My mother collects everything - she's a hoarder. She mostly lives in an RV
trailer behind their house - "house" - more like a landfill. This weekend I
was up there because the trailer's tire block sank in the mud (their land is
all mud) - the trailer rolled down into a swamp. She was pinned under a
stack of "House Beautiful" boxes and almost drown and had to go to the
hospital to get broken Precious Moments taken out of her face.

So that gives you some idea of why I like the suburbs. They're clean and
orderly. That's why I hate to see them being over-run by types of people who
don't know how to be clean, like many types of foreigners. Yesterday while
eating lunch at Shenanigans I read in the Union-Bugler that someone in Maple
Grove (Maple Grove!) wants to have chickens running around in their back
yard. That's what's wrong with America today. I think there's too much
freedom. If you wanna live in a dump, swamp, shitty landfill chickenshit
house, go live up where my parents live - everthing's shit up there - you'll
love it.

If you want to live someplace nice though, where everyone always reseeds,
aerates, fertilizes, and mows (mowing isn't all there is to it) - and where
there's lanes just for turning - and sprinklers always going - move to Maple
Grove.

BUT. If you choose to live in Maple Grove, so help me God if you think you
get to raise chickens. If you live in Maple Grove, your chicken is: a
finger, and it's breaded, and it's for DIPPING. AND THAT'S THE WAY IT IS!
Freedom only extends so far - it doesn't extend to wrecking all that we
cherish.

Rob and I did an auction this weekend. Buncha junk. Why do people care? They
think they're special. They're not - when you auction off people's stuff,
you see everybody's exactly as uninteresting. Tools, Precious Moments,
books. Over and over again.

Nobody's special. They drive identical cars, have identical kids and houses
and dogs and girlfriends. Everybody goes out to supper on Friday, oil change
on Saturday, mall, drinks, dinner, Netflix, Football, TV - the horrible
Sunday bedroom. I could never live like that, although half the time I do.
But not for long. Not Trevor Grainger. Unlike other people I know, I don't
wanna live in a box.

I want to do things like never collect anything. I want to write great crime
stories and make millions. I want to be my own boss. I want to travel the US
in road-trip form whenever I feel like it. But if I don't do something
unique and interesting, I've got a back-up plan: make manager at Detrerica
Fencing and Asphalt by next year. Either way I come out on top.

Rob just called to see if I wanna hit the T-GIF (his name for Fridays). No.

His "fiance" Amber Croft is driving him so crazy she's even driving me
crazy. She's psycho-menstruating (remember the Exorcist?) and she's on Paxil
because of a so-called "show" at the lame Candle and Incense store where she
"works" on the weekends. Paxil makes Amber talk and eat like Oprah (Huge
Oprah), which she actually watches. For example, I think I've heard the
words "journey" "respect" "empowerment" "growth" "be" "centeredness" and
"love" 200 times this week. I try to listen as little as possible. I can't
wait 'til her baby talk about being a singer is over - I definitely think
this show she's doing is gonna be a huge failure. As if playing a "show" at
the Tamarack Mall isn't a failure already.

Another thing the Paxil brings out in Amber Croft is marriage talk. I used
to go out with Amber (I introduced her and Rob at TGI Barday's - then they
got together. Maybe it's strange that I didn't even care, but I hate Amber
Croft). But I get a kick out of Rob - I don't know how he can put up with
her. Maybe by always being HIGH! (Hi-fives Rob!)

Marriage. WHO CARES. I write horror stories sometimes in my free time (I'm
working on one right now, about a key-smith who makes copies of people's key
and comes into their house and kills them and purees them and spreads them
on their own lawns disguised as lawn fertilizer). So they're little stories
about people who figure out how to kill people and get away with it. I like
that - it's a little bit of creativity in life's monotony. But Amber's
creativity is her wedding. I guess that's how unimaginative people express
themself. They don't express their true self. They just express some Unicorn
fantasy wedding some gay person came up with and probably never thought
anyone would be ridiculous enough to actually buy. Except Amber Croft.

But Rob and Amber are happy together. So are Britt and I. I like Britt.
She's really into letting me do my own thing, let's me work late whenever I
want to, doesn't harangue me about having kids, likes NFL, TV. Whatever. Hey
Rob - for your sake - I'll be glad when the "Flop at the Candle Shop" is
over! Then we can go back to just having you talk about the Red Hot Chili
Poppers all day, every day! (Hi-fives!)

eBay ain't what it used to be. I was up at St. Cloud State in the 90's. I
started a side-business called Go Time Liquidators. Basically I found
products at sales and estate sales and resold them online. M'buddy Rob
joined the business a few years ago. Since then it's been goin' downhill.

Rob isn't the problem - he's cool. The problem is there isn't anything in
the world good left to sell. Everything used to be made in America. Then
they started makin' everything in China and Mexico, with slaves. Back then,
at least the American stuff was still around. Twenty years later, those
items have gone through. Now everything in America's some cheap crap made
over in Hoy Doy Soy Yoy and sold at Big Lots.

It's got so bad Rob and I started goin' to FUNERALS - if the people were old
enough, they have products made in America. It's pretty sick, goin' to
funerals to find American products to sell on eBay. But that's what it's
come to in America in the year 2005. Crap.

There aren't many things I enjoy any more: closing a big fencing or asphalt
deal, getting closer to the (approximately) $329,000 I'll need for a house
(with an entertainment nook) over in Whispering Pines Babbling Brook Spanish
Steppes. Golf. Stephen King. He's the master. In "Salem's Lot" everybody's
so corrupt, you don't know if you're for the living or the undead. I've read
it 20 times. It's a lot like things today.

Rob and I worked a huge trove this weekend - some guy liked to collect
vintage lures and BBs (Beanies). Did good with the lures.

Unfortunately, Britt felt this would be a good weekend not to make a bunch
of money selling someone's lures on eBay. She felt this would be a good
weekend to go through her wedding books more. Well, I can't control when
people die (though that would be great - hmm), so I had to sell lures not
look through Remarkable Bride. She said I broke a promise. No, my promise
isn't the books, it's to make the money we need to pay for her dream wedding
and still be able to get to Whispering Pines Babbling Brook Spanish Steppes.

When did things start falling apart? Today I was on a call in Plymouth.
PLYMOUTH. That's a town that used to be synonymous with the suburbs. I could
not breathe in this donghole Townhome because of the smell of the "food."
Found out what the smell was. IT WAS GOAT. I was offered GOAT in PLYMOUTH.
WRONG. 

By the way, I didn't eat GOAT MEAT. I wanted real food for supper. I called
Rob and we went to Shenanigans.

My fiance Britt decided it was more important to ruin our night last night
than to watch "Dante's Peak" - due back tomorrow. Why? To figure out wedding
favors for a wedding that's at least a year off. She doesn't even know what
season the thing'll happen - which is big in the catalogs. So no seasonal
theme she says - she wants to pay $3.95 times probably 300 for something
called Crystal Cinderella Pumpkin Coach Favor, because she likes crystals
and "their positive energy." Positive energy for me'll be no goddam
tornadoes.

If you care about something, hm. Don't try to make other people care about
it though. I think a lot about this between calls. Don't try to make other
people turn into you. It won't work. Just like it didn't work last night.
Britt, I said I had to get to Blockbuster, but I really went to Fridays, by
myself.

Today I had my supper at Bennigans in Plymouth. I don't mind eating alone in
a restaurant if I have something to read - otherwise it looks strange. I
don't know where to look. And sometimes some clueless jag-ass sits facing
you at the next table. Anyway, today I left my sales binder in my cube -
which is unusual for me, but I had an unusual morning because of a bill that
was incorrectly deemed to be overdue by some under-serviced computer server
somewhere in the land of Hali-Bali. (Whatever happened to doing business in
America?). Long story short, today I had to read the driver's manual to my
1998 Jeep Cherokee while I ate my Turkey O'Toole.

Happy Rob?

I consider blogging to be a complete waste of time.