My life in garbage

I just signed on to be my apartment buildings garbage-dude. Each week I shall don gloves and drag our cans to the curb. I shall pick up whatever refuse has been carelessly dumped about the grounds and uphold the moral code requiring that I not dig around looking for materials to lord over my neighbors' heads as "sensitive".

I have two highly technical BS degrees, for which the average starting salaries are $50,000 and $60,000/yr.

I am doing this for $40/month. $40 that I need.

Know this for what it is: An analogy for everything that I post on this very space. All I know is trash.

Don't get me wrong, I love the trash that I know. I'll roll in that wadded up wet newsprint all day. If I go to buy beer with some of those friends of mine that sometimes force smokes on me, and when they leave their half-smoked cancer stick on a ledge outside the store, I'll leave my smoldering ciggie on the ground. And we'll both pick 'em up and keep puffing afterwards like it was no thing. This is my way.

That said, I grant Sam, author of the Stylus piece I mentioned yesterday, that he was pretty much spot on. I was merely taking advantage of my 'net-given right to totally misinterpret all that I take in and spew forth whatever my knee-jerk reaction might be. Did I say right? I mean duty. Some facts:

1. No matter how many Tad or Big Drill Car tapes I had back in "the day", my music-seeking methods are strictly electronic at this point. Hell, I don't even read Bull Tongue no more. My tastes are virtual.
2. Not listening to Total Chaos never scored me any pussy. Not that I would have listened to them anyways, had I known.
3. It is probably a bad idea to post things that discuss bands you know nothing about other than that they are from Chicago, no matter how tangentially the discussion relates to said bands.

Alright, so I've learned my lesson. And posting is officially and thankfully returned to something I only do while consuming alcohol or whatever you send me in the mail. If you need an address, lemme know.