Monday, June 4, 2007

Pay Attention or Pay

God is a fucking hothead. He doesn't like it when you don't pay attention. The less you pay attention, the harder the slap. I got whacked real hard in the middle of the night, in the deepest part of my baby brain sleep, when a firetruck screamed the news that I had just moved into an apartment across the street from a fire station. Whoops. Yeah. This motherfucker took ten years off my life as every circuit in my brain was blown. I was more than a bit proud of my elderly constitution that I didn't chocolate fondue in my boxers.

You see, I wasn't paying attention. I should have extrapolated the nagging question: Why are there always Dalmatians crapping on the front lawn? Forgive the Disney gag. Some types of work don't wash off.

The piercing sirens were a bit less menacing with the windows shut. I figured one of those white-noise-machines would smooth it nicely. A little aural Fabreeze if you will.

Does anybody know what a white-noise machine is? Haven't you ever done marital counseling or been in therapy? Oops. T.M.I. If you DO know what one is, just try to buy one.

I head over to Target because they have everything made in the western world under one roof. Everything but a white noise machine. Sure, they have those sleep aids that play waterfall or beach or farm sounds. Fuck that noise. I'll score the soundtrack to my dreams myself, thank you. I just want that "shhhhhhhh" sound to cushion the Four Firetrucks of the Apocalypse. Nobody there knows what a white-noise machine is either. They're not selling my brand of capitalism. On to Best Buy.

I fucking hate Best Buy. I'm not sure exactly why. Maybe it's rubbing my nose in the fact that technology is evolving faster than my ability to learn. Maybe it's all those corporate logos trying to tell me how to fill my free time with their definition of happiness.

I head straight for the information counter. I don't want to fuck around here. Jump cut to me standing in front of the biggest, blackest, baddest looking dude I've ever seen. I like jazz music. WTF? I feel that weird twinge of the liberal white man that says--you're not a racist. I'm not? Then why can't I ask if he can tell me where the white-noise-machine's are?

Now this was the week that the Michael Richards video came out. I watched that numerous times with my jaw on the floor. I was in a very hyper-sensitive state which can be just as bad as dead inside. I imagine my request coming off like--yeah...I need a white noise machine. READ: You know, to block out all the black noise, Holmes.

So what do I do? Do I ask where the Malcolm X box sets are? I played it straight and went for it. A what!?---he said. A white-noise-machine---I explained holding eye contact. No, sorry we don't carry that. Alright then. Thanks.

I found one online. By the time it came, I was accustomed to the firetruck noise. You can get used to anything.