So I looked up an old buddy the other day, because I hadn't heard from him in forever, right? One of my old roomies from grad school. He was a pretty cool guy: funny, educated, well paid, liked to have fun. He was really good with technology, and had a lock on all the latest downloads: DVD's, XBoX games, software. You name it the kid had it, sometimes before they were released. I asked him at one point how he did it. I mean, can you imagine getting a peice of that action? But he would always dismiss my inquiry with some nonchalant smirky remark. The stingy bastard.

Anyways, about halfway through the second year of the program (at this point I was already living with She Who Would Become The Wife), he said his work schedule was changing and he'd be absent from class, but they'd still let him finish the degree. That was the last time I saw the kid.

I'd give him a phone call every now and then about going to get some drinks or play a par three or something; but I never got an answer. Eventually the phone number was disconnected. I mean, I never even saw the kid around town either.

So the other day I figured I'd see what I could dig up. Knowing he was affiliated with our graduate program and at least one other, as well as a multi-national employer and a highly regarded professional association; I assumed it's be easy enough to just google his full name. Wouldn't you know, that set of words yielded two full pages of hits - all about the same thing.

Something called Operation Site Down.

It seems my buddy's dowloading habits had gotten the attention of the United States Department of Justice, specifically an attorney out in Cali. He was indicted just before the spring semester started that year, and sentanced some weeks thereafter. To several months of house arrest and a fine that makes your average car loan look like a bar tab. His PC, laptop, cell phone, and all the copied product were confiscated.

I was surprised that it'd all turned out like that, but at the same time everything fit together: the timeline, the hundreds of bootlegs laying around the house. It's one of those things you hear about but never really see.

But I am really glad he never told me how to get in on it; because having a felony offense on your background check doesn't really put your resume on the top of the pile.

I grew up loving the outdoors, and when I decided to go to college, a large part of my campus selection was the abundance of outdoor activities local to the university. As soon as I arrived, I fell right in with a group of friends who all had the same interests.

The crew was about 20 or 30 people, with maybe six or so of them being close personal friends. I still stay in contact with those boys on occassion. There were a couple guys who were hardcore whitewater paddlers, some climbers, and a decent number of mountain bikers. All of us were avid campers, hikers, and backpackers. It was kind of nice, because nobody was involved with all of the activities, but everyone did at least two of them. There was always something to do and somebody to bring along.

Today was another great addition to the stressful theme of current and future personal events. I live about 30 minutes from the area that was hit by tornadoes early this morning, and I don't think I've ever seen our ED as full as it was this morning. Crappy news is that all the patients we saw were pediatric multiple traumas, good news is they all survived or were transferred out; sad news is that at least one of them is now on his second set of parents. And he's not even in middle school yet.

You know, of the 30 or so people who lived on the street where this tornado touched down, it seemed like virtually all of them were related. We're sitting in the command center looking at the white board with all the patients (or dead at the scene) on it, their ages, their current locations, and the places that they're going to be transferred to. Seriosuly, maybe five different families.

The worst part was when someone would call in looking for a SoAndSo whose name was written under the heading 'Confirmed Fatalities.' No one was really quite sure how you effectively communicate information like that over the phone without sounding like a soulless son of a bitch, so we just referred them to County. Good God.

The Wife had her clinical rotation in the ED today too. Talk about trial by fire.

So The Wife and I are in the store this evening, doing some grocery shopping. We're picking through the produce, roma tomatoes to be exact, and we caught an interesting little peice of info:

"Dollar seventy-four!?" The Wife and I turn around to this woman, mid fifties maybe. "Is that a dollar seventy-four each, or just per pound?"
"Mmm, per pound," says The Wife.
"Well, one day they'll be a dollar seventy four each," asserts the weird lady.
The Wife and I exchange a momentary glance, "Yeah, I try not to think about that day," says The Wife.
"Well, you should be. Because the Lord is coming."
I'm staring at my wife, wondering what the price of roma tomatoes has to do with the second coming of Christ, the End of Days, and how exactly I'm supposed to be preparing for that. The Wife's staring back at me, and the batshit crazy woman is staring at the both of us; I'm assuming she wants a response. I have no earthly idea how to follow that kind of lunacy so I lean in close to her, squint my eyes and whisper "Not if I can help it," and stalk off into the frozen section.

I mean really, what the hell was I supposed to say? What would you have said? I thought I was on some fucking hidden camera show, for fuck's sake. They're letting anyone into the grocery store these days.

I tell ya guys, I've been party to some embarrassing shit in my day. Of course, it wasn't always my fault per se. But the vast majority of the time, I have to admit I've got no one else to blame.

Like that time at RJ's.

So, my car has been in the shop for the past four or five weeks and I've been taking rides from friends and the like. I'm standing outside my place of business today, waiting for my ride, and a rather cracked-out looking woman approaches me. Her hair was disheveled, she looked like she hadn't slept in a week or so, and she had spittle in the corners of her mouth. As I took in this old bat's appearance, I realized she was looking at me with equal interest. As she got closer, I noticed a faint odor, then she opened her mouth, and I was assaulted by some of the worst breath I've ever encountered.
"You a Mormon?"
Now, I almost threw away a golden opportunity. "No, I'm a business manager." But I cut that one off before it leapt from my vocal chrods. Instead, I replied "Why yes ma'am. Are you looking for the truth about Jesus' life in America?" Crazy people make the best marks too, their creativity is boundless. I honestly think they enjoy it.
"But don't you guys all believe in having six wives and shit?"
"No, no, no. Of course not! What we do believe, is that God wants us all to be happy." We sit down on the bench nearby. "We're his children, and he wants us to do what makes us happy. If having more than one wife does that for you, then have more than one wife. We just think people should do whatever they want, as long as it makes them happy and causes no pain."
"Shit. What if the women don't want to share you?"
"Well, if they're women of God and good Saints, then they'll accept the offer knowing it's what God intends."
"So what if I want to do drugs, and murder, and all kinds of crazy stuff?"
"Well, if it makes you happy, and doesn't make unwilling participants out of anyone, then it's blessed with God's holy grace and saving love." Thank God, the fiancee showed up. "I've got to go now, peace be with you!"
"But how do I join?"
"Look us up in the phone book, I'm all out of pamphlets. The Church of Latter Day Saints!"

I can see it now. That lady's gonna roll up to her local Mormon organization with her crack pipe in hand and an economy pack of French ticklers. "So when do we start the healing?"

I don't like going to the doctor. It irked me when I was a kid, and it hasn't gotten any irkless since then. The horribly stupid, ironic thing is that I work in a hospital. What an idiot.

I went to the eye doctor today. I say eye doctor because I'm not sure if it was an opthamologist or an optometrist. He was, though, a bit of a prick; and because of that, I now have a combative relationship with someone who I'm supposed to trust my health with.

I walk into the office and fill out all the requisite paperwork for first-time patients. I turn it in and they call me back to the room. I sit in one of those big scary fucking chairs. It's got a lamp, a series of painful-looking implements, and something that looks to me like a face harness. I have no idea what it's for, but I hope they don't use it on me.

The medical assistant asks me a series of questions. No, I'm not suffering any symptoms, just want to get a prescription. I have no idea if I'm allergic to medicines, I don't take any. I have no idea if anyone in my family has glaucoma, because I never pay attention to anything they say. Diabetes? You can get diabetes in your eyes?

Then she says "I'm going to give you the glaucoma test." Great, sounds like fun; where do I stick my dick? "But don't worry, it's not the puff of air anymore. Let me give you these numbing eyedrops." I hate eyedrops. When something gets in my eyes, it's painful and it makes this throbbing noise in my head. However, it's got to be better than getting air shot into my eyeball; and it's sure as shit got to be better than having glaucoma.

I let her give me the drops, after which I cringe and snicker a little bit. "Did they sting?" No. Bitch you just put some shit in my eyes, what do you expect me to do, ask for seconds? But she was right, it wasn't as bad as the puff of air. Of course, unbeknownst to me she hadn't finished the damn test yet.

See, the reason she gave me the numbing eyedrops was so she could poke me in the eyeball with a stick. Yes, in these modern times, we've graduated from simply puffing air at peoples eyes to poking them with a fucking stick. She does so repeatedly until the stick beeps, then does the same with the other eye. I continue to snort and snicker a little.

"Everything okay?" Jesus woman, it's 8:30 in the AM and you've already put shit in my eyes, and poked them with some strange beeping implement. When do we get to try out the fucking face harness? Course, I never say a word to her, she's just doing her job. Her sadistic fucking craphole of a job.

After all this wonderful stuff, she asks me if I want to get dialated. I wasn't sure which opening in my body she was going to dialate, but I assume it was my eyes. No matter what, it doesn't really sound like fun, and I can only imagine what tool she'll pull from her medieval arsenal. "Nah, just need a prescription."
"Are you sure? We usually recommend our patients do it once a year."
I'm sure you do, you crazy, torturous madwoman. "No. It's really okay, I'm just here to get a new prescription for my glasses."
"Alright, the doctor will be in too see you soon."

I wait for an eternity. It must've been a good twenty minutes, during which I rode the chair all the way to the top (it had buttons on it) and back down several times, played around with a few magnifying glasses, and actually took a few hits off the eye drop bottles - nasal spray style. What a rush.

The doctor comes in and starts giving me shit about not wanting to get my pupils dialated. I don't argue with him, because doctors scare the shit out of me. As long as he's not lubing up his finger, I'll do whatever he asks. So, he tilts my head back and commences with a series of three drops in each eye. About halfway through the first eye, he can tell I hate eye drops. Which, it doesn't seem to matter to him - he just grabs my eyelid with his thumb and holds my head back. Yay.

Eventually I wrestle free of Dr. Fuckface's grip, and dab my profusely tearing eyes with a napkin. "I'll be back in about twenty minutes." Fuck you buddy. He flips the lights off and leaves the room before I have a chance to kick him in the balls.

Another eternity passes. But I'm not sure how long it lasted because I couldn't see anything. I started to get hungry too. I hadn't planned on this whole ordeal taking more than a half hour, and I'd already been here just over an hour. Or so I thought. It was like being in a French prison - no light, can't see, hungry as hell, never knowing when the next torture session would start. I consider phoning someone to come get me, but everyone went to the airport to pick up my brother. Solitary confinement.

The doc comes back a while later. At this point I can see, but if anything gets too close, it starts to get blurry. Unfortunately for that doc (who I'm certain must have been a prison gaurd in his former years), I've got great reach. The doctor grabs a flashlight and a magniying glass and begins running me through ocular calisthenics. "Look straight up. Look up and to the right, look right, look down and to the right..." All the while shining this fucking light into my dialated pupil. I'm tearing up again, my eyes are blinking like crazy, and I can hear the blood throbbing. Then he goes for the face harness.

"Place your chin here, and look straight ahead." I do so, he clamps the fucker down on my face, and begins again with the "Look up, etc." routine. What a dillhole, I hope his dick is as rotten and black as his soul.

We go through this for about ten minutes, and then he decides we're done. "Your eyes look just fine!" Well, I'm glad we figured that out. I mean, not like I couldn't have told you that twenty minutes ago; you remember that? Back when I could see straight? Yeah, those were the good ol' days.

"So can I get my prescription now?"

So I'm lying in bed, trying to sleep but I can't. I'm just kind of wandering through my mind, picking up old memories, dusting them off, and giving them a listen. For some reason I think of the few fisticuffs I've been in, and this little turn of phrase drops out of nowhere. It kind of rolled like thunder, low and far away at first, then gradually louder and clearer until it was booming and echoing in my head. Anyways, I couldn't think of a story worth telling that would incorporate it. Well, maybe I'm just too tired to really hash one out right now, but here's the phrase in bold, given in context:

That jackass spit on my mother, so I had no choice but to beat him barnyard ugly and shithouse stupid.

I can't make much sense of it, but it wouldn't go away. It's got a cadence to it, poetic meter - it practically does the Charelston right out of my mouth as a matter of fact. I think you could even split it up into two phrases, using either the barnyard ugly or the shithouse stupid. But when it came crashing through those saloon doors between my subconcious and concious mind, it came in blasting from both barrels, so I kept it that way.

Well, there you have it. Now you know what keeps me up at night. Cheers.

Jim over at SnoozeButton started Protomonkey a long long time ago in a land far far away, and it has had a few revitalizations since then. I added my latest contribution here. Check it out along with the other short fictions stories posted there.

All the talk about this boy who got lost in Utah had me thinking the other day. Mostly about what kind of idiot child gets lost on a gravel road; but also about the time I got lost in the woods.

I split town today. I was fucking sick and fucking tired of it. The job, the wife, the bills, the nagging bullshit. I woke up thismorning and I was like...Who's life is this goddamnit? I got a car that's paid for, a couple grand in the bank, and a credit limit of five g's. Fuck this shit.

I jumped int he car and fought my way through traffic to the only highway that takes a man out of this dirty burg. West. And I put the hammer down to. I was doing 120 between here and Raleigh, hit I-85 and just kept on steamin'. The Appalachians wooshed by in a flurry of banked s-curves and before I knew it. I headed south down the highway and ran into 59, where the sign said 'New Orleans'. Sounded as good as any other, so I dropped into first and left a small pile of smoldering rubber in Tennessee. It was the only thing I had left on me.

I guess we hit Nawlins toward seven am. WE meaning me and the hitchiker I picked up in Mississippi. I mean really, I couldn't have left her there right? It was fucking Mississippi. Plus she was hot. And by hot I mean young, eager, stupid, rich , and impressionable. We checked into this downtown place right up the block form the Best Western on Bourbon. It was this old french house or something. Soon as I saw it I knew I'd get laid for sure.

We hit town adn filled ourselves with Hurricanes, Hand Grenades, and Zydeco. I don't think I've ever been so hammered and disoriented in my entire life. Swear to god I got a ride back to my hotel from some dude on a Harley. Showed up at the hotel room and the bitch had split. Mostly she'd split my money between me and her, as well as grabbed a favorite t-shirt of mine. Fine, whatever girl. I'd gotten her credit card number earlier that day when she had left the car to use the bathroom. Figured I might aas well stay the night, so I called roomservice and packed up the leftovers in my bag.

Being through with women and all, on account of their mostly lecherous behavior, I made tracks for Vegas. I figured if there was any place a man could make it, it would have to be there. I spent an ungodly eternity driving across cornfeilds, plains, open mesa, mountain passes and desert before I finally entered the city. It was bittersweet because I was glad to be somewhere, but sad to be so happy to see a place like Las Vegas Nevada.

I went to the bank and acquired a small business loan. I told them I wanted to start a bar and entertainment complex. They thought sports bar, I was planning something else. I now run the only live sex show in the United States. I knew Nevada'd be the only state that would allow it, and after greasing the right wheels with that small business loan and investing a small amount of my own capital; I was on my way. We sell t-shirts, high priced drinks, exorbitant tickets; hell we got private skyboxes for the real freaks (but those come at a good price too). I guess I've made it pretty good for myself, what with all the money and sex that surrounds me. But I find myself looking for something simpler. Looking for something that I had a while back, but got sick of.

That's when I begin to wonder if humans torture themselves their whole lives with the grass on the other side of the fence. Maybe we just want what we can't have - even though we know it's what we can't have and we know we just want it because we can't have it. Then I think, we are some fucked up monkeys.

If there is one person whose memory dominates the summer and fall of '02, it's Jim Bob. I don't really know where to start, so excuse me if I ramble or begin to take rabbit trails, but there's just so much to tell.

Throughout the summer of '02, I spent most of my days with a group of close friends that have become known as The Boys. I'm not sure if that's supposed to be capitalized or not, but that's what the girlfriend and I called them when we argued about how much of our time I spent hanging out with them.

Alright, I'm still moving in; but I wanted to post up some old stories that not too many people got a look at. I really enjoyed writing them, for what they're worth. Here's the first one, more to come as things progress.