenagers__they were the right height, anyway. I thought we were being robbed. I summoned my best "Who's there!" They knew some English, enough to say that they were from Service-Master. I'm thankful they didn't bust in while I was sub-directing the newscast. Which, is the other form of contact I have with others in my job. A friend was very impressed to hear that I give countdowns from commercial breaks during the nine o'clock news. I'm not in the studio at the time. I'm on the telephone, a headset. But, whatever gets her wet. The extent of communication we have, aside from coordinative, is saying hello and goodnight. Some nights I ask "What's up?" or "How's it going?" The news is always good, even if the news is not.

I was welcomed to the broadcasting network by a phone call from the news anchor. I thought of all the things I should have said, afterward. So, I suppose it was like any other time I've spoken with a girl, for the first time. It's no secret the anchor is a looker. Perhaps she's the network affiliate's secret weapon. She almost makes me wish I received the channel at home. I have this secret fantasy that I'll see her in public. I can meet the face behind the glass, and she can meet the man behind the curtain. I'd say that's pretty clean and innocent daydreaming. Keeping it professional. Strange... that in such an environment, eroticism at work rises in me only from an editing machine console.

Tonight, while tenderly jogging through segments of the latest Girls Gone Wild infomercial, I reflected. I'm a bit more reflective, of late. Retrospective, too. There's parenthood behind me, that could have stretched 'til my death. At times when parenting was too intense, I'd plan my reaction to a negative paternity result. I'd usually soon recall the physicality between myself and my ex, and move on to more productive synapses. Who knew? Contained in my fantasies were the telling-off of my ex's father, quitting my job, moving cross country; in order from most to least absurd. I have no business with that family anymore, I like my job__it's vitality beyond money. In a circle of cute Denny's waitresses, my job has earned me the nickname Mr. 44, for the UHF channel by which the broadcast is received. There's no reason to verbally put the finishing touches on the wreck of a relationship I had with my ex's father. How I'd like to have no weekly margins of time in which to pursue the hobby of binge drinking, but no. I've seen what I can become when unchecked. Without a child occupying the regions of concernedness in my brain, it's become clear to me that I am just as big a babe to be swaddled.

dead, baby

To justify the abrasive title above, I'll describe a conversation had between myself and a group of friends, the first night of my second year of engineering school. By the dim light of desk lamps, we drank Milwaukeean microbrew. The clock showed an early hour. The talk wasn't of death and dying, but of cutting enemies out of the picture of a life. I said, if someone doesn't ever want to see you again, they're dead. Their lifeline ends before you'll ever cross paths. I'd care to hypothesize that one could stand back to back in the supermarket, without even knowing the zombie lurked. As the night made the dorm guests tired little toddlers, an altercation ensued between a new student and my close friend since last year. Some harsh words were spoken. I am amazed at verbal friction and social death between lovers just weeks after meeting. This was the first time these two were in a room together, and I was baffled. They might have wished one another dead, in the real or virtual sense. Though, they were destined to spend at least a semester finding one another at an adjacent urinal, or next up for a shower, living on the same floor, just doors apart.

Alright, I'll attack this head on. In previous blogs I have made mention of a daughter living in the far reaches of the state. To paraphrase the story, the little girl had been abused by her young mother, and the court system had gotten involved. When questioned, the mother indicated that she, in fact, did not know who the father was. This was news to me. When I had brought up getting a paternity test, I was lucky if I made off with only one black eye. It was then recommended that a paternity test be done. I remember well the affection between myself and the mother. So, it was a bit of a mindfuck when the results of the test came back. Negative. I was not the father of who I thought was my daughter. I'd eaten yogurt, which is rich in bacterial cultures, for breakfast the day of the test, but I suppose this is probably not enough to sway the results. Otherwise, the father would be found to be a lowlife single celled organism. How true, but not literally. No mistake had been made. The accuracy, I was told is 99.9%. I have a sick little theory on the paternity of the kid, but it's something I should really keep to myself. The philosophy exists, love them like your own. Given the circumstances, I'll love my ex and her daughter as I love any of my exes, and a kid smiling at me in a grocery store, respectively. Given the circumstances, I may never see either of them again in my life. Though I do not wish death, in all practicality, it's occured. Conversely, I am also dead; to them. However, considering that I am no longer entangled in a situation of fatherhood out of wedlock with a girl seven years my junior, I smell less of dead meat.

I've taken some time to reflect, it's been two days since the news crackled over the telephone. My feelings are segmented, there's relief for all the times I wished for this, and a sense of irony in all I put into the upbringing in the two years of pregnancy and early childhood. There's little in the way of anger, or feeling betrayed. The girl and I have been apart so long, much has dwindled. I'd waited months to say this, and never would have guessed I'd have the opportunity. But, anything I contributed, I consider helping out a friend. This includes multi-hundred dollar shopping trips, dealings with nasty-ass diapers, and taking blow after verbal blow from the mother's father. His regard for me took a crude form, claiming once, you two made her, you two take care of her; and criticising my lack of presence in the delivery room. I thought I was just giving space to the girl, since she requested only doctors and nurses to be present at the time of birth. He's a clever fellow: shortly before Christmas, he ordered up some diapers and formula since Walgreens fell in my bus route... Said it was time to get my feet wet. Heh.

I still can't get off my mind that an error occurred in the test. A sheriff's deputy performed the swabbing, a quick swipe of the gums with a single-ended Q-Tip. He kept filling out the wrong blanks on the envelope, calling himself an "idiot" once during the packaging phase. I've said I remember well the affection the girl and I showed for one another, and I'm pretty sure that it was the way in which a baby is made. I came down with a horrible case of meningitis when I was sixteen, and it makes me wonder if I didn't get my functionality fried by it. Most of the girls I've dated have a high level of integrity, they're trustworthy, I believe it. Yet, pregnancy never occurred, which backs my theory. All in all, this marks the end of something really scary. Sure, babies are cute, and it's fun to watch them grow--like a Chia Pet. But really, I knew the little girl was someone through whom I would relive my fears of living. Yes, I would fear for her safety. I can recall the tight spots in which I've found myself. There are car accidents, fist fights, STDs, blah! I wish her the best, as I would anyone, but I do not play the role of rescuer anymore. The girl and the little girl have been on my mind as a worry for as long as I have lived a four hour drive from them. I don't know how this is going to change things. I never reflected and thought about how free and easy I was before this happened, I had my worries. I'm still in the mode to think, crap I have a kid. Then I think "crap!" I don't have a kid. Then I remember things weren't so stable before all of this either. I can't remember why, though. Things should have been pretty breezy. It's going to take some time. I've got a world ahead of me, and chicks sounding interested. My family sounds sympathetic, but i know they're overjoyed. I wonder if the little girl will ever know who her surrogate father was for her first year, and if she'll ever seek me out. The extent of her personality toward me was to pee a lot, in the time we had. I hear she's a riot, a real sweetheart. No thanks to me she'll probably be a real looker as time goes on. As for me, I'll pick up where I left off two years ago. A single bachelor with no ties, risking it all at every chance I get.