New American Blind Closers

Someone stole a doorknob from our foyer door. They stole it along with two facing plates and loosened the knob on our inner door, causing it to fall off. Strange, right? The locks were untouched. Whoever it was only wanted those metal pieces. We have an on-going feud with two of our neighbors, both related, so we immediately thought of them -- though this is low/weird even by their standards. An unreliable source told our landlady that other houses on the block suffered similar thefts -- that people steal the vintage knobs to sell later. I took a quick look at the east end of the block the other day and saw only original knobs and facing plates. Who were these other victims?

I like our apartment. I don't necessarily like our block, even though a lot of young people like us live on it. The older folks -- the ones that have been there for years -- live by the annoying, meddlesome code of the classic city neighborhood: knowing other people's business, caring a little too much about the look of the block, etc. My generation has been criticized for its interest in social isolation and anonymity. Lately, I've learned to see a bit of the good in these supposedly negative states.

"Stay out of my business. I don't want to fucking talk to you." They should put it on the quarter. The new American motto!

Super Bad

As a big fan of James Brown, I'll throw in my two bits of good-will remembrance. I bought "Live at the Olympia, Paris 1971" when I was 19 and have loved his music ever since. The fact that mainstream news outlets can't really describe his work is a bit depressing. If you know, you know... and it's not about "Rocky IV" (or "Doctor Detroit"). I'm also disappointed by the lack of primo, high-period '60s footage on the big, brainless cable rotators. And what about when he went on TV to help calm rioters? James Brown is in the top-5 American musicians of all time. That's a "Top (Blank)" list I don't mind making... and Bob Dylan isn't on it.

Coming Soon

Hello, folks. Blister here. And when Blister speaks in late December that means one thing -- the WOUNDUP YEAR IN REVIEW. Can you believe it's almost 2007? Where did the last friggin' year go? They say time goes faster as you get older. I never bought it... especially all those divorce court hearings I had to sit through over the summer. It went fast because I was DRUNK. And I'm drunk right now. Those little content team fairies locked me in the storage closet. They think I'm passed out. I CAN HEAR YOU, YOU LITTLE FAIRIES! It's an office party. You're supposed to drink. How am I writing this if I'm in a closet? It's a called a Treo, folks. Christ, I have to piss...

Fumbles Lost

I was bounced out of the fantasy football playoffs on Sunday. It hurts a little bit. I really wanted the bi-fecta of fantasy baseball and football titles in the same year. I'll just have to watch the final week's action from the couch while polishing my other trophy. In all truth, though I consider fantasy baseball the harder of the two disciplines -- and ultimate victory a testament to one's perseverance and acumen -- nothing would be more fun than to shame my high school buddies on the virtual gridiron. I've won football championships in other leagues, but never over the Buffalo boys. At least now I'm free to watch football without stress or consequences... which is kind of what I did anyway. So, I s'pose nothing's really changed. Yes.

12.18.06 Forever

I should have a better idea of what's going on with my two prospects by this time tomorrow. The ads are starting to upswing and will probably reach pre-Thanksgiving levels in two weeks. This is the worst time of year to job search, for sure. In spite of that, I feel hope. The weather is warm, in a sickly sort of way. The little lawns are damp. I've lost some weight. We're going to see my parents on Saturday, and I have two four-day weekends coming up. I'm putting the little, plastic red flag up on the curbside mailbox. I've worked enough for the day. It's the Official Woundup Paid Babysitting Service till 10:30.

Endure When You Must Inc.

The job search rollercoaster continues. I was up after the Thanksgiving holiday. Now I'm down as two possible employers have yet to contact me. One said they'd know by mid-December, the other said they were caught up in some things and are still making a decision. Both are quality gigs, I feel. I just need one to come through so I can leave this accursed night shift. I really hate it. Really, really hate it.

If you're a bit of an Internet voyeur, you might be interested in, amused by or curious about my suffering. Or maybe you aren't. We all have to suffer through things. I sometimes wish someone I know (or even a stranger) will hear my plea and rescue me. But then I think that if I was reading a similar WeBLoG post -- even one by a friend -- I would probably stand by and do nothing. I suppose it depends on the situation. Though it's depressing and disillusioning, my job situation doesn't carry the same weight as, say, the need for a new kidney. Then you would step in and help Woundup, right?

I'm not looking for your help, anyway. I'm just looking to fill some column inches. See? Even I'm detached about my own situation... and I'm the one getting fucked. Who's the real loser here? Regional cable, of course.

Beside the Electric Hearth

That's our little xmas tree with all the presents beneath it. We made an effort to shop early, and now we're more than 80% finished. I love our tree.

WeBLoRGGiNG from the Couch

I've had a very good fantasy football day today. I don't want to jinx myself, so I can only relate that I have a chance to do something very special this year... in fantasy sports terms.

That said, I've grown to really like NBC's "Football Night in America" Sunday night broadcast. No dog games is a big selling point. I enjoy the detailed highlights before kickoff, and find Costas, Collinsworth and even King less irritating as the weeks progress. It'll never supplant "Hockey Night in Canada" as a near religious sports experience, but at least it's a good game. Hear, hear.

Son of Nightbeat

We've had a wacky night at the Cracker Factory -- wacky in that good ol' fashioned way I knew back in the Picodiribibi days. Maybe it's a harbinger that my time here is about up, but I've been saying things like that since... well, at least there're some palpable possibilities for change. Two other people are leaving at the end of the month. Escapes like this have traditionally happend in threes around here. It was nice to see ol' workpal and fantasy baseball foe Craig in good spirits. He's close to nailing a new gig, too. Here's to America's bright, promising young men.

I don't know what's going to happen tonight after I get the hell out of here. There's a double bock waiting for me at home. That sounds really good. Almost as good as being home right now instead of working.

When Will It End?

I'm writing two full-length plays. One had been waiting on the hot plate for comments for the past six months and was finally brought back onto the main range, yesterday. I feel like I need to pysch myself up -- run around in the woods like Ted in "The Doors 2" -- or something. Sometimes I feel like I'm beating my head against the wall. There's always something else to do, and it never seems to end. Ultimately, I enjoy it, but facing another major revision, I feel like setting something on fire -- like an old couch -- and dancing around the flames, drinking gin from a plastic bottle. Maybe then, after I've done that, I'll be ready.