Spartan, Part 2

Months ago, I wrote of being broke. Wasting money on bar crawls that got me exactly zero new lays.

Turns out saving money works.

I stopped hunting at multiple bars in an night. I started ejecting from the chosen location if there was no one worth hitting on. I got in the mindset of a bad day gaming is better than a good day getting angry, drunk and lonely.

Since then I’ve save enough money to start searching for a place in Toronto. Despite knowing it’s a shitty place the date, it’s where the work is. And a challenge accepted is better than staying at home.

Hitting rock bottom vaulted me to exactly where I needed to be.

I am the 1%


I worked for CBS.
I was paid minimum wage. I worked long hours.
Six days a week.
I got married.
I got into debt trying to make it.
I worked for Guardsmark.
I was paid decently, but treated like crap.
There was nowhere to go.
My marriage broke apart.
I was left with $10 000 debt and no job
I moved twice to find work
Had to leave the country
Now I’m working two jobs
My second job netted me $1000 for 6 days work
Tomorrow’s 5 day job will net me over $800
My first job owes me $165
When I finish my current assignment, I’ll get another $165
I’ve already paid down $500 on a overmaxed credit card
I have two cards overmaxed
I’ll have my credit card debt paid off in six months tops
I have a employers clamoring for me
Setting me up for work next year

I pave my own way
I don’t try to blame others
I bust my ass
I manipulate the system
I don’t try to change it.

I don’t like corporations
The economic system is geared for political connection
But, you don’t change the world with signs
You don’t change the world period, unless you’re armed

I am the 1%
And I’m smarter than you Occupy Wall Street retreads.

Written at 1:54am

I tried to fall asleep early, but to no avail. I guess I’ll have to short myself some hours if I’m going to get on a schedule more tuned to day and night. I’m doing this because I need to get up and get out quick to exercise, walk and just let myself think my day through. I’ve never been a morning person. I’ve never been much of a planner person. I leave things to the last minute, create messy rooms and all around keep house like I was 4 years old. My uncle is correcting that flaw in me quickly. His own bedroom looks like its never been slept in. He expects the same from my room.

I signed up for UI from Utah yesterday. First time ever I’ve had to request state assistance. Luckily, I’ve thrown my ideology out the door and care about myself more than anything. Its needed. While I don’t pay rent and my relatives are kind enough to feed me most of the time, I need the money to pay down the debts I already have, to keep my car in my hands for future employment and for other things. I have no problem making business contacts. I applied to a dozen places on Monster a few weeks ago, none that contacted me back. Not even the TV guys are getting back to me. Its nasty out here, but I’ll make it. I have my insiders. I just need to bide my time.

Things on the Maria horizon are looking good. She picked her number, so the plan is set, she just needs to give me the data on what days she’s off. We’re taking a slow pace, but fuck me if that isn’t something I’ve never experienced. All my exs and my lays have been with girls who went down early or who I was extremely sexual with early on, usually over the internet. We are a generation of instant gratification. We forget what a build up feels like. Fuck, I have little experience in a real build up of human contact from day one. It is frustrating slightly, but I also think of the day I’ll be able to let it all go. I know I’ll get there. I know it’ll be great (for me, at least), so those thoughts keep me walking tall like I showed Rosie O’Donnell my pimp hand on live TV.

I’ve also scaled back my going out massively. Instead of random days when I feel like it or feel shitty, I’m going to hit up two places or more on Fridays. There are a bunch of decent places on my roster, so I can switch it up quick if a place feels lame that night. The Sire will still be my HQ for a drink and relaxation, since they know me there now, but I can’t get drunk there anymore or go as frequently. That shit costs me a good chunk.

Time to try to sleep again. I’ll try the den room couch this time.

Book Writing #1

I had collected all of Change (In the House of Flies) into one word document, including The Resurrection sub-series, and it topped out at 10 000 words. While the first three parts were usually written under duress or influence of alcohol, the Resurrection series was written with sober eyes and crisp memory. I read the differences. I read how my style did not change, but the detail of the women, the club and everything else added to the style. I thought about it for a while. I talked to Kay. I thought about a short story. I tweeted the number of words I had, around 13 000, after adding in some other posts from SFTD. Around the same time Willy Wonka asked me if I was writing a book, I had made the choice. This wasn’t going to be Roosh’s A Dead Bat in Paraguay (READ IT). No memoir, no travel story, no six months of waiting and having to shit 24/7. I was going to take my story, with little adventure and a ton of introspection and hurt and hate and Hell, and make it something people can relate to. A statement of my will, if not a young generation of men. Not a book that could change the world. That’s up to the readers, and I frankly look at anybody to be the voice of the people with much skepticism. This will be a book that makes me happy I wrote it and makes me happy that someone read it.

To write this, I have to pound away day after day, which is easy since I don’t have a job yet. On Monday, I got in around 5000 words. I know writers who can barely get in a paragraph some days. Putting meat on the skeleton this Change. Adding true detail. Pondering what fictional, yet related events I could add to keep the story true. Tuesday, less so due to family obligations and just not burning myself out. I have other interesting coming to the surface after years of suppression: music and exercise mostly. Downloaded a few DJ demo programs, gave it a few minutes of testing before returning to other things. I will have to get a job soon. My steady television work isn’t until near the end of summer, that’s if they end up hiring me. My bills will kill me before then, even when I’m spending little to nothing.

The most important things I can do right now is just plug away at it as much as I can, but not obsessing over every word or every moment. Just let it flow out. When I write of moments, I’m feeling the pain of the fights and the sense of loss. When I lose that. When I’m writing to fluff, I’ll have to stop. But, that’s a long time away. The last 5 months have been a hell of a ride.

Start With A Strong And Persistent Desire


It was his first full day with me in over a year. My dad sat across from me, grey in his hair and beard, but not a moment under young. Fifty-one, three kids all now of legal age, a long marriage and a job that calls him up even when he’s helping his son, he was still smiling. I wasn’t. I was tired. The day after he flew in to calm down the overwhelming mess the move and pack was becoming. The small bedroom room was full her shit. Everything strewn on the floor. It looked impossible. That’s why my father came down. “The hardest part is always starting,” he told me. By the end of that first night he was there, the day of my final shift, we had all of it packed and most of it stored. I had run on short naps and caffeine. That night I collapsed into sleep.

We were at IHOP. The good one south of where I lived. I got coffee, him just water. He had lost a about three toddlers in weight and kept it off for years. He wasn’t going to change just because we were going out to eat while he helped. Fresh eggs, no cheese, avocado, fruit. I had the full omelette with bacon, cheese and the works. I still ran on anything. I wouldn’t be able to do it for much longer.

Our waitress, Alexis, was a looker. Blonde, skinny, cute face. Very friendly. She woke me up a little before the coffee came. I could feel the urges begin. I wanted to game. I had comments and smiles and moves ready. I looked for rings on her fingers. None. I watched her as she walked away. Yes, this would be a good one to work with. Then, the genetic gift, the man I had doubted in previous manifestations of myself, came to the front. Years of being away. Years of indoctrination and bias and hurt and angst burned away like mist over Los Angeles in the morning sun. My dad spoke to her, naturally, in a way I’ve tried to do for years. Socially extroverted. Assertive, but so subtle the ticks in her brain were unnoticeable. I’d think of something to say when she came over and it was already out of his mouth with his smile bookending the neg or the compliment or the simple observation. My dad is happily married to the woman of his dreams. My dad isn’t doing this because he read it in a book or, like myself, trying to improve his pick-up. This is my father. This is who I can be.

During that breakfast of insight, he asked me about what I’ll do in television when I get back to Canada. Immediately out of my mouth is a lack of ambition. “I can just be a runner,” I say. He shakes his head with a stern “No.” As he’s about to speak, the man underneath years of middle ground pipes up and mentions writing. “I can write,” I say with a stronger voice. His nods says that’s a better answer. We talk more. He talks about the current show he’s working on and the wannabes who are screwing it up. He reminds me that I have a complex of hating my bosses, calling them all idiots. I acknowledge this. I tell him it was never my job to question or hate them. In the last day I’ve realized I don’t need to try to change anything. I just make the money. Do what I’m told and tell others. Things are changing fast, but they are changing correctly.

The next day, he’s dealing with problems with the crew while we drive around. He gets a call and his voice changes from father to boss in a split-second. I listen in. I used to listen for amusement. This time I listened for lessons. Subtle, unspoken lessons I ignored before because I rode the wave of mediocrity. As he chewed out a inept man, a man who’s nose is browner than the dirt, my brain caught fire. I could feel it burst with electricity as I took it all in. I sat quietly and listened. I heard tone. I heard words. I re-programmed myself with his movements of the air. Things get done his way because he does his job. Things get done because he sees the big picture. Things get done because he says so. He’s hired to make people money. These replaceable people are put in their place. This isn’t important work to the rights of man or the environment or politics. Its television. They get their perspective readjusted.

Beaten and broken for months by a woman, he’s rebuilt me in days. He put the focus in. He returned his legacy to the man he saw once in a while. I’m sorry I ever doubted him and his personality. I blamed everyone for what was happening to me, while in the end, it was me. My weakness and my biases and my outlook. Even while figuring out what needs paying off, and she left a lot to pay off, he tells me point blank that it isn’t fair. It isn’t right. She needs to pay off. I still try to explain it away. That she locks up and gets stubborn. He reminds me I have the code for the lock on the storage shed we rented. I smile, the manifestation of him in my soul laughing the loud chuckle of my father.

We’re allowed our weak moments. I’ve had my quota.

Thank you, Dad.



“Goodnight,” I said to Kay. We had talked all night, about everything. Sleep was on the horizon.

The sun was just cresting my blinds, pushing diluted light into the living room. I turned off all the lights, tried to clean a little bit and then with a WHUMP I fell into the recliner. Ready to sleep. Fully, this time.

But, I couldn’t. Soon, a renewed energy coursed through me. Maybe it was that I was about to sleep the sunlight away and wanted to go. Maybe it was that talking for hours and hours made me sleepy. I’ve never been that much of a talker. I turned on the final episodes of my Californiacation marathon. Season 4. I’d be all caught up.

When I was caught up, I still couldn’t sleep. I needed to get out. There were errands, but they didn’t have any immediacy. May as well get them out of the way. The sun’s out after days of rain, slush and snowfall. I really had no choice.

I hit the pharmacy. I hit In N Out Burger for a much deserved meal of the world’s best fast food. I sat there, R.L. Burnside coming from my speakers. The run of good days continued. The next time became the today. The imagined puff was now the sweet burger, fries and milkshake on my tongue. On the way home the fuel light bitched at me, so I fed it. On the way home the boozer lifted his head, so I got him burbon, some Coke and a six pack of Hops Rising.

Home, finally. Ready to sleep. Full belly, smiles and a bourbon and Coke in my hand. I spent a bit, so clickity-clack and the account comes up. Something doesn’t seem right. Its low. Too low. I put in the expenses I was going to pay tomorrow. Rent. Car payment. I search for others. Not everything is out yet. I calculate. So very low. Fuck.

Fuck her.

I text her, saying she has to stop spending. She says she has. I point out our bills, now my bills, will put us over and that’s just on the two big ones. She apologizes, but excuses spill out. Needed this for this job she doesn’t have. Needed that for the same thing. They keep coming. She tells me not to yell at her because it won’t change anything. How anyone can yell through text I don’t know. The caps remained grammatically correct.

Fuck this bitch.

Make sure to save some money. When I show up, you owe me., I typed.

Yeah, I’ll try.

Her favorite phrase. The flowery air of good intentions masking the stench of condensation.

Fuck this. If you want your stuff, you will. Otherwise you get what I already sent.

Excuses flow like excrement into a corner bar toilet bowl.

You’ve got friends. You’ll manage. Add up your two Wal-Mart trips and that’s what you owe.

She won’t be able to afford any more than that. When you move in with scum, you get paid with rotten promises.

So, $250?


I’ll try.

“Yeah,” I said to no one. In my back pocket is seven hundred dollars of money saved from my checks and my generous parents. In my hand is my debit card. I walk into the bank. “I need to cancel every debit card on the account but this one.” I slide the card across. I probably smelled angry. Angry smelled like tobacco and bourbon.

I’ve gone far in this pseudo-death grieving process. Each day a little more dirt goes in the grave. Yesterday, she inspired me to drop the shovel and rent a backhoe. By the time I got back home, I had stuck in a single flower, said a prayer and turned my back on the little unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere.