Two Handfulls of Nothing

MICHAEL died on me.

He dried up, as if such a thing was possible. It just fell to 1 Mbps and then no more. I kept massaging the signal, over and over and over again and like some stroke victim, would not be revived. I slapped on NETSTUMBLER then, and it scanned the room. Eight signals came up, bouncing around like vigorous invisible balls of differing sizes. All weak signals...except for one, NETWORK1 which had the same signal strength as MICHAEL, weak. I latched onto it and, although slower than MICHAEL in the beginning, it still kicked up some Internet.

Some is better than none. Which was where MICHAEL was going. The sun fell behind the flat Earth and I headed to bed. The bed in the guest room, or my father's room, whichever way you want to look at it, because the old man usually falls asleep in his Situation Room, on the couch, is fucking huge. It must be a king size bed, although I've never really understood bed sizes, the fucking thing is huge. I remember when my ex wife and I used to sleep in it. It was big then. It's bigger now. Like pants too wide, it gapes open. I crawl in and read. I go through pages of The Wig by Charles Wright until I'm too tired to go on.

I sleep and dream about flying. I am capable of leaping and soaring into the clouds. It's a great dream because all I can feel is a sense of freedom, even long after my eyes open. That's how I wake up this morning, my eyes just open. I look around to take in my surroundings and then sit up. I'm up in the morning, in Ahoskie. I plod around the house while my parents sleep, going to the dining room and copping a squat behind my beloved baby, my laptop. Time now: 5:00am

I try to get on the Internet again, but MICHAEL AND NETWORK1 ain't shit. They can't do a fucking thing but drag about. I rise and finally give up using the few tools that I have at my disposal. I'm weary of scrubbing signals. I'm tired of fighting with the unseen. Then I retire for breakfast and more fat jokes. This time from my mom, along with yellow teeth jokes. I go ahead and brush my teeth, just to get some traction from the barbs. Shortly I go to the kitchen and try to get back online but to no avail. I remember that I'm sitting very close to the microwave. Could that fucker be leaking radiation, fucking with the WIFI signal? Shit, I'm worried about a WIFI signal, what the fuck could it be doing to me? Relax Hobobob, it's the capacitor that causes the alternate waveform in the room, or something like that. Not the radiation. And if it was, it would be too little to be of a bother. But I moved anyway.

I settled in the living room, where I began and set up my baby there. Still no change in signal reception. I'm pissed. Like a fisherman, I recline across the living room couch and wait untiil I dozed off. I dream of riding the 7 train from Grand Central, of David Bowie doing extreme mountain climbing, and myself as an international art dealer, trying to move an expensive painting for wads and wads of money. Why? I don't fauking know. My mother rubs my forehead, waking me. But I drift back to sleep. She wakes me again. It's time for lunch, which to them is first dinner. It's a full meal of steak and potatoes and rice and gravy. If they want to continue with the fat jokes, they certainly can now, because I'm eating that fucking steak up. My parents each make saucer sized plates, which cause me to stop and look. WTF? That's what they do, often but small. Often but small.

I look at my huge plate, but I fill that mother- fucker up anyway. I'm on vacation goddamnit. I'm eating this steak. We sit, and I chow down. It's been a long time since I had my mother's cooking, I'm not about to skimp now. But god! does she cook unhealthy. The steak and gravy are sopped in grease, the potatoes are salted. The bacon and sausage from this morning are heavy with pork grease and salt. Eating like this every day will SURELY KILL YOU. No wonder that they contend themselves with small portions.

Not me. I don't eat like this often. I'm cruising by on my small hands. There's no way that I can cook this good. No....that's a lie. I did great when I had my George Foreman Grill. But nothing beats my mother's cooking. Not even George.

I retire back to the living room and blog until I get tired and go back to sleep again, watching for these two faggot signals, MICHAEL and NETWORK1 to come back up. I don't get a chance to nap. I rise to see MICHAEL connected. Whoopee! I'm back on, blogging and snatching up email.

But now there was the reverse countdown. The torturous ride back to New York. Just think of all the fun that will be. The thought of the next twelve hours is making me wish I could stay here in Ahoskie. Almost.

Like I said, I love being with my parents, but sometimes, I just want to be 'home'.

Hobobob