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Alarm clock rings-BUUUUUZZZZZZZZZZZZ-sheets fly mechanically down feet like clockwork.Shower on, hot and steaming and ready to cleanse. Dial night-time freshness on a coral loofahexfoliates coarse skin, flowing behind ears and down-back-over-knees-and-into-the-drain; life-spins counterclockwise in North America. A royal blue Target-Special towel hangs ready andpoised above a porcelain shrine to debauchery, still stained from the night before. A quick left-handed grab, silent shake down and the sound of damp linen on tile flour leaves an echoing-thud-in the head of the foggy face in the mirror. Lack-luster eyes on the Monet reflection staring back,fade rapidly into Polaroid clarity, revealing a youthful face wearied from stress and unrest. CrestExtra Whitening fresh-paste on a Wal-Mart toothbrush scrubs Marlboro-Honey Dutch teeth withpaint particles and sedatives meant to make your mouth shine. A steady balancing act over theorganized chaos of a party-all-night-sleep-all-day-sell-drugs-do-drugs-peace-love-and-acid-brocollege hippie floor, to find pants that smell fresh enough to rockthat day. A John Lennon forestgreen print tee shirt from J.C. Penny's chosen in a rush. Nineties' grunge Levi's with an age-wornPantera sticker on the torn right ass pocket with a blue Dollar General bandanna adorning aballed head with Ralph Lauren glasses and a fatigued frown. Morning check list aloud:

Keys: Check

Wallet: CheckMoney: CheckLighter: CheckCigarettes: CheckWeed: CheckPhone: Check

A deep breath and long stretch sends fire down atrophic arms. A quick glance at the phone toconfirm Estimated Time of Departure and Arrival at destination unsaid.

Shit. 2:00am.

God hath tricked the wicked and his sense of humor is ironic at best. Work starts at 6:00am andfour hours ofPay Your Way to Heaven with Pat Robertson and QVCis purgatory to the mind ofany well developedHomo Sapient.

A decision is made to burn the remaining time in black smoke via a hand-crafted Jerome Baker1and the accompanying journey into the unrest and unconscious begins. Experience is now adimensional paradox between being asleep and being awake, where I am merely a hazy self-awareness floating between dream and reality in a cloud of false memories and illusions. Animpalpable blip of sentient perception painting reality onto a boundless canvas with pastelideologies.

Ideas of seemingly ingenious proportions spark, and send light bulb shivers down a meltingspinal cord as the solution to world hunger grumbles incessantly in the lower intestines. Urges torun with wild wildebeests and climb mountains and Redwood trees collapse with the growingtingle of sleep moving stealthily from toes to calf to knee to thigh.

Damnit.

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Lazy boy legs retreat. A slow meander into the kitchen and Cheetos and Ben n' Jerry's soonreplace the perennial montage of philosophic introspection that once was, and that fleetingmoment-oh so glorious as it is-is caught amidst the wind of time and carried deep into a desert offruitless memories.

Once more the earth-shaking self-realizations of a philanthropic prodigy find themselves buriedlike dirty secrets under the pressure of social obligation and habitual self-destruction. A tomb ofunfettered perspectives stacked like bricks on pessimistic mortar with decaying bodies ofvirtuosity lining the floor like poisoned rats.

Smells like...burning Pop-Tarts?. Shit.

Reality slips in unopposed and with the vengeance of an abandoned lover; shattering delusionsaround it like crystal balls on concrete.

6:00am.

A mental air raid screams blue collar heresy in the ears of lethargic soldiers dazed with sleep,now made suddenly aware of their unintentional tardiness. GABA2 receptors in the control roomquickly send armies of butterflies into the intestines. The coming swarm causing a subtle quakethroughout hands and knees.

Something must be done.

Rallying together in arms, Imagination and Rationale devise an ingenious excuse to feed theravenous White Collar overseers and their bottomless hunger for Bull-Shit. An eye-lid slideshow streams past, images of car accidents and sick mothers, a dying grandmother in paisleypajamas coughing up emphysema into a bed pan, last minute weddings of distant cousins andfunerals of forgotten high school friends. Little bits of story line picked here and there from factand fiction alike, bound together with a string of impromptu details and white lies--all written onfifteenth century papyrus to be read aloud into the ears of the nearest telecommunication device.

Consequently, the fat-cats on the receiving end of this spur-of-the-moment fabrication frown onthe frivolous follies of post-undergrad professionals and this breach of unwritten conduct is sureto leave a soiled stain on a thus-far unscathed profile.

Eight O'clock A.M. and the smell of carbon emissions singe the raw insides of my nostrils,burning nose hair with forest-fire like efficiency. The black leather interior of my Daewootrapping heat like an oven; a stuffed holiday turkey forgotten and burnt. In the background theradio fades in and out between distorted jazz music and a Christian talk show. Traffic ahead of

me slithering at a slow 10mph down Interstate 4. The image of a multicolored snake emittingirritation and heat waves painted before me.

My anger is a Bach arpeggio building into a final crescendo.Two miles ahead of me a black 2005 Volkswagen Jetta has shoved its speed-hungry nose up theass of a '94 hunter green Dodge Voyager; crushing daddy's little girl's front end and throwing anunsuspecting Illegal out the front window of the Voyager. Surrounding the resulting chaos are

http://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0AT-QZywe2Z51ZGNkODgyN3BfMTQyaGI2d2ZwaG0&hl=enhttp://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0AT-QZywe2Z51ZGNkODgyN3BfMTQyaGI2d2ZwaG0&hl=en

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three Florida Highway Patrol cars, a firetruck, and an ambulance all screaming Move-It-Move-It-Move-It, Nothing-to-See-Here, at the dumbfounded dip-shits rubbernecking their way to seesome Good Morning Carnage.At the head of this slow-moving rush-hour anaconda creeps a maroon '86 Chevy truck chalkedwith rust and mud, a confederate flag painted on the back window and a muffler shooting blackexhaust in the face of his followers. In the driver's seat a sun-worn, farm-bred, Deliverance stylehillbilly in a straw hat and denim overalls trails with his foot on the brake, hoping to catch aglimpse of the little sweetie who just got totally fucked out of a perfectly nice day.

Oblivious to the fact that he has just caused every blue-collar sheep in the herd to be late for theirsoul-sucking session ofYes sir. No sir. Right away sir. Can do sir. File F-3765? Yes sir noproblem. No sir, I don't need a lunch break. Yes ma'am I know I'm late. No ma'am I'm not anidiot. Yes ma'am I like my job. Anything you say sir/ma'am/boss/Your Highness!Bah-bah-bah-baaaaahhhh!.Suddenly I realize I've been strangling my steering wheel between my hands like an angry back-

water husband with his greasy hands around an adulterous wife. Deep breaths.

In...Out...In...I'm a bald eagle flying high above this mosaic snake, my stomach growling with hunger andrage. Spreading a 100ft wing span across a salt-water sky, I catch a cool draft and circle up-up-up, eying the succulent snake slithering beneath me. Wait, wait, waitSwoop, I dive downwardsand grab my breakfast between razor claws. Gotcha mother-fucker! It puts up a fight, but I crushits pulsating insides in my claws and squeeze the parasitic life right out of it.

Triumph!...Out...HOOOONNNNNKKKKK. Get out of the fucking way asshole!

I have now assumed the throne ofKing of the Rush-Hour Assholes and my subjects are alreadycawing coup coup coup. My right foot quickly slams down on the gas pedal, startling my idlingcar and causing it to want to stall. It catches gears and soon I'm cruising at an easy 65mph,passing the accident on my right, fighting an urge to snatch a look into someone else's misery.

I wonder to myself out loud, is this desire natural? This morbid lust to live vicariously throughsome strangers tragedy? Did ancient Egyptians slow down their camels on the Silk Road in orderto stare at a two-caravan pile up? Is this habitual rubbernecking we can't seem to escape derivedfrom the same desire to watch slaves fight starving lions in the arena? Have we had to find new

ways to fulfill our innate appetite for death and suffering in a society where suppression is theword of the millennium? Are we any better than our blood-thirsty ancestors or have we merelyfound different routes of release? These questions plague my mind like locusts and leave mewith a bitter taste on my tongue. Its too early to think so deep and so I turn up my Tool albumand try not to think about anything.