Suicide Monday and the meaning of life

Gloomy Monday. February Monday. Terminal Monday! 

Funny, haven't had a real job in just less than thirteen years, but still get the Pavlov's dog response-like Monday depression to this day. It's from twenty plus years of working for the man I think, that, coupled with a hard partying lifestyle. Nearly every Monday back then I'd report to work dragging ass and hungover. In pain and bummed, knowing I was getting nowhere, except to my next paycheck that would be ruefully inadequate for anything but barely paying the bills and financing the next party. Spinning my wheels. Every seventh day---Suicide Monday.

Wrote a song once back then that goes like this in part-- 

Paying the bills

don't give me no thrills

spinning my wheels

can't get over that hill

It was called ironically, "Ain't waiting to die" and the chorus was . . .

ain't waitin' to die

just tryin' to get by

ain't waitin' to die

gonna reach for the sky

ain't . . . .

The happy conclusion was that we all, me and my bandmates, escaped this life of drudgery, quit our day jobs, and moved to Austin or L.A., Chicago or New Orleans to start our new careers as rockers. My friend Chris wrote this part . . . 

Sellin' my car

pickin' up my guitar

gonna play in the bars

gonna be big stars (because)

We ain't waitin to die (etc.)

Not waiting to die. Making a point of living, really living while we are still here sucking air. Like (hopefully) everyone else, we were seeking the meaning of life. Surely there was some reason, some purpose, something besides trading our time for rectangular pieces of green paper that we then gave someone else for food and shelter, cars and gas, booze and drugs.

Work, spend, do it again, forever. Wage slaves, working for what? A retirement that you save up for all your life just to reach that great day when you can quit slaving, only to have a heart attack or get hit by a truck? And then, even if you survive, you're old and raisin-like, a walking wrinkle with a limp dick! This was pre-viagra mind you.

In five years time I get two weeks paid vacation? Wow! Only five? Thank you sir, would you like your hand job now or later? 

Chris worked at a box factory doing maintenance. Worked on the machines that made the cardboard, and ones that folded and glued the board into . . . fucking brown boxes. Evening shift. Forty hours plus. Chris was the first to quit his job. He had headaches that he thought were caused by the box dust and the noise there, and besides, how could one dedicate a life to music, poetry and art--to the beautiful things of life, the mysterious elusive whatevers . . . that might make one happy and fulfilled, while occupied full time with the depressing pursuit of "the man's" money? 

Well, life ain't fair is it. Chris's headaches were caused not by box dust and noise, but by the pressure in his brain from a tumor, a big one, and yes, stage four malignant. (Maybe the dust did cause the tumor--afterthought here) He was able to retrieve his health insurance from the box joint through "Cobra" so had the very best health care. Came home from the first surgery, head half shaved, horseshoe shaped scar sealed up with industrial sized staples, and two black eyes. When I saw him it was all I could do to hold back tears and I had not even close to a clue as what to say, but I didn't have to because he did, to me, and he was smiling even.

"Hey man, the news isn't good but I'm not going to cry over it. They can scoop it out at least a couple more times. Whatever I have left is going to be done right."

And so it was, for the most part at least. He made it much longer than the doctors said he had and we rocked often. And he didn't complain or whine. And that was an inspiration to me, and is to this day.

It was on a Monday, in February, twenty years or so ago, that Chris passed after 31 years of, of . . . whatever it is we do here.

For lack of a better word, life.

And so here it is Monday, again, snow on the ground and another foot to come tonight. The sky is littered with dead nuns and bludgeoned baby seals. Totally depressing! But out my window from here where I type, I've been watching a little finch gathering up twigs for a nest, because he or she knows spring is coming, not even phased over today being another sickening Monday.

Views: 528

Comment by Arthur James on February 25, 2013 at 2:34pm



Be Alive.

No shoot.

` In war we'd wonder why?

Why VC (venture capitalist),

shoot with AK- 47 to kills?


Why GI get shot and not ate?

A "foe" shoot GI but no fry?

No. He come Home to dark.


War's Wounded burn within.

They body feels as if on fire.

We Be Sizzling in Pot Skillet.


I am saying . . Remain alive.

No hold breath all day Here.

Editor no do Haul to grave.


Be a Elder Cranky Centenarian.

If You in Woman's Bed-Sack?

Cover Mom Photo with Burlap.

Mummy no do see You tickles?

Pop no wish to hear No Burps. 

Comment by Out-on-a-limb on February 25, 2013 at 2:46pm

After going into retirement I suddenly realized the best day of the week was Sunday!  The reason being... Monday had no longer any power over me.

I could stay up late, and have another glass of wine without thinking about having to go to work in the morning.

Now Mondays are simply another day of the week.

Comment by JMac1949 Memories on February 25, 2013 at 3:20pm

Me too... Monday is the worst.  R&L

Comment by James Mark Emmerling on February 25, 2013 at 4:25pm

yo we be still alive and admiring of tits yo

Comment by James Mark Emmerling on February 25, 2013 at 4:25pm

oh and boots too

Comment by Jaime Franchi on February 25, 2013 at 6:53pm

Would it be so lame to quote "I don't like Mondays - I want to shoot the whole day down"? Well, whatever. You guys now know what's in my iPod. This, awesome. As are you.  Food for thought, perspective, and all that . 

Comment by Kelley on February 25, 2013 at 7:37pm

Such good writing here, tr ig.

Comment by tr ig on February 25, 2013 at 7:54pm

Mondays suck right :- I changed the end a little. Thank you for reading

Comment by Jenny on February 25, 2013 at 8:43pm

Awesome writing baby. Mondays used to suck but I got over that pretty quick after I left my last job. I rather like Mondays now.  

Comment by Din Mutha on February 26, 2013 at 12:29am

My daughter quite often wants to "punch Monday in the face." It is depressing. Sometimes it's just too damned hard to get up and go on Mondays. But somehow, you've managed to write something absolutely beautiful. Thank you for sharing.

To cheer you up, here's this little video. Even on Mondays you can be glad for something: At least you didn't write this trash.Remember: This is an autobiography. 


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