My God And I

Words and Music by I.B. Sergei

The Worst Job

While oil field electrician is the most lucrative job I've had it comes at a price. I love being outdoors but when it is 9 degrees then I usually don't rush outside to work on a transmission or repair an old cassette deck under a tarp...and when it's 115 degrees my first thought in the morning is not to move hundreds of feet of 4'' rigid conduit into a trench. But that's the job and it will never change. The strong survive and the weak get desk jobs or select window trim colors for the elite snobs in usurped seaside mansions. And the Battle Harbor naturalist gig was the best job but only paid in meals and a bed. So, I pondered, what was the worst job ever? It wasn't hand digging a trench in Santa Monica for a CVS parking lot drainage pipe and then finding a $75 parking ticket on my car that was double my daily pay. No, that's standard Los Angeles bullshit. And it wasn't driving to a Kmart in Compton to assemble shitty Chinese bicycles in a dusty attic while my van gets broken into. I actually like bicycles so even though I refused to even turn in paper work for that day, basically working for free to give my possessions to the thieves of Compton, that wasn't the worst. It wasn't even the inventory job I had at the Ford Dealership because I learned the coding key for all the parts on my van. And while tearing covers off of classic novels and pornography scheduled for destruction by shredding was not challenging, I did take many copies of Barely Legal magazine home for personal investigation and intellectual refinement. No, the worst job, the most depressing job that made me grimace with agony and self loathing every time I clocked in was at Artisan Outlet shipping warehouse.

Comanche Country

The Davis Mountains

Mr. Adams probably didn't use a 10 year old $100 Kodak for this shot in Big Bend

The Good thing about the west is that no photograph will  prepare you for the grandeur. Sure, a few Ansel Adams black and white postcards come close but in general you will see things for the first time.

A keen eye will see the violent history of this land

Getting on the trail in my hippie pants with not enough water, flirting with the brunette state park ranger, getting lost, learning about a new bird...these are things that I miss. Although I'm dedicated to the destruction of the earth's ecological balance, a part of me still pines for the wide open spaces of a rocky trail and a can of beans at night under the stars. I never needed money but the goddamn police hounded me all day long in Corpus that they basically forced me to seek shelter in a junk yard...and now I'm an industrial electrician with money to burn! Texas made a man out of the most irresponsible 40 year old child in America and I'm bitter about it. I'm resentful. The whole point was to become a professional jazz guitarist. You can go back to the early days of this blog to witness the sheer insanity of my default lifestyle...the willful disregard of gainful employment, writing protest songs, drinking medicinally evaluated soda pop, jamming with fellow gypsies on the sidewalk, throwing my life away on a dream. I actually sold everything I owned to move into a van parked on the street so I could play guitar on the Venice Beach boardwalk...where I didn't make a dime...but I didn't need a dime because I was recovering from ass surgery and couldn't eat. Those were the good old days and now I'm too broken to live like that again. The best I can do is drag ass through enough years in the oil field that I can get my escorted funeral when I die.

Just because it's black and white doesn't make it good.

Drawing

Milk Cow said that Bobby is chasing chickens in heaven now. I've been told that anyone can draw but I have my doubts sometimes. The real problem is knowing what to draw but Bobby's last moment is what I would draw if I could. To capture the story behind the story is something I can do with words but if you can do it with a single picture then you've done something.

Those are chicken shaped clouds that only Bobby can see.

"Goodbye, Bobby."

Milk Cow Has Some Stories

The dog (Bobby) living at Milk Cow's apartment had a rough life and a quick exit. In his own words, this is Milk Cow's description...

"Had to take care of Bobby myself, neither F. nor R.would spend 37 dollars to have him put to sleep..i had to deal with it ..his back was broke his legs spread apart he had to drag himself..he wouldn't eat i couldnt see him suffer and freeze..i got him some milk and talked to him and when he turned away i hit him with shovel..died instantly.."

I want to make this a country song but I'm a coward and a rat and a hypocrite. I'm sure Milk Cow would let you have the lyrics.

I told Milk Cow that I'd do the same for him and he said he would hide the shovels next time I saw him. And you can put that in the song too.