ow! my superior frontal gyrus.

That one-track mind shit ended me.

I've every intention of writing for the none of you who read this jibberjabber of my 7-week-long [mis]adventure working as a conductor on the railroad, but for now I'll be brief....  I washed out.

So, unconcerned with the fact that it's 2am on Friday morning, here I sit at 2am on Friday morning trying to make a decision as to what in the heck comes next in this screwball life I'm leading.  I'm open to suggestions.  And if your plan for my future involves a fudge shop in Idaho, a giraffe, a troupe of burlesque dancers and a can of halved pears in heavy syrup, it'll never work.  Trust me.  There's a reason I have to drive around Nebraska on my way to Colorado.  Sorry.

This is a weird business, railroading.  I'm only two weeks a conductor and the job is already all-consuming.  It's a job that- at least for now, while I'm learning it- requires 100% attentiveness.... where rail cars are, which ones are moving, what direction they're moving in, how far they're going, how far they need to go, how to get them there, where the locomotives moving the cars are, how fast they're going, how fast they should go, and so on.  It isn't as if your mind has a hell of a lot of time to wander.  Moving trains also requires fairly long workdays, 10-14 hours seem to be the norm.

That constant attention to what is happening all around me for such a long time every day makes it so hard to snap out of it after tying up (that's basically punching out).  All I think about is trains.  All I have to talk about is trains.  And also, being out of town during all of this, knowing no one to talk to but train people most likely doesn't help, either.

I still enjoy this job very much, but I'm going to need to find some not-very-time-consuming, portable and non-railroad outlets to get into if I'm going to survive.  I know myself pretty well and this one-track mind shit will end me.

My brain exploded when I saw this.  Exploded.  When I saw this.

When I was seventeen, I had borrowed my mom's car to take care of some pressing errands.  One of those ever-so important errands was stopping by my best friend's work to fuck off for a bit.... we were both hungry, so I offered to drive the two of us, and another mutual friend, a few blocks down the road to McDonalds.

Taking after my father and both brothers, I have some sort of medical condition that prevents me from driving the speed limit; this being said, while doing 75 miles per hour in a 55 mph zone, I lost control of Mom's car**, had it on two wheels, regained control just in time to hit the median of the divided four-lane road and plow right into an oncoming Dodge Intrepid.  Dodge was totalled.  Thousands of dollars worth of damage done to Mom's car.  A Sherriff of Dakota County, unfortunately, witnessed the preceedings- every detail.

Shortly after determining that everyone in the car was alive and that I was most certainly going to be crucified upon returning home (i vividly recall saying the words, "okay, this is not funny. this isn't funny. this is not funny." several times), I saw that someone was approaching the car and, assuming that it was the driver of the car I whacked the motherbitch into, got out to beg forgiveness.  It turned out to the the police officer.... although his unholstered gun was all I actually saw of him.

No lie, I've had a cop point a loaded friggin' gun at me.  That. Shit. Is. Scary.

With the even tone of a zen master, he calmly asked, "ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH, MAN!?  WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!  DID YOU DO THAT SHIT ON PURPOSE!? HANDS AGAINST THE FUCKING CAR!  DO IT!  NOW!!"  Not needing to be told twice, I broke several landspeed records to comply with his delicate request.

Upon being frisked by an officer of the law for the second time of three thus far in my life, I was tossed into the back of his squad car.  Regardless of what my two friends who were there might tell you, I was in the back of that car for for much longer than 15 minutes.

Other cops arrived in short order to take statements and whatnot, and I was eventually issued a summons and allowed to hobble my mother's wreck of an SUV home for another round of soothing beratment (this time it was much, much worse).

My fine initially exceeded $700 for: crossing center line ("jumped median" was written in the comments field), failing to wear seatbelt, wreckless driving and speeding.  However, I'm charming as a motherfucker and was only charged the $80 court fee when I showed up to fight the wreckless driving bit.  Which was fortunate, because for a solid year thereafter I paid the 225 additional monthly dollars for my parents' new "high risk" insurance status.  You're welcome.

Come to think of it, Mom never thanked me for the new hood, grill, radiator, battery, windshield, passenger door & side mirror, front passenger tire, rear passenger quarter panel or that snappy red rental car, either....

**following a legitimate and understandable situation that was absolutely, 100% out of my control.

I was hanging out in my place, drinking beer; I'd had plenty.  Typical AdmiralJack dress code for chillin at home is either camoflauge cutoffs or a kilt and a t-shirt.

There's a knock on the door.

Knowing that my mom was in town that week, I yell, "just a minute!" and scurry to hide the empty beer bottles and just generally clean up a bit (don't like my mom knowing how typically bachelor i live).

Another knock on the door.

"JUST A MINUTE." I say.  Not mean or anything, but sharp.  Several seconds later, I open the door to three nicely dressed young men wearing ties and holding bicycle helmets.  The two in the background look at me with suprise, bordering on terror, and actually take a step back.

The leader of the group looks at me with uncertainty and stammers, "Is Jessica here?"

The two in the background look uneasy.

"Nope, sorry.  You probably have the wrong 101, there's six buildings in the complex."

To which the leader replies, "Are you sure Jessica isn't here?"

The two in the background are shifting, restlessly, slowly taking steps away from the door.

Befuddled, "Ummm, yep!  No Jessica here, just me.  Y'probably want the building next door."

The leader says to me, he says, "Well, would you be interested then in hearing a message about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?"

The two in the background keep tossing exaggerated gestures at the leader of the group, who is unable to see because his back is to them and they're almost all the way across the hall by this point.

"You know.... I wouldn't- but thank you, and best of luck with your mission."

I then extend my hand to Mr. Mormom Leaderman and we shake.... he's obviously uneasy about this whole conversation and seems glad it's over.  His friends have already left him.

I close the door, confused as to how awkward those nice little mormons were- the exchange was pleasant enough.  They were acting so weird, though.

Because I NEVER sit still, I begin to pace around my apartment.  When I turn the corner from my kitchen into my entryway, I have my back to the front door and begin to laugh.  Looking at the far wall, I see this, which is plainly visible to anyone standing at my front step:

They went south, down the farm's narrow dirt access road that leads to the hay field. The two calmly walked beside each other all the way up and over the bale-lined hill, across the railroad tracks and then out of sight. Almost amiably, one would think, if the pair's feelings toward one another were unknown. An odd scene, to be sure, to anyone that did know of their animosity. The only time one wasn't at the other's throat was when they weren't around each other, which they managed fairly well. Run-ins, though, could never be completely avoided on the small farm. So, it was indeed strange to see the two enemies- who, had they ever not been feuding, was never witnessed- walking side by side in a single tractor rut in the path dividing the soybeans and the tall, browning corn.

Only one came back north across the tracks, up and over the hill, returning to the party. And he had been in a fight, absolutely. They had decided it was time to finish it.

Q:  Who would win in a fight?
A:  The Macho Man Randy Savage

---

Scene 1:
A kitty meows, pawing a kitchen cabinet.

Scene 2:
The Macho Man Randy Savage explodes through the wall next to the door in the kitchen.
"ARE YOU HUNGRY, KITTY?"
The Macho Man bends over and, in one stroke, pets the fur and skin off Kitty's back.

Scene 3:
The Macho Man punches through the cabinet door and rips out a can of cat food.

Scene 4:
The Macho Man opens the can using my company's electric can opener.

Scene 5:
"OH YEAH."
The Macho Man SPIKES the opened can at the cat.

Scene 6:
The Macho Man Explodes out of the kitchen, through the wall on the other side of the door.
"CAN YOU DIGG IT?!"

Me:  "I told Rorn he should go as Pol Pot for Halloween.  You know, 'cause he's Cambodian."
The Kids I Work With:  "Who?"
Me:  "Are you serious?  Head Honcho Khmer Rouge guy?"
The Kids I Work With:  "--"
Me:  "Are you SERIOUS?  Killed- like- almost half of his country after Vietnam?"
The Kids I Work With:  "--"
Me:  "As bad as Hitler.... The Killing Fields??"
The Kids I Work With:  "Dude, that's a good movie.  They made us watch it in school."
Me:  "I fucking hate all of you."

*This isn't one conversation, it's a combination of 3 or 4 separate conversations I've had over the last month.  Putting all of them together illustrates. for me, anyway, how utterly fucked we all are.

The newest occupant of my wish list's #1 position: The Sony Ericsson k850i Cyber-Shot cellular telephone.

Since my truck, Ruma Zuma, is so terribly unreliable and I am prone to spontaneous excursions to- wherethefuckever- I feel a great need to always have my phone with me.  That, and I'm addicted to SMS.  I've also built up a healthy paranoia, prompting me to arm myself with redundant means of self defense.  On top of all this, I'm a pretty big fan of taking candid pictures and of documenting my various misadventures on film.

The problem here is that- after both sets of keys I carry, my wallet-bundle thing, my chapstick, brass knuckles, spare change, pocket knife, cable ties and cell phone- a digital camera is just one too many things for me to carry around comfortably.... I'm pushing it as it is with the phone.

A 5 megapixel digital camera phone named Bazooka Charlie answers this problem.  A 5 megapixel digital camera phone named Bazooka Charlie answers this problem with gusto.

But, $598 is a smidge steep. I do work at a grocery store, remember.

Rem: "Let's see, it's 1:85."
Albert & Andrew: "What did you just say??"
Rem: "Huh?"
Andrew: "What time is it, Rem?"
Rem: "What?"
Albert: "Rem, there's no 1:85 o'clock."
Andrew: "Dude. It's 11:43."
Rem: "My bad, the two ones threw me off."
Albert: "There Is No 1:85 O'clock, Rem."
Rem: "Oh. I rounded up."