Jack In The Box, You Now Suck

***FYI - this is from a while back. Don't know why I didn't publish it.***

When we moved down here we knew we were going to lose some of the best that the Valley had to offer. In the Homeland, the shopping isn't so great, there isn't much in the way of a music scene and the dining left something to desire. Don't get me wrong - there are some really good restaurants around here. But some aren't as good as what we could find in the Valley and occasionally the missus and I found ourselves longing for some of the good food we could find with ease up there. That even included Jack in the Box and their most delicious of delicious sandwiches, the Bruschetta Chicken Ciabatta.

So, when the powers that be decided to bestow the Homeland with a Jack in the Box of our own, the missus and I were ecstatic! Finally, something we missed was available to us! After it was built and opened, we waited a month for the lines around the building to die down. Hell, if we waited this long, what was another month? And when the day finally arrived that we could march through the doors and order the Brushetta Chicken Ciabatta, we did. As a matter of fact, I ordered two. And they were delicious. They tasted almost better than what we remembered.

This week, hungry, tired and halfway home, we decided to turn around, head back into town and order a couple of our beloved sandwiches. Spending almost half an hour on slick roads to make it there, we reasoned Jack in the Box was the one thing that would make it better. Only it didn't. After I placed my order and they took my money, I was informed they didn't have any bruschetta mix left. So we went somewhere else for dinner. Then, two days later, we found ourselves in town again sans girl child. So we decided to make up for the other night and treat ourselves to the deliciousness that was the Bruschetta Chicken Ciabatta. I placed my order and gave them the money. Only this time the girl at the counter looked at me like I was crazy. But she still took my money. After five minutes of waiting for the sandwich of the gods to arrive, I was met with a "We don't have that. You want a Chipolte Chicken Ciabatta instead?"

Hell no! This Chipotle Chicken Ciabatta is not the grilled chicken breast treat of yore! It's some sort of fried stuff! Where the hell did the Bruschetta Chicken Ciabatta go?

Needless to say, we grudgingly took our fried Jack Spicy Chickens on Ciabatta and ate them. There was no explanation as to why our big-headed friend ended the run of the best sandwich they ever made. And the poor greasy faced manager didn't give us any reasons either. Now, the one establishment of the Valley that we adored is just another fucking hamburger stand.

And their fries aren't even that good.

Even the Best Sometimes Really Sucked It Up

I love Buck Owens, I really do. He penned some excellent tunes in his time and earned his way up the ladder. He got everything he deserved.

But still, that doesn't mean the guy didn't turn out a few turds now and then. Don't believe me? Try to see if you can dig up "Big Game Hunter" and "It's a Monster's Holiday".

Gawd.

You Know What's Hard?

Getting hate mail.

Seriously, I was fishing for some vitriol and all I got was a whole lot of nothing.

You know what else is hard?

Having the friggin' floors torn up in your house while you have a sick little girl at home. She was a trooper, but I'm pretty certain she was sick of my shit at the end of the day.

You know what is also hard?

Trying to make up the hours you missed because you were trying to keep a sick kid happy while cleaning up dog puke.

What a wonderful day.

After New Hampshire

I don't usually get into politics in public places. It's just not me. However, after watching and listening to the fallout of the New Hampshire primaries, I have to say something.

There's been a lot of talk about Hillary Clinton's crying episode and how it may have swayed female voters. Seriously, I can't believe people are saying this shit. How fucking sexist is that? Was it planned? Who knows. But in an age of supposed enlightenment, it shocks the shit out of me that any of these broadcasters and news agencies are even saying that. Is it true? Maybe. But maybe not. No one knows why the polls were all wrong. But saying that crying appealed to women voters and making such a big fucking deal out of it is ridiculous. Does anyone remember one of the arguments against the suffrage movement? It was that women were too emotional to make a wise decision. Thanks for taking us back to the late 1800's, American Media Complex.

I have also heard a lot of talk about how Obama could win so big in Iowa and then get beaten so soundly in New Hampshire by a candidate that came in third just a week earlier. Out of all the bullshit and spinning that I've heard, no one has talked about how perhaps in Iowa they favor someone who seems nice versus New Hampshire where maybe that isn't as important as experience or something else.

The more I listen to the national news, the more surprised I become at how vapid or insipid or, hell, I can't think of a good word, but it's disgusting. Obama's strength has less to do with his skin color and more to do with his message. The same can be said about Clinton's sex. Their physical attributes have affected their lives and their experiences and, I concede, their messages. The problem is our shallow media is focusing less on these messages and more on their skin color and sex.

Considering how far we've come, it's amazing how far backwards we're falling.

Back In The Saddle - Sorta'

Wow. It's been awhile. Thanks for checking on me, dont. Sorry I didn't check back sooner.

Well, the reins were quickly pulled from my hands. Shit went sideways, naturally. That's what you get for thinking you have even an ounce of control.

But now it is January, and to be honest I've been looking forward to 08. 07 was the shits. It wasn't all bad, but there was enough to make me glad the cocksucker is done with. The last time I wrote a check (and this was back in October) I had to rewrite the son of a bitch because I put 08 on it. Now, it's here, and I'm not going to say anything stupid to jinx the whole damn thing.

Though I hated it, the last couple of months wrapped up nicely. Through one of my industry-related blogs I'm getting a small following and making friends. Got a raise and a new rig, which is good timing because the friggin' snow is drifting. Want fun? Get a corgi to go outside to take a piss and have her get high-centered in the snow. Now that is something worth watching!

However, some things don't change. I still hate Blogger. I still absolutely adore my little girl and am glad I have the missus with me. I swear, sometimes when I get down in this world of 1's and 0's they're the only ones that pull me out.

I've never made new year's resolutions, and I don't think I'll start. But if I were to try and change anything, I think I'd say screw it to work and try to start doing shit that actually makes me happy. I put in a lot of hours last year, and to be honest, I probably didn't need to. Fuck it or fight it, I'm still right here and you're still wherever you are.

Do I Have the Reins? Really?

I don't know that I'm out of the woods yet, but I'm feeling better. Even with all the job stress and general bullshit that keeps dragging me down, at least tonight, I'm doing better.

Maybe it's the Scooby Doo with the girl. Maybe I've just gotten to the "who gives a fuck" barrier. Maybe it's the drinking. Hell, it's probably all three. But right now, looking down the barrel of a long and horrible next two months, knowing I'm going to be miserable and more tired than I am know and will probably lose all my PTO, I'm in a good mood.

Now let's ride this sonuvabitch as far as it will take me! Giddyup!

I Admit It

I cannot deny this any longer. It's been eating at my guts for some time. It's who I am and if it means I'm some sort of monster or something else, so be it.

I think James Joyce is overrated.

Seriously overrated.

I tried to read Ulysses. It bored the shit out of me.

I tried reading the Dubliners and few of his other short stories. I wanted to gouge my eyes out just to prove I was still alive and was not in some sort of circle of Hell where you're forced to read overrated crap.

After reading a few short stories by William Faulkner, I decided to come clean. I enjoyed those immensely. So much I might actually try to track down a novel. That's right. A friggin' book. If not a novel, then a book of short stories. Something! I can't get enough tonight!

I no longer hate famous authors. I want to read again. Just not James fuckin' Joyce. Something tells me that will be my eternity.

Into the Time Machine And Back Out Again

I feel less miserable than I did on Saturday. Coming off of a cold, I'm tired and my nose and head are filled with snot. It's late, and I probably shouldn't of had those two big glasses of gin and tonic.

Hungry, I shuffle into the kitchen and open the cupboard. The box of Booberry catches my attention and I pour myself a handful of chemical blueberry and marshmallow goodness. As I try to breath through the snot in my nose, the smell of the cereal mixes with the fog in my head. For a moment, I'm four years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor in my Sylvester the Cat pajamas watching the 19-inch television as the Scooby-Doo theme begins to play and the bats from the haunted house fill the colored screen.

For those few moments, I'm somewhere I haven't been in a long time. Somewhere that existed before the brutality of adulthood pushed its ugliness into the life of my brother and me. Me and him got along. Mom and dad fought, but not often. There wasn't much to be afraid of, other than not having our room clean enough to watch Saturday cartoons. Somewhere before we knew better or cared to know better - where you were more worried about your peter getting caught in the zipper or your mom hearing you say "bastard".

For those few moments, I felt innocent and naive and completely happy. As I snapped out of it, I was thankful I have the girl to share my Scooby-Doo addiction with and appreciation for horrible cereals with. And I guess to a degree, as I come to, I hoped that the innocence I remember stays with her for a long, long time. There's few thing more beautiful than her singing the Scooby-Doo theme song or Happy Birthday or saying "I want my daddy" in the middle of the night.

Nothing.