Keeping up with Jones

My life’s had more drama then a country song the last few weeks. My car broke down for the ump-teenth time (we’re up to around two grand since the beginning of the year), Jenn’s grumpy because she can’t ever get comfortable (“you don’t know how hard it is having a baby…” Oy.), work has vacillated between eighty hour weeks and “what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here”, my freelance clients are dragging their feet so bad I don’t think I’ll ever get paid, and last, but certainly worst, my dog died.

Generally speaking, I really hate feeling sorry for myself. What’s worse is when I start seeing that I’m feeling sorry for myself and start resenting myself for it, compounding the problem. I know this. I see it clear as glass, yet still think, “you’re so fucking pathetic. It’s so obvious what you’re doing and you’re doing it anyway.”

See the pointless little loop? Yeah… me too. God, I’m so fucking pathetic…

Anyway, this weekend I remembered a funny little story that centered around the Poco-nator getting his own bumper sticker, so I thought I would share.

A decade and some change ago, I was working as a software trainer for CompUSeless. My roommate and best friend at the time, Jeremy (who also worked there as a sales associate) and I were standing around after one of my classes, waiting for quiting time when the “ever quotable” Mike Jones walked up.

Now, Mike needs a bit of an introduction, because he was one of those guys you either loved, or hated. I tended to find him really funny, which, statistically speaking, meant Jeremy found him less so. Much, much less so.

He would go on bizarre rants that went nowhere, but were fun to listen too. He was also oddly confrontational at completely inappropriate times. This all seemed a bit surreal coming from a guy that was 6’3 and maybe a buck sixty.

Mike: “You! Squatcheye! Tell me what your dog is doing this very second.”

Me: “Truth be told, I hadn’t even considered it.”

Mike: “You mean you don’t think about what Poco is doing during the day? What sort of pet owner are you? I should leg drop you.”

Jeremy: “Mike, what concerns me is that YOU think about what his dog does during the day.”

Mike: “Well clearly somebody has too. We need to hook up some sort of Poco-cam. Squatch, get on that. I’ll supervise. Don’t speak—just do.”

Jeremy: “Nobody is putting a camera in our apartment.”

Mike: “Alright, then YOU tell me what Poco is doing right now.”

Jeremy: “Knowing Poco? Probably doing the eyeball dance or humping his elephant.”

Me: “He did make that little stuffed elephant his bitch.”

Mike: “Double damn right he did. And I think we could all learn a little something from our boy Poco. W.W.P.D.”

Me: “W.W.P.D.?”

Mike: “What Would Poco Do. Words to live by. You see, Jeremy said something very true. Perhaps the truest thing he’s ever said. Poco would be humpin’ (dramatic pause) or dancin’. And that, my friend, is the key to the universe.”

Me: “The key to the universe is humpin’ or dancin’?”

Mike: The key to the universe is in what Poco would do at any given time. Some people need growled at. Others, humped. Sometimes you need to just take a moment and make fucked up noises at the back door for no particular reason. W.W.P.D. Learn it. Live it.”

A few days later Mike Jones had made up W.W.P.D. bumper stickers with “now with PocoCam” in small print.

Good times… good times indeed.