This morning, my alarm went off at 6:45 AM, as I’d set it.

It went off again at 7:00 AM, as I’d also set it.

As I was typing the first sentence of this post, it went off again at 7:45 AM, as I think I set it after not wanting to get up at 7:00 AM.

I’m obviously up now, but the sound of that alarm as I was typing annoyed the hell out of me. Part of the alarm hate is not wanting to wake up until I naturally wake up, sure. Part of it is also that, well, I’m getting ready for a day that doesn’t particularly excite me. (Though swell things are usually sprinkled throughout.)

Sometimes I wonder if the main reason for the hate is the SOUND. I hate the SOUND of my alarm. And I’m on the third sound in two days.

I use my cell phone (Samsung RANT — I always assume it was very popular for the tween set back in 2000, though, as an old man in 2010, it’s kind of ridiculous), and there are ten “melody” choices and ten ringtones. Put down your calculators — that’s TWENTY choices. Melodies include such ditties as “Deep Chill Out,” “Garage in the Backyard,” and “Golden Dream.”

And I loathe them all. At least at 6:45 – 7:45 in the morning. Maybe it’s not the fault of these cheesy factory set ringtones and melodies.

I bet I could download a song or some funny whatsit or whathaveyou, but I don’t want to spend money on this. Bah. The truth probably is that I could download the most awesome of awesome (“Blaze of Glory” by Bon Jovi in case you didn’t know), and I’d end up hating it as much as any of these ringtones and melodies just because it’d become what rustles me from my slumber every day to go to the cubicle mines.

Speaking of which, I should start getting ready before the next alarm strikes…

Is failure a viable option? Apparently direction is involved. Failing upward seems to be quite profitable for some.

Indeed, some magical people to whom the laws of logic and fairness seemingly do not apply fail upward. I’ve been hearing (thinking?) that a lot lately, usually in reference to humans in nicer cars than mine. Cars that they drive to better jobs than mine. Jobs that they successfully fail at in clothes that are both nicerer and betterer than mine.

So, apparently my failing, I mean, just on the occasions I fail (which is not all the time), but, okay, so failure itself  is not the problem — it’s that I just fail in the wrong direction.

This doesn’t make me feel better, though, because I have no sense of direction. I can fail upward to success or downward to… um… my life. But up down, north south — I don’t know which is which. It’s like when people tell me to drive west. Unless I’m right by the ocean — I mean, if the ocean is visible to me — I don’t know which way is west. That part of my brain is not functional.

I need a Failure Garmin GPS. It’ll tell me when I’m failing in the wrong direction. Maybe I’d enter in the address “123 Success Lane.” And if I start failing downward, it’ll recalculate and get me back on track. Unless there’s poor satellite reception. Then I’m just screwed. Then I just have to drive around aimlessly, trying to quell the panic building inside as I just go about willy nilly, no idea if I’m failing in the correct direction. I need that little computer plugged into my car lighter to tell me which way to go.

Because I can’t do it myself. Seriously. I just… I get lost a lot.

Speaking of… where the hell am I?

When my brother, whom I shall call “Patrick” (because that is his name), and I were wee lil’ lads, we took the title to the Hall & Oates song “Maneater” literally. It terrified us. Well, it terrified me. I don’t want to speak for Patrick. He seemed like he was as scared as I was at the concept of a monster that will “chew you up,” but maybe not… Maybe Patrick was just playing along so as not to make his big brother feel embarrassed or shamed for fearing a pop song. I can’t say for sure, but, to my recollection, we both were at least a little afraid, maybe playfully so, of this song…

And meanwhile, our grandma, who was lovingly codenamed by her grandkids “Bobba,” had a creepy (to us anyway) pillow in her basement that was, if I remember correctly, round and kind of shaped like a lion’s face. This wasn’t it, but this is the closest picture of a similar lion-face kinda pillow I could find…

Okay, yeah, so… no. The lion pillow in the picture above is not scary. The real one, in my memory, was a little patchier, with a more angular and ferocious, less sleepy-time design. Still, it was a pillow shaped like a lion’s face. It was on a couch in our Bobba and Granddaddy’s basement.

Patrick and I used to, or, at least, at one point, would use the pillow as a mask and chase each other around, the pillow-masked one being the “Maneater.” Funny, running-around times based upon a pop song and a lion pillow and a couple of weirdo kids.

“Maneater.” Pop song about a lady who can rip a fella’s world apart with her womanly wiles and lady parts? Or a monster with a lion face that literally consumes men, chewing up their flesh? Different, meanings, different contexts… all terrifying.

Indeed, the song still kind of gives me the heebie jeebies. Now, however, in the interest of complete honesty, as I am wont to do in this blog-thing, I find I am afraid of the song for the legitimate lyric-based reasons, as the “Maneater” described, while not a flesh-eating monster as I once believed, is still a frightening being to me… really, a combo of both enters my head when I hear this song… which is more often than you might assume, as I think Hall & Oates are awesome.

Why do I think this? Because it is the truth. Hall & Oates are indeed awesome.

Lots of sportings have been going on lately.

Balls are being kicked into nets in the World Cup; balls were just being bounced and thrown into baskets in the NBA playoffs; and somewhere, even though I’ve seen and heard very little about it, pucks were being hit with sticks in the Stanley Cup.

So much competition. So much sporting. I hear various people yelling and getting excited in the apartments. So many words are written and shouted and chanted about such sports. Passion. Excitement.Passitement.

Earlier today at work, people packed the food court at lunch time, not to eat the lasagna and grilled veggies being served, no, but to watch the World Cup on BOTH of the television sets in there. (The lasagna and veggies were darn tasty, too, though.)

And just moments ago, my roommate was losing his mind in his room, yelling at the screen as the Los Angeles, CA Lakers narrowly defeated the Bostonian Celtics of Boston in the NBA Playoffs. He was more into it than I was into the season finale of CHUCK, which is saying something, as it included a cover of Jon Bon Jovi’s “Blaze of Glory” among other things I love and enjoy.

It’s madness, this sportingly love. And I wish I could be a part of it. Seems like fun, but, as with video games, I just don’t get into sports like I wish I did. People love ‘em, live ‘em, and lovey-love ‘em, and I just… I dunno. I really feel like I’m missing out. Maybe I need to become more competitive. Or excitably in that joyful, fist pumping way. I dunno. I really do wish I could get all fired up like these sporting fans do about the sports and the whatnot.

SPORT!!!!!

Boy oh boy, it’s been a long time since I’ve posted on this site. WHO do I think I am? WHAT have I been doing? WHEN will I start writing more regularly? WHERE have I been? And WHY have I been WHERE ever I’ve been and WHAT was I doing there and WHO was I with? There are several theories, but I’m not sure if any of them are true…

1. In the over two months since I wrote my last post, I just started living like a rockstar. For no logical reason, as I am not, in fact, a star of rock. Irregardless, the regular sociatal norms ceased to pertain to me, which lead to booze (okay, cough syrup), drugs, leather pants, and some unbelievable karate adventures.

2. I decided to give back to my community. Unfortunately, instead of behaving like a regular human, perhaps volunteering at a soup kitchen or cleaning the side of a highway or building some houses, I figured my best contribution would be to become a costumed vigalante. This has to do probably with my love of comics and lack of brain logic. I’ve just now been released from the ICU. Sadly, those punks still got that old lady’s purse. And my “Super D.J.” costume is a damn mess.

3. A steady stream of Kraft Mac & Chee. Just shoveling that stuff in my maw for two damn months. Overdose on orange cheese powder. The amount of margerine in my bloodstream is unheard of, and I’m lucky to be alive. If can you call this mac & cheese delirium living.

4. All of the above.

5. None of the above.

Yeah, I’m keeping it all mysterious like. One things for sure, though: I need to redesign this site some. It’s so ugly. Another thing’s for sure, though, also: redesigning my little-known website would be such a waste of time when there are so many more productive things I should be doing. (Comic book pitches, Ninja Poetry Book writing, weapons training, gold lamé pants shopping.)

But I just wanted to check in, since I’m still paying for this URL and all that. Maybe next time I’ll write about SOMEthing.

Love,

D.J.