Man, I'm beat.

WALMART RADIO

Walmart has their own radio station.

I know this because I was there this morning at 7:30 a.m. buying jumper cables.

Today was supposed to be the first day in my “new life;” the day I embark upon my journalism career as an Editorial Assistant at the Stillwater Gazette. The plan was to work my current administrative job from 8:00 ‘til 11:30, then work at the Gazette from noon ‘til 5:00.

Well, you know what they say: The best mice and men plan to get laid. Or something like that.

My truck didn’t start this morning. I figured it was because I foolishly didn’t drive it or even start it for two days, even though it would have been prudent to do so given it was zero degrees the whole weekend.

Why do physics dictate that car batteries die when it’s cold outside, by the way? Why can’t they die when it gets hot? Jump-starting a vehicle in 90-degree sun I could handle. You could fucking tailgate while jump-starting a vehicle in the summer.

Anyway, my truck made a “clicking” sound when I tried to start it. If I had any mechanical inclination at all I’d have known that this indicates that the battery has juice but something else was wrong. But of course, when you’re a novice auto mechanic, the first impulse is to try jump-starting. That’s sort of like an Emergency Room doctor who insists on using the paddles first, regardless of the patient’s symptoms. Head crushed in a motorcycle accident? Paddles. Insulin shock? Paddles. Heart attack? Paddles. Hey, it worked. One out of three! Boo-yah!

So I went to Walmart, even though I hate Walmart, because I knew they’d be open at 7:30 a.m. As I trudged across the cavernous store to the automotive department and picked up the cables and then trudged back, I noticed the Walmart radio station. They played various adult contemporary and classic rock hits, interspersed with a disc jockey who was speaking directly to Walmart employees. “Hey, congratulations to Store Number 234 in Austin, Texas, celebrating 300 accident-free days today.” “Birthdays today include Betty in our West Des Moines store and Brad, Assistant Manager in Omaha.”

God.

I made it back home and attempted to tackle the first task, finding the hood release in my wife’s Mini Cooper. After several minutes of vain searching in five-below temperatures, I grabbed the owner’s manual with a gloved hand and flipped to the index. Headlights. Heater. Ignition.

Goddamit, are you kidding me? No hood latch entry? Three pages of single-spaced type explaining in detail operation of the headlights, but not even a hint as to where the hood release lies. Several more minutes of searching uncovered it in the most intuitive spot possible, by the passenger’s feet camouflaged to blend in with the plastic molding. Fucking Brits.

I popped the hood then embarked upon Task Two: finding the battery. This is no easy feat given that in a Mini Cooper, everything is mini. I looked for something the size of a 9-volt battery and eventually found it, but unfortunately it was encased in plastic. Two tabs are provided to remove the cover, but given the cold temperatures one of them promptly snapped off. As the tears welled in my eyes, an employee of my town home complex pulled up in her SUV. How ironic that just a week before I wrote a blistering anti-SUV column and now I was about to kiss the ass of an SUV owner in order to have access to a car battery that could light the White House Christmas tree, Las Vegas strip, and Florida’s infamous “Old Sparky” electric chair for good measure.

Of course, as I mentioned above the battery wasn’t the problem, but we gave it a shot anyway. The instructions for jump-starting were clearly outlined on the jumper cable packaging, but as is invariably the case in such situations, the process was dictated by committee.

“Connect it to the positive cable of the dead battery first.”

“No, start with the negative cable of the good battery.”

“I think you’re supposed to simultaneously hook up the positives of both batteries.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

“Okay. Which one is positive?”

We managed to get by without an explosion and also without success. After thanking the Good Samaritan, I contacted a local garage and tow truck company and negotiated with my wife on a commuting arrangement that would inconvenience us both equally, which as I recall was one of our wedding vows.

Now, as I type this I’m debating internally: Give in and have a good cry, or resist the temptation and just get the hell through the day as best I can? It’s not just the stress of these events but the financial implications that worry me. I took a considerable pay cut to work at the Gazette and was counting on the extra income from my administrative job to add to my already-small financial cushion. Now I’m dipping into that cushion to the tune of $300 or more.

Postscript
It’s now evening, and I’m wiped out.

I’m a bit discouraged tonight for several reasons. First, it struck me today that my truck has officially crossed the line from old reliable to piece of shit. Not that it’s wholly undependable, but it’s definitely to the point now where it will be increasingly held together with duct tape. I was counting on this vehicle to get me through college, but now I’m not convinced it will start tomorrow. That’s a sick feeling, knowing you’re going to sleep with uncertainty over whether your vehicle will start. Not that it’s the end of the world—God knows I’m the guy who regularly tries to impress upon people, Americans in particular, that problems are relative—but this morning is now officially number one on my all-time most stressful list, and if tomorrow is a repeat I don’t know if I can stand it.

Second, the new job is a mixed blessing. It’s trial by fire at the Gazette. One minute I was filling out New Employee Paperwork, next minute I was machine gunning through press releases and e-mails preparing stories for print. I literally went from being a once-a-week columnist to preparing several pieces for the next issue.

The down side is the pay. I’m making no money, and I feel awful relying on my wife. She’s willing and she makes a great living, and what’s more she realizes that this position is the best preparation I could possibly receive for a career in writing. And don’t fret, I’m not quitting or anything silly like that. It’s just that for the first time, I may have to admit to someone that I need them, not just in the googly-eyed “I need you” sense, but in the “Can you help me defray starvation?” sense.

I have a good wife. I really do. She is married to a 38-year old college sophomore who makes no money, and she loves the living daylights out of me.

This started out as an essay and wound up being a stream-of-consciousness, weariness-fueled word puke, for which I apologize. I’m truly wiped out and need to take a Xanax, turn my Sharper Image sound soother to “rain,” and read a couple chapters of “The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.” For some reason, reading about the limitless of mankind’s propensity for horrific behavior puts things into perspective just enough to help me sleep.

Could be the Xanax, too.

A couple brief thoughts before I leave you for tonight…

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT
Tonight’s episode of the best show you’re not watching may have been the funniest thing my wife and I have ever seen. We both laughed to the point of tears. It makes me sick that the best-written, best-acted show on television will soon be history, making way for another season of Stacked and According to Jim.

JOHNNY KNOXVILLE
Not familiar with the name? He’s an “actor” who appeared on MTV’s Jackass program and starred in the Dukes of Hazard movie. His new movie, The Ringer, is being heavily advertised. The Ringer appears to be about a person who pretends to be retarded in order to appear in the Special Olympics.

If I were given the choice between working my current low-paying position at the Gazette for the rest of my life or appearing in a movie like The Ringer, being paid enough for four month’s work to live comfortably for the rest of my life, I think I’d have to go with the former. Please tell me you’re not one of the people who have shelled out hard-earned money to make Johnny Knoxville a millionaire celebrity.

NEW LINK
I’ve added a link to The Crallspace. Many of you might find this a strange replacement for Not a Desperate Housewife, but I find it to be fascinating. Crall is a hard-core left-winger, but in the short time I’ve been leaving comments I’ve found the debate to be quite rational, which is missing all-too-often these days. Enjoy his site. I sure do.