Tue. Feb. 6, 2001
3:51 a.m.
"Shut the door baby, don't say a word,"...
Those words, lyrics from a cheesy Sugar Ray song, are stuck in my mind for some unexplainable reason. I hate it when that happens.
The sound of the windshield wipers is trying to bleed out the sound of that cursed song, but not quite. I hit the gas and am driving along with a radio in my head.
Traffic is unbelievably light for a Monday morning. I guess not so many people are as eager to get back to the rat race as I am.
By the time I hit the inter-state, my cup of coffee is lukewarm, but this time I can't blame the driver in front of me because there is no one there. It looks like its going to be one of those days.
I try my best to get that song out of my head. Heard it on an AM radio station Sunday afternoon while looking for a ball game or something to listen to. It's just catchy enough to stay with you and evidently, its staying with me while I pass a tractor-trailer.
Morning drive-time radio shows to the rescue.
Today it's two red-necks talking about yesterday's NASCAR race. These guys are WAY too over zealous for something that requires driving in left turns for 500 miles. I wish I had that same zeal when I have to change my f@#$ing tire on the freeway.
At least that song is out of my head.
The rain clears and the sun pokes it's illuminous head through the clouds. It's been raining since 5 p.m. Friday. That's my luck these days.
One of the things I hate the most is the sad realization that you have to go to work on a great day. I see the sun coming up as I near the parking garage and its smacks me in the face like a wet wash rag. It pierces between two buildings and blinds me. Damn. Parking garages always seem to be dark. This morning it's especially so. The sun disappears behind me. I'm at work. There's no sound.
By this time my coffee is cold. I don't really drink coffee for the caffine or the taste. I think it's just peer pressure. Or I just may be addicted and don't want to admit it.
My closest friend drinks coffee like it's an elixir. For him it is a medicine. I tell him "anything to keep you well". He smiles at me. I feel good.
My desk is cluttered with memos. Notes from the bosses, supervisors and cry-baby psychopaths who have nothing better to do than give me memos. Of course I trash them.
My computer makes an almost blissful sound when I turn it on. Not yet smart enough to turn my office into a scene from 'The Matrix', my desktop PC's way of saying hello is anti-climatic, yet soothing. It's like I already know I'm at work, but the sound makes me feel like I'm in some trippy science-fiction movie. At least Keanu Reeves is not running around my desk, wimpering like a little school-girl.
I go get a cup of hot coffee. I think I am addicted.
I don't hate my job. I love it. But living in this town almost cancels out the adoration. My relationship with it is almost like a lame-duck girlfriend. "I'll be your friend if you promise not to speak to me."
Sad, sad, sad.
Lunch allows me a brief repreive from the day's onslaught of phone calls, angry readers and dip-shits who have nothing better to do with their lives than to write me threatening E-mails over sports.
Blah, blah, blah say my co-workers who eat across from me at my favorite restaurant "Ruby Tuesday's'. Sounds like a bunch of hens clucking over a worm. I think I'll have the chicken I tell the waiter.
The second half of my day is about the same. I write a story about a hearing-impaired local football player who signs a national letter of intent to play ball at Alabama. Good kid. He's actually a family friend. I played ball with his brother.
Roll Tide.
It's 5:04 p.m. and I get out of Dodge. On the way back, the station with the red-necks has been replaced with hard-rock playing at full blast. Its a real treat for me to hear Metallica followed by Led Zeppelin and classic Van Halen. David Lee's voice helps me forget about the rush-hour traffic. Bumper-to-bumper of assholes.
Tommorrow morning I'll have "Panama" ringing in my head.
Hell, that's a lot better than Sugar Ray.
