“Oh so you hated being water technician? Well we can get you that position you originally wanted as flight crew chief if you sign on for six years. Yeah, it’s an extra two years due to the length of the schools required for it. No, there’s no signing bonus.”

As one can no doubt glean from the above, I have such a job. Its function is almost completely outsourced to civilian contractors and is primarily only used in a field capacity with my battalion. The best part is that since my unwise twenty-three year old self signed on with no regard, Present Me is doomed to whatever bitch labor they have to chuck at me. My platoon has already left for Afghanistan and I was sadly chosen to help with the remain behind element to clean ALL of the facilities we used. It’s giving me traumatic flashbacks to my old summer job as a maintenance worker for my old school system. Moving heavy furniture around, cleaning floors, dealing with grungy outdoor access bathrooms, mopping, scrubbing walls; not exactly the picture one has of life in The Corps.

There is no cohesion or set plan in motion to accomplish Operation Immaculate Cleansing. Our staff rouses us early to stand in a formation for half an hour until their hive-mind comes up with a solution to complete the obvious. “Hurry up and wait” is the unspoken mantra amongst the junior enlisted. As a bonus all of the staff have different projects they are attempting to complete and are constantly abducting manpower from other parties. Those that are snatched in such fashion are often counted as absent from duty and punished accordingly for following orders of senior personnel. Sometimes camp officers breeze through wanting us to do some activity in order to free their crew from performing it. Thus we are whored out like Romanian girls promised high paying careers in France. Then we get to come back and finish the original tasks as they consume our cherished free time.

The officer staff seems to be completely clueless as to how effectively they are demoralizing the men in their command. Do they get shat out of OCS (Officer Candidate School) and just forget the inherent need to have a modicum of relaxation at the end of a work day? Or a weekend off for that matter? We have what is called a ninety six hour liberty period coming up for the Labor Day holiday. Every stateside servicewoman/man will be able to partake in it or if their job requires them to work part of it, they will still get the time off at a later date. Our despondent little band will not see any of this as we have been tasked to finish furniture assembly until we deploy.

Active duty folks are constantly amazed at the stories recounted by us of the horror we undergo thanks to our inept command. Most can’t believe that there has not been an open mutiny due to bumbling leadership’s decision to overwork and under-reward its troops. In their careers of service to our nation, mystery is non-existent as it is inefficient and creates chaos. Wake up, show up to your shop, work till quitting time, go home relax, repeat till Friday, enjoy the next two days off.

I have to take this to the most extreme contrast. This morning a substance addict woke up in some squatter’s paradise and knew exactly how the day was going to unfold.

1.) Get up.

2.) Get money, items to barter, or render services to get drugs.

3.) Get high.

Ingenuous in it’s simplicity. No bullshit mire to wade through. Just a simple route towards an attainable goal. So if needle freaks can pull this off, how does it continue to be a mystery for individuals charged with the defense of our country? The whole picture makes my impending cross globe posting to combat terror in Afghanistan seem considerably more daunting.

Sorry ma’am. The thing is, I was not at a pharmacy at all, at least not one that offers a bill of fare to treat typical ailments. This bottle came out of the med center that is my glove compartment and its contents originated from a truck stop near Athens. Yellow jackets are street legal now, and I have a loooooooooooooong night ahead of me. Seriously, it’s gotten to the point that sometimes I am in bed by ten. Weird, right? Not even thirty yet, but asleep before Leno and awake for Mama’s Family. By chewing them, one guarantees fast absorption of their drugs through the mucus membrane which in turn gets them working faster. Neat-o right?

A winning smile did nothing to mitigate her reaction to my vehicular stimulant session. With a green light, I tore off into a frantic 40 mph dash down the main drag towards Roy’s house. There, a drinking platoon of the finest soldiers were to be assembled with limited transport and your narrator not responsible for operating any! Traditional pregame beers were slugged in hungry anticipation of high prices at the Q Arena. A fine dinner of grilled sandwiches and even more barley sodas were purchased at a nearby downtown eatery. Soon my mind was engulfed in the warm fog of a solid buzz. The yellow jackets did not seem to be yielding any adverse effects for the moment. Wait, we’re at the game already?

Kuz-nax was nipping off a flask as I sucked down two containers of concession stand nacho cheese in addition to relieving myself in the kiddie urinal (the one that sits the lowest). Did I even buy the pretzel? Light beer is like water to a booze aficionado such as myself. Why doesn’t anyone do the wave at sporting events anymore? It’s pretty stellar when you’re a tot, but when you’re jacked up on tablets and tipple………..like a roller coaster in space! None of my fellow game patrons seemed to share this philosophy on the subject sadly. Repeated invitations to join my efforts were rebuffed with uncomfortable glances and threats to call security. Our team was victorious! On to a shitty club that just opened across the street. Why were we at this shitty club with snooty waitresses and fakey atmosphere? Kuz-nax dutifully pointed that I should probably think that sentence instead of saying it in a loud alto voice. He was right, but why try and impress a mediocre looking barmaid in yet another loud music, overpriced, “you’re so money” image, in a wanna be New York city but actually the secondary Rust Belt capital drinking establishment? Apparently this statement also was not restricted to the confines of my mind as was intended. A group vote was called, and the resulting tally put “strip club” for the win.

Under more sober circumstances, this would be a no-go for The Lonesome Jester. Such locations strike me as incredibly expensive teases for the socially inept. I don’t like watching women wiggle their naughty bits in my face when there are stringent “NO TOUCHING” rules in play. Plus it was going on midnight, so there was no chance of there being any kind of free buffet. However when you have a cajoling group of your close friends offering to buy drinks, dances, shirts, and maybe you did some ground up adderall disco style off the hood of a random Geo Prizm,…… well to say these circumstances might sway an inebriate is an understatement. Inside is exactly what one would expect it to find in a den of flesh viewing so I will not go Hemingway on the description. The uggo strippers pounce as soon as a table and seats are found. What is up with that? Loser guys come to these joints to get something they cannot normally get; an attractive woman . So why do skin dives even hire the not-so-pretties? Is there a fetish market out there? When the JV squad got the vibe that we were not into their exterior organ wares, they opted instead to hang out and make chitchat. We were imparted some of the inside gossip of their den of ill repute and some its inner drama. Cinnamon was pregnant and her baby daddy still wished to pursue his dreams of running his own corner. Raven was pissed at Giselle because she had made fun of one of her outfits. Starla was possibly back on the pipe. Roy suddenly burst into my vision to inform me that a dance of the lap variety had been purchased in my honor.

In terms of mental cognizance, I was maybe at the level of a nematode. A line-up of five or so ladies was arranged for my selection. Giddiness had begun to well up within me like several angioplasty balloons inflated simultaneously. Not the kind that makes me a competitive four-square player, this brand is typically more of the libertine sense. Vision seemed to flicker a bit as the prospects were surveyed. Somewhere in the steam pipe gallery of what passes for a mind, the near mad boiler operator named Maniacal Anthony, threw a lever that channeled the whimsical sensations. A smile lights across my face as cynosure is pinpointed for a necessary flash of clarity. Roy and the others gazed on me with appetence to know my preference. I leaned towards him and whispered, “Gimme the bitch who’s been crying.”

We had seen her previously weeping slightly over some boyfriend tiff. Her eyes were still a bit red, make-up a bit smeared, but she must have felt limber enough to join the contest for grinding rights on The Lonesome Jester. All right then, tally ho! She leaped onto me and initiated clothed genital contact with exceptional vigor. Her skin was overly marinaded with lotion or powder, and of course the obligatory glitter. My aspect was nearly enveloped by her massive and now free flying bosoms. Most dudes would be of the “Hell yeah!” and “Motor boat” persuasion. I couldn’t help worrying about what would happen if I let loose a violent sneeze. With each thrust onto me my face plunged deeper within their crevasse. Our friction induced an erection that was having a very difficult time mushrooming into the leg of my jeans. Her pudendum was not unlike a corseted mallet walloping my firm shaft. Saline smell as a liquid dribbles down the end of my nose. Stripper tears!? The song thankfully ended and she attempted a bumbling semi-sensual dismount. Comments were made about how nice I seemed, how cute I was, would I like it if she hung out with me some more, etc. There was a sad desperation in her voice that any amateur psychologist could detect. Perhaps she really did long for companionship that a guy like me could offer. Maybe she just needed to make enough money to keep her deadbeat boyfriend happy.

The rest only comes back in flashes. Roy’s younger brother getting the deluxe treatment from a young lady who held a disturbing resemblance to Hermione Granger from the Harry Potter films. Quite energetic with her efforts in full contact burlesque as well. Car chorus of Billy Ocean’s “Get Out of My Dreams (Get Into My Car). Obligatory late night Taco Bell run complete with free chalupas thanks to our team’s win. MSquared giving a fierce wind-up and lauching a Crunch Wrap Supreme at a belligerent Steeler’s fan. A potatoe sack race held on the basement stairs of Roy’s house. A frenzy for the books…

Amongst a majority of guys, this would simply be a weekend outing to be recounted at later Dudes’ Night Out type dealies. I am not so set to add it to my scorecard. A dark side of me was exposed. During that paid act of humdrum gratification, while that girl agonized over whatever background drama was occurring,…..I knew a delirious rapture unlike anything ever known. A bizarre combination of drugs, camaraderie, gluttony, sex,  and feeding off another person’s misery. Part of me was revolted when that tear hit me, but there was another part that wanted to grab her ass and bay with feral laughter. It took almost nine months to possess the fortitude to write about this. Still not quite certain how to even begin to analyze these episodes. There are no residual cravings to relieve that eventide’s debauchery, so I’m probably not too malevolent a human.  Though karma will most likely attune my end some how, some day.

In other news, my time in the Free 52 will be ending sometime next week and it will be off to Afghanistan to perform Johnny Combat duty. Worried? Nope. It’s just like any other gig, except there is a better chance you finishing a work day going home in a Ziploc tupperware container. Don’t flinch at the sentence. I don’t, and neither should anyone else. Humor has always been the preferred mechanism for diffusing any kind of tension; this situation is no different.

In fun news, I bought a skateboard! Not gonna lie, it is super cool and decked out with the best parts the thrashing world has to offer. Since The Lonesome Jester was a belligerent teenager, a part of him had longed to join concrete boarding crowd. K-Dawg would have none of this, as skateboarding led to becoming a stoner or serious injuries that could never occur on a bike/roller blades/climbing trees/tobogganing/etc. So what better time to learn than on the edge of thirty? The feeling of learning new skills is so exhilarating. It’s a wonder to me more folks don’t jump out of the ol’ Comfort Zone.

Yesterday some fellow servicemen and I hit the town for some much needed R & R. Hit up a fantastic microbrewery with some of the best fish tacos known to human culinary achievement. When you are trapped under the boot heel of military leadership, one learns to cherish the moments when they are OFP (Own F@#%ing Program). One of my brothers-in-arms informed me of his highly amusing weekend plans for the liberty period. He had decided to fly in his girlfriend, whom he had been cheating on at a near epic level via Plenty of Fish.com, then they planned to drop acid  and go to Lego Land. Ah, youth. Such vibrance and impulsivity in almost everything they do. Sometimes I long for the days where my principle concern was the next fun fix. Then I hear about some moron being ejected from a building blocks theme park for “interacting” with exhibits. Then in the haze of hallucinogens, he invites one of his mistresses out to share the afternoon forgetting his special lady is there. Cat fight doesn’t even describe what the cellphone photo montage displays of their duel (Yes, he was classy enough to take pictures).  Yeah, I’m okay with where things are at for me.

Plain and simple, I am sorry. Events were so radical in nature that there was no time to write about them. Got the job I had been agonizing over. Met a girl who became a girlfriend. Then got called to go fight in a war somewhere. Left Thunderdome along with the denizens that haunt its gloomy corridors. Girl and me could not make it work, but it was okay because I was already starting to see the “us” was not to be. My warriors physique with complimentary instincts have returned as sixteen pounds of beer paunch vacated. A clock ticks off time to my imminent departure to a land unknown to me with a possible violent outcome. Perhaps for the first time in my life, my heart cries out for the home a couple thousand miles east.

Overload right? That’s just the way it is with me sometimes. So while there are still some moments left for me to expound, let’s take one more ride. Better yet two or three if it can be managed. Where to begin…..

Who are we kidding? Let’s get right back to what you love most; me at my worst.

1. Lose 15 pounds (It’s obligatory to make a resolution relating to personal fitness).

2. Try the Thai restaurant at the end of my street.

3. Go to at least five shows.

4. Find a guy that says “brah” and punch him in the face.

5. Start filming comedic sketches with some new found cohorts.

6. Drink an alcoholic beverage that contains venom that is not habushu.

7. Continue watching documentary films.

8. Increase the amount of NPR I listen to in a given day.

9. Regain the habit of reading multiple newspapers daily.

10. Pay off my car.

11. Lasik for my eyes.

12. Earn my place in the “50 Books in 2010″ group.

13. Utilize this blog at least once a week to get my thoughts out. Use it as the great writing tool it is.

14. The above being said, I need to write something. Maybe just some short stories or even one the bigger ideas taking up space in my notebook.

15. Visit an erotic bakery.

16. Get at least five new tattoos.

17. Invent a new cocktail.

18. Pet. Look into getting one.

19. Keep looking at places to live and or buy one. Condo…..

20. Study more. The GRE and LSAT should be in the potential future.

21. I miss singing. Need to look into being in a band again.

22.  Visit the Cleveland Museum of Art. Haven’t been there a couple years and really want to check out the new wing.

23. Travel to at least five states.

24. Break the “Lonesome” aspect of the saga maybe.

25. Win the lottery.
I’ve already achieved two, so we are off to a good start. Let’s see how I do…

All the effort has been worth it. Maybe. I have had to put in some crazy hours the past couple weeks and it has pretty much interfered with all other aspects of day to day. More to come on holidays past, hedonism experienced, and moribund tales. Also I booted Taco Bell on a cop car!

Stick with me baby, I’m the fella you came in with.

Last year a lot of things fell into place, the chief of them that a place of my own was gotten. It was Christmas Eve and due to several parties, The Lonesome Jester was deeply inebriated. Roy was en route to pick me up for a jaunt to Coventry. How does one kill time waiting for further merriment? Rock Band 2 with one man performance of vocals and guitar. Skills like you would not believe. Somewhere in the midst of this majesty, my phone alerted me to the fact that K-Dawg was seeking communication. Few things are as interesting to a drunk than when people call them. We dispensed with the basic pleasantries and she came to the point of her call. First official Christmas Eve away from the family. This fact had actually completely evaded me, due to my lack of attention to the season and trying to break Dudley Moore’s record. I had always been there for all of the fam’s Yuletide festivities from dusk, dawn, and eventide. She wanted to know if I wanted to come to dinner followed by the traditional evening church service. At the time, honesty seemed like the best policy.

“Mom, I am in no condition to drive anywhere.”

After clarifying that yes, this was not sickness but superfluous alcohol use, I was treated to what can only be described as the sound of the soul dying a little. K-Dawg kept her composure wishing me well. She stated that the important thing would be my presence the following day. The distance of mutual understanding has only increased. Each party so out of touch with the other, their principle commonality is that of genetic make up. A lonely buoy in the choppy sea of parent/child relationship.

In the meantime, here’s a little something to while the time away. A couple weekends ago, I was coming out of the Boneyard and observed a small gaggle of folks between the rows of cars. My inner good citizen said that the situation should be investigated so as to ascertain if they were performing malicious actions on patrons’ vehicles. My inner drunk also assured me that I could totally stomp the shit out of them if necessary, and maybe invent the iPatch (An MP3 player for pirates). Utilizing my ninja stealth skills, I managed to get within striking distance when an oddity struck me. Nearly all members of this assembly had cellphone cameras out, aimed, and snapping away. Asking the nearest individual as to the nature of the dilly, they directed me to the spectacle of a burly biker type dude leaning against a jalopy of a Harley, being orally serviced by an enthusiastic lass. His moans were deep, guttural, with no accompanying words. She was a text book chicken neck. Neither had any restraint in their actions. Even if they could see us, it was doubtful shame would enter the equation.

Getting some good snapshots would be ideal for some Monday morning water cooler banter. Cellphone had been off due to a withering battery. Frak! Start damn you start! Suddenly Dirty Ratchet’s cries altered their pitch. Gagging issued forth from his grizzly looking bearded mug. The Verizon logo flashed across the touchscreen of  my phone. No, no, no, no, no. It was too late. Whatever manner of ditch beer he had been slugging down was going Linda Blair all over the back of his parking lot princess. DR’s vomit made a kind of slapping sound as it hit her leather jacket. Like congealed soup dropped from the roof onto a trampoline. That stuff must have had a bit of velocity to pull such a feat off. Her screams managed to mask our group’s boisterous laughter. We exchanged high fives, as Dirty Ratchet attempted to regain himself and took a spirited beating from Miss Vomitous.

This was what it was all about. Being able to look behind yourself in line and see people even farther back, worse off than you are.

A couple weeks ago, some friends and myself went to a bar type bar to take in the Cavs game and get sloppy. I arrived a bit late due to a lengthy phone conversation with my mother K-Dawg, about the horrible turns she believed my career/life were taking.  Coming in, the group quickly waved me over and a cold Great Lakes Christmas Ale was placed in my hand. Not too bad of a start. My recently married buddy Roy was there, along with Kuz-nax and some others. Among the assembled ladies were Roy’s wife, someone’s girlfriend, and much to my dismay, Miss Facebook Fuckaround. You won’t believe it, but that was her greeting to me. Literally, “There’s my Facebook friend!”. This can’t be made up. She dug right in with letting me know that she loved my status updates and that they were so hilarious and did they really happen and she shows her friends them because she thinks I am so very, very funny. I know. Part of the title of this damn blog is “Jester”, alluding to the fact that the author at least believes that he is humorous. These situations are detestable, but they are well endured and not a slip of internal repugnance is displayed.

Finally, the match started as the patrons all rose to cheer our Cleveland Cavaliers. Sports generally bore me. My only exception is football. There are tactical elements at work that can change the course of a game instantly. Every player has an individual task, but can alter their job in a subtle fashion for the advantage of their team. Plus, Sunday gatherings of gridiron homage are accompanied with fine food, drink, and social interaction with comrades. However, a majority of folks tend to love basketball and going with them to some watering hole at least gets me out of the house. It’s either activities mildly detested or putting a dent in my Netflix Instant Queue. Christmas Ale was pretty good this year and the establishment’s chow was not too rough on the palate. Slowly it all began to slip away from me. Amongst the men, I became the guy on the end seat at the movie theater. You know, the one that gets left out of various discussions? Not that they can be blamed really. The Lonesome Jester knows little about basketball, except that Lebron James is the best maybe. Our ladies were on the topic of work with a side of female type stuff. All that one could do in such a predicament was to keep sucking down brews while feigning attention to giants tossing an orb.

Fatigue started to set in. Thunderdome had been especially truculent that week, which had greatly taxed my already exhausted frame. Miss Facebook Fuckaround began to inquire if I was bored. Yes, but we all know that was not said out loud. A major pet peeve of mine is when people continually ask of my state of being. She kept in on it though, proceeding to bring other feminine compatriots to her mission of “What is Wrong With The Lonesome Jester?” Fan-freaking-tastic. All this did was further aggravate me. Another beer appeared in front me and vanished in moments. Great Lakes is not of the chugging type. It is fairly high octane and will knock your socks off when consumed with abandon. Optimum pre-hydration had not been performed, as I had been over eager to get to the bar. Constant queries into “what was wrong” were pushing me towards an even darker mood….also greater want of bed and slumber. Eager she-bears fervently ripping at my honey pot head for the sweet gelatinous thought goo inside.

Unbeknownst to me, the gentlemen had either caught vibes of what was transpiring or perhaps Roy’s wife said something to him. They then brought over two Miller Lite Advertisement girls saying that it was my birthday in the hopes of free stuff and convincing one of these dolled up suds hussies to get with me. I reached for a game face that had apparently been misplaced six glasses ago. “You don’t look very happy birthday boy. What’s wrong?” The flicked match lands atop the fuel and fertilizer collection. “I was just diagnosed with terminal cancer.” To be fair, there is no good way to reply to this. Her eyes widened and she stammered, “Oh, uh, I uh, have cancer too.” Almost went from filled with bile to outright laughter. She and her partner exited without word. The group wrote it off as one of my bleaker examples of humor.

After the Cavs victory, a band took the stage. Surprise, surprise they were going to be covering chart toppers of the eighties? Oh huzzah…….

Most frequenters of this blog are aware of my stance on ensembles of this genre. At this point it was done. My companions had left me for the dance floor. The kooky single aka Chandler Bing was not currently to their taste. Not their fault; he was being a miserable shit. After quite some time, he was waking up to the resounding notion that this was not where he belonged. These people, kind as they were, were not his. Our interests did not intersect on most points. Finding a new social circle is difficult at this juncture. Easy access to a wide pedigree of people is about four years behind me. What can one do? Just tag along and provide witty commentary on the proceedings. Take the ephemeral rapture that comes with extracting their mirth. Drink deeply and maybe it will seem as though the merriment is shared, not directed at its source.

Button may as well have been brought forth from the heavens by a divine host as golden rays shone forth from her cherubim features. Yeah, she is that precious. Wrap that up with a penchant for smiling and cooing when acknowledged by baby loving females, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t been classified as a Weapon of Mass Attraction by the DOD. In droves, they came unto me. Blond, brunette, ginger, some Asian ethnicity that was maybe Korean…all the flavors. Her baby toothed grin tugged them by the fallopian tubes. “Awwwww! What a beautiful baby!” I know. “Is she saying words yet?” Possibly. “She needs to be in commercials. Her expressions are just perfect!” We’re looking for the right agent.

Rounding the corner to the the global foods section for some matzo ball mix, a vision of comeliness came forth. Flowing dark locks, ivory pale skin, eyes green like mint ice cream, and most importantly; a Screeching Weasel t-shirt. Punk rock women are not known for their steadfast maternal instincts. The odds were about fifty fifty for a positive reaction to “The Suckling Babe Stimulus” (I just thought that up). Acting as though hunting for a certain variety of pasta, I deliberately put Button within reach of the shelf. Quick as a barracuda, eager hands darted out for the colorful objects before her. A few packages fell to the ground as delighted shrieks filled the air. Lovingly scolding her, I bent down to retrieve the items when two slender bracelet-laden arms joined my labor. Our eyes met. Her rubious lips formed a smile that would drive any man to carve “Gimme Junk” on their chest with a spork. We dispensed with some basic pleasantries, followed by some charming attempts by her to converse with Button. Then came the tricky part.

Cute Punk Girl: “So are you guys out doing some shopping for mommy?”

The Lonesome Jester: “Just for us actually.”

Cute Punk Girl: (mildly embarrassed) “Oh, I’m sorry you and her are-”

The Lonesome Jester: “She died in a chemical fire.”

I know what you’re thinking. From zero to baby mama going up in a blaze. Maybe what I did was wrong. Maybe I’m going to end up going to hell for using my goddaughter as a tool of deceit with the fairer sex. Maybe………………but if I do go to hell, I’m going with her phone number. Which I got on the burnt carcass of my imaginary dead spouse! Button is over a year now and is a very adept walker/runner. I’m thinking some petting zoos may be in order for the coming spring.