Buddha Ball

I just cannot do laundry.
After I wear my clothes once, I have to get rid of them and buy new
ones. Somewhere, deep in the Potrero Hills Landfill, you can document
my life through wrinkle-free khakis and pullover fleeces. Suddenly, I
feel old when imagining my life in socks.
My soil, apparently, has some sort of mineral deficiency. Every time I
plant seeds, they just lie there, Jimmy Hoffa-style. From what I
understand it's not that uncommon, and I could be growing new, healthy
plants in just a few weeks.
So I have wax flowers.
It's nice outside today. My new clothes are a little cool for this
weather but it's not that big of a deal. The cold will help me stay
awake while I read this crap. I have to read another sappy romance
novel. I have a date with my girlfriend tonight.
These flowers look like complete and utter hell. I doubt they're
fooling anyone. Seeing as how all of this mirrors my whole life?I
wonder if I'm fooling anyone.
You see, I've got some serious problems with my current relationship. I
have trouble communicating my feelings with her so nothing ever gets
fixed. I bury my real troubles through my frivolous stupid small
talk.
"Hey, did you hear about the mall closing down?"
(Why do I get the feeling that you're cheating on me?)
I'm not sure that I bought enough clean socks to last me through next
week. The ones I have on now are green. I just mowed the lawn.
So the best way to avoid conflict with my girlfriend, I've found, is to
read these stupid romance novels. For a few short hours after I've read
them, they put me in an affectionate kind of mood. The more chapters I
read, the more I love her.
"I look into your eyes and see straight to your heart?your soul?and I
see what I've waited for all my life. I love you."
Pheromones exist only in words.
* * *
I work in television. I'm an audio engineer. Watch a live news
broadcast. If you hear the anchors, then I'm doing a good job. If you
can't hear the anchors, it's because no one in their right mind watches
the news this early.
The news is on?at 5:00 in the morning. But nobody cares.
You can't have two microphone levels be at the same volume when
newscasters sit right next to each other. If you do, you get muffled
sounds like they're talking through shag carpeting.
Of course, nobody else here knows that.
Of course, nobody else here knows anything.
So I've got to wake up early every morning to come here.
But I get to express myself creatively through my choices of bumper
music. Last week, a guy from the zoo brought in a bunch of animals, so
I played Dave Matthews Band's "Proudest Monkey".
I know.
Clever.
Our local baseball team gets their asses handed to them again. Do I
allow my sick sense of humor to take over and play "We Are the
Champions"? No one would know. It's 5:00 in the morning.
After the break, a story about military action in some country you've
never heard of caused by some dictator you won't bother to remember.
"Army" by Ben Folds Five? (I'll save REMs "End of the World" for a more
pressing occasion)
Live via satellite, next week we'll have Ben Affleck. I'm already
loading Dave Matthews' "Bartender" into the computer.
So why do I hate my job? I've been in broadcasting for 24 years. My
boss is 23 years old. This place is run by idiots, which explains why
we picked up syndication of "Martin." I know there are openings in
other television stations. And I really want to go back to radio.
Happiness is just a two week's notice away.
My life is in shambles, and all I need to do is reach for the Crazy
Glue.
But I won't.
* * *
I only get tickets when I'm in a hurry.
Well, I guess that makes sense.
So it's one of those 40 in a 12 deals, or whatever. And of course I get
the whole shtick about knowing how fast I was going.
Yeah. I was driving, tiger.
This guy. Ohhhh, this guy. He's young enough to make me wonder whether
or not the police station has gone NBA and started drafting right out
of high school.
I can tell right off the bat that he's not the shiniest fork in the
drawer. I don't blame him.
Nah, I just blame his parents.
He asks me if I have my license, and I can't help but tell him that my
neighbor deals black tar heroin to neighborhood kids.
I do this just because I'm so bored that I'm actually interested to
hear his response.
He asks if I'm serious.
I keep looking for my license.
He asks if I'm serious.
I tell him that after much thought and consideration, the Croissant
Pocket is far inferior to it's' predecessor, the Hot Pocket.
I guess he's given up on the part about my neighbor, because now he
wants to see my insurance or registration or whatever.
Sit tight, he tells me, as he goes back to his car, or as I've heard it
called by today's youths, his "ride."
I give him a quick thumbs up and secretly wonder how he has time to
write all these tickets and still keep up with his algebra
assignments.
When he comes back, he's got nothing to say. At least, nothing of
interest. I've been busy thinking about watching Frasier.
But he says he's got to ask me one more time about my neighbor. Does he
really deal heroin?
I ask, Why? Does he want some?
***
I'm back at home and my fish are hungry. To tell you the truth, I can't
even see my fish. I haven't cleaned their bowl in years.
I rationalize this by thinking about an article that I read once that
says fish are happier in a dirty tank because it makes them feel like
they're in their natural environment. It makes me wonder, how do you
measure the happiness level of a fish? I don't dare turn on my stereo
for fear that they won't like the jazz stylings of Gene Krupa
The last thing I need is a disgruntled fish.
It's cold. My bedroom window was broken by a neighborhood kid playing
baseball. I guess I could replace it or board it up or something.
I'll opt to put on a jacket.
It's hard to sleep anymore. My house smells like a bad mix of lemon and
mildew. I've got some sort of leak under my sink. I guess I could fix
the pipes or something.
I'll opt to use Lysol.
My neighbors next door are ridiculously loud. I don't think I can take
any more techno music.
Or Kung Fu flicks.
One more round of Dance, Dance, Revolution on Playstation and I'll have
to shoot someone.
I'll opt to use ear plugs.
So I'm freezing cold. My apartment smells like a tree full of rancid
lemons. And I think Jet Li wailing on some white dude.
But I do my best to cover my problems.
* * *
So today, we've got this new guy doing the news at 5:00. In Master
Control, they refer to him only as "Newguy."
I wonder how many rocks they had to turn over to find Newguy.
Obviously, 5:00 is the testing slot. If they screw up, nobody really
cares. Not even the management.
Who, by the way, has decided to watch his performance from my audio
booth.
The audio room is only big enough for one person and my bagel.
And as this adolescent shit stands behind my chair, with his hands
dangerously close to the trim dials, I see him eying my bagel.
Newguy's voice broke the first time I met him. I figured he was just
sick, but as it turns out, the recruiting department just didn't do
their job.
I was downstairs, getting that thick coffee from that Goddamn machine,
and Newguy introduces himself.
Hi, I'm this guy, and I'm going to be the new anchor!
His voice cracked on "anchor" and his name, which is probably why I
don't remember it. Or it could flat out be that I didn't care.
Usually when I meet someone, I take a few seconds, and analyze exactly
why it is that I am better than them. Some telltale sign, like terrible
grammar, or a tie that doesn't match anything that he's wearing.
But this guy, I don't even waste my time.
So now, my hungry boss is standing here and talking to me about
something like cars or music or whatever, I don't care, I've got
selective hearing.
And now that we're at a break, I make sure that my bagel is safe.

If you knew the exact time you were going to die, what would you make
sure you were doing at the moment you drew your last breath?
I would want to be listening to a Buddy Rich or Carter Beauford drum
solo. Watching Conan O'Brien. Eating a Jumbo Jack.
This morning I died. I was listening to a commercial on the radio for
wireless telephone service. Watching an 18-wheeler jack knife in front
of me.
Tasting blood.
When you die, there aren't white fluffy clouds and angels playing Canon
in D on harps. After you die, everyone becomes a moral person. And
you're forced to sit through a constant looping of your life. Remember
when you cheated on your girlfriend back in high school? Prepare to
cringe till the end of time. Your time on earth is your heaven or hell
for all of eternity.
My alarm didn't go off this morning. My dog had to go outside right
when I was ready to walk out the door. And my car took 4 or 5 tries
before it would start.
This had been set for me. I was to die, and fate was standing in my way
all morning, until it stepped back and opened the gates.
But obviously, this wasn't my time.
I had been pronounced DOA. I had no heart rate. No brain
activity.
Until I was born again at 7:34 a.m. on October 24, 2001.
The doctors seemed thoroughly amazed by my existence. One doctor called
me "God's Little Miracle Child." I was lifeless for two and a half
hours before waking up. He'd never seen anything like this before.
Nobody had. But here I am.
Better than good as new.
I have to stay in the hospital here for 2 more weeks. And all I can
think about is how badly I want to fix the sink in my bathroom, and
plant some flowers in my garden.
* * *
For the first time in my life, I got out a shovel, and I dug.
And dug.
And dug.
To the root of the problem.
I dug up the old soil and put in fresh stuff I got at the Plant
Shed.
Orchids planted in a fir-bark based soil need a fertilizer of a water
soluble 30-10-10 mix applied every two weeks.
All flowers pretty much look the same to me. I don't know what my deal
is with this whole garden.
I'm ready to take control of my life. I want to confront all of my
problems head-on. I want to do everything that I've always wanted to
do.
I want to see the world without sunglasses.
Now I tote my stereo outside here with me.
I'm not interested in tainting my ears with anything from VoiceStream
Wireless ever again.
For a while my weak little speakers couldn't spit out the music over
all my neighbor's obnoxious hullabaloo.
So I went next door and told him flat out that if I had to hear "Once
Upon a Time in China" ever again, he'd be pissing blood for the rest of
his life.
I think that was actually the first time I'd ever met my
neighbor.
All this digging reminds me of my father's stories about how he buried
the Spam that was issued to him in World War II. I think about
attempting to grow a Spam Tree. In the United States alone, 3.8 cans of
Spam are consumed every second. But fortunately I abandon this
idea.
I can't work out here in this dirt anymore. I've got to do a load of
laundry before I go out tonight.
* * *
This has to be the least competent television station I have ever
seen.
If it's news, it's news to us.
We're covering the Texas Fabric Depository while the others are
uncovering corrupt police officers.
Commercial break. I need some sort of doctor-ish music. When we come
back, it's our "4 Your Health Report".
See, it's clever because we're Channel 4.
This is close enough to doctor music.
"Dr. Dre, you know I'm mobbin' with the D-O-double-G."
West side.
My boss puts down his Gameboy and turns off Pokemon to come and tell me
how incredibly inappropriate that was.
Hold up.
I've already accepted a position as an audio engineer at the areas
second highest rated radio station. And I've been enlightened.
After 24 years in broadcasting, you know an audio board better than you
know yourself. Broadcasting to the entire metroplex is nothing more
than flipping a switch, pressing two buttons, and holding down your
foot pedal. (That's just to make sure that your rant goes directly into
every headset in the station.)
I also put a patch cord into "Output 4". That sends me to Chip in the
Chopper. (See you on the air, in the air!) Cute, Chip.
Telling your boss to eat shit and die to 50,000 people is borderline
erotic.
* * *
I've been out of the hospital for 6 days. I've been changing my life
every day. Until today.
I've got to rest before my first day at my new job tomorrow.
I had originally plotted for this to be the day that I sit my
girlfriend down and just talk things out with her. But I'm not going to
do that today.
"I'd give the world to you. I will be true to you, now and forever and
beyond. I will be true to you, my love."
This will hold me over for a little while.
I just need to rest for today.
* * *
This job blows.
I would hardly call a Soundcraft Delta SR a worthwhile piece of
machinery.
It's been 20 years since I've been in radio and everything is
different. Now I have a mandatory bumper music play list. There is no
way for me to express myself.
Our morning DJs have a "Where are they now?" segment about washed up
actors and musicians. I want to play "Why Don't You Get A Job" by
Offspring.
I have to play our station's identification with the bad techno beat in
the background.
I could always go to the general manager and ask for permission to
change things up a bit.
But I'd rather find a new way to survive this shit job.
* * *
My neighbor doesn't know my new work schedule so he's still playing his
music so loud that it makes my house vibrate.
I wonder if this registers on the Richter scale.
So I've got a massive headache.
It would probably feel good to go back over there and tell him I'm
going to beat him so intensely that he'll pray for his own death. It
would solve the root of my problem.
But I'm reaching for the Tylenol.
To make matters worse, I'm meeting my girlfriend's parents
tonight.
"Together we can fight anything, whatever tears at us, whatever tries
to keep us down, our love will outlast everything."
* * *
I've got to do my laundry.
Separate the whites.
Separate the darks.
Put in the detergent.
All that jive.
Or I can buy new clothes again.
I understand that I'm slipping backwards. But sometimes it's just
easier to grab an umbrella and hide from everything that rains down on
you.
I could pour in some bleach and try to get my whites their
whitest.

Screw that.