Post Interview Fiasco

Well, references are being phoned. That's typically a good sign.

The interview ended and, "Yort! DRINK!"

There we were. The wild Yort and I at the Pit and we got to meet you know who. Yeah. Brunette. Gorgeous. I'm not going drop her name. But wow! Like we needed another reason to go to happy hour.

Then it was off to the compound for a couple beers from the fridge before we attended the weirdest six minutes of the night. You know a party is hummin' when it's scheduled to start at 7:30 and the joint is packed and out of parking spots at 7:20. 

But there was some ominous presence or lack thereof for the Yort and I. Wait staff bombarded us to order drinks. We kept them at bay.

"Yort, do we really want to be here?"

"I gotta piss."

He pissed. I said hello to those I had to, at least, to be assured my arrival was noted and thus, the RSVP was covered. Yort came back. I battled a couple more server requests and finally, "Yort, I'm going to hop outside and smoke. Why don't you join me?:

WE OUT!

D and D-Rock call and it's an all out fiasco. Like a pitcher of Merlot, a box of wine, a bunch of beer, the Kraken! and somebody at least took a whiff of the gin. Add guitars, the bag of fish and your deity of choice knows what else. Somebody check my brain.

Posted by: The ZaZ on 3.13.2010 at 12:44 PM | Comments (0) | Permalink

Day of Reckoning

The day of reckoning is nigh, my pedigree chums.

This afternoon, where I would normally be planning out the night's activities, i.e. happy hour plus however long we can stand to drink somewhere in this town before racing to the compound for the madness of another fiasco, I'll be answering questions about myself and discussing my past employment history or maybe even my future thought processes on taking a return to a journalistic role and frankly, it has me a bit freaked out.

I'm out of practice. It's like driving drunk. Once they nail you the first time and you stop doing it as a lifestyle, you just don't ever do it again. It makes no sense.

Then again, I've always threatened, from the beginning of this blog, that out there, just maybe, there was a scenario and a place where I'd return to the field. Actually, any place but my former would have been an upgrade so it isn't really that difficult to ponder.

But I have to quell the typical nature of my mindset when approaching these kinds of meetings. I have a positive outlook and appreciate the opportunity, but anyone who has paid any attention to the historical nature of rants here knows that even though it is acceptable and necessary to be employed, there is a philosophical bridge not being crossed today. It's being blown up. This isn't the first time I've had to dynamite my ideals but when one clings to certain perspectives, no matter how impossible, there's a moment of grief. 

I had to look hard for the wormhole last night. Racing mind, not all job related. Just a racing mind. Things that could be that won't be and things that might be and things, things, so many things. 

Then again, I like to blow things out of proportion to drive myself insane. They're excited to see me. I'm rather entertained at the idea. At the very worst, it's just talking to the other humans and doing it with my hair out. Beware humans, if you can find me mid-afternoon, you can catch a glimpse of a public showing of the hair. That alone is weird enough.

So, here we go. The countdown is on and the number of hours is getting low. 

I'll update later today if I know anything or don't just run straight to the bar.

Posted by: The ZaZ on 3.12.2010 at 10:17 AM | Comments (0) | Permalink

PM'd

After a week of little sleep followed by a week-long bender, which, in turn, created a restless next few days tied in with some potential life upgrades, which produce under the surface stress, compiled with a more than necessary emotional build-up, it was time. Time for the PMs.  Yes, pain reducers and sleep propeller, easily, my favorite over the counter medication and when not abused, they can work wonders in putting the wormhole back in your head so fast you just awaken and realize, hey, that was a solid 11 hours of whatever.

Then again, you can't always count on the pills. Something boring on in the background always helps. I chose last week's Saturday Night Live on Hulu. I had some hope for Zach Galifianakis, as the guy has amused me before. There was a funny crack about some lady liking his beard and he was all, "Lady, I'm Greek. This isn't a beard. These are my eyebrows." That's funny. You're not Greek. It's hard to understand.

The opening skit of Barack Obama was as boring as he is. The Zach G opening spiel wasn't too bad. A few mild chuckles and the follow-up skit was atrocious. Then the PMs hit and for a brief moment I heard some rumbling in the background and a couple vibrates of the phone but inside my head was a voice, a quiet voice, sleep, sleep, pretty sleep. Any Hubbard Mission Earth fans out there? What a shame. Maybe some Zenyatta Mondatta instead.

Now, voices in my head. Last week they were in there too. Not the conscious subconscious speaking sooth and lies to inner being. Maybe they were just figments of my imagination but there were a couple that were oddly familiar, as in, I could name these people but I don't want them to either confirm yes, at 11:52 p.m. on such and such a day I was actually thinking of you and the word you heard. That would be too freaky and hard to line up with nobody out. There's only two people in the world who I know personally who just got that reference.

First song to strike today was acoustic Everlong, Foo Fighter style. It's a time capsule of driving down University in Winter Park, Florida on way to the beach. It's a misnomer of mental justice in the contemporary and a factual depiction of some specific current events. The only thing I'll ever ask of you: gotta promise not to stop when I say when. Which just makes me want to listen to the studio version, as well. That's the sound of the real drive to the beach. Might have to dig that disc out. It got play until I moved to Dallas and it became irrelevant. Try moving to 100 square miles of asphalt and not feeling like it's your asses fault when on the first weekend you realize you can't just hop in the car and cruise to New Smryna. In fact, the only thing an hour away is fucking Waco. 

Contemporary thoughts breed whirlwind memories of past errors in judgement and silly notions. It's only after the fact that it really slaps you upside the melon and you're left in silent, perfunctory bewilderment.

I think that's enough regression for today. Just don't say when. 

Posted by: The ZaZ on 3.11.2010 at 9:53 AM | Comments (0) | Permalink