I don’t do a whole lot here. Everybody I know is gone or actively employed. My parents even cut back on my drinking, which they can do because it’s their hooch I’m ganking. They got terrified at how piqued and sissy I had become in Japan and sent me to a personal trainer that kicked my ass to next week. I have no job, no apartment, and no car. Today, my parents both went off to their fancy-pants jobs in their fancy-pants cars and left me home alone without any food. I ate bread all day. Yes, this truly is a magical time in my life.

Last week the Taste of Colorado was held in downtown Denver. It’s a festival of Colorado food and drink, or so I thought. Since the one friend I have here was off deep-sea fishing in Mexico, I went alone. Shut up.

As advertised, the Taste of Colorado is supposed to offer tastes of Colorado. I was expecting Colorado specialties and small Colorado start up restaurants and businesses, etc. etc.

Well let me tell you, apparently the best Colorado has to offer is an assortment of greasy turkey legs, some corn on the cob, and Panda Express. Oh, and a lot of fat kids eating funnel cake, large women in tube tops, and large men in mesh shirts (or no shirts at all). Also, a lot of tattoos. I had no idea so many people in Denver had tattoos. Trust me on this, the last thing some of these people should have done was to tattoo up certain flappy parts of their bodies with thorns and roses. It only made things worse.

Now I did taste a lot of one particular Colorado product: Coors. A lot of Coors. I was on about my 45^th ounce when I realized that the Taste of Colorado is really just a glorified carnival. Apparently, Colorado has quite a few “local businesses” that specialize in the selling of knock off Coach bags and fake Rolexes. I expected that shit in Thailand, but I didn’t think these people could just set up shop in a festival sponsored by the State.

Also, did you know that after Dale Earnhardt died and the transport truck was taking his car back home through North Carolina on the Interstate, not one car would pass his caravan? Every car taxied behind the transport truck for miles, out of respect. It’s ok, I didn’t know this either, that is, until I saw the whole story written out in one of hundreds of Dale Earnhardt memorial plaques. They were right next to the many life-like charcoal drawings of Tupac Shakur and Princess Diana. Real high quality stuff here.

And let me tell you what a strange juxtaposition it is to see a lobster-baked fat man with one of those absolutely asinine Bluetooth headsets in his ear. Who the hell could he possibly be talking to so often that it requires that damn thing to be in his ear at all times? Who? Only one man on earth should be allowed to have that stupid Bluetooth thing, and that's the President of the United States. Not even Jonny Hotshot Account Executive is talking to people all day long. I think those fucking Bluetooth headsets are a prime example of how American society is going to hell, but that’s a whole other story.

Four or so large beers later I decided it was time I left.

Needless to say, I had a damn fine time. And if the Coors Booth is back next year, well then I will be too.

Hey everyone! No, I am not dead! Although my soul feels like it is dead, because I am searching for a job right now. Searching for a job is right up there on par with a double procedure root canal/colonoscopy in terms of level of comfort. Its a whole lot less cleansing too.

The thing to remember when looking for a job is this: Nobody cares about you. And why should they? They’ve got their own problems. They have a job. As a matter of fact, talking to me is keeping them from doing their job. Having to take time out of their day to talk to some punk who just got back from dicking around overseas for a year and garnering absolutely no marketable skills while doing so, well that annoys them. It might even piss them right off. I hear it in their voices when I ask to meet them over the phone. I see it in their eyes whenever I do manage to get a meeting.

It’s a certain look that they all have when they meet me. It’s a look that says: Who the hell are you, Japan Boy, to take up my time? I’m only doing this as a favor to my boss, whom you managed to weasel yourself into favor with somehow. Look how good looking you are in your fancy-pants suit. You might even take my job away from me you’re so good looking. That’s it, now I hate you. At first you just annoyed me, but now I hate you.

And then there’s the whole Internet Job Search scene, the monster.com stuff, and the craigslist.com stuff, what a waste of time that is, am I right? If I went outside, blindfolded, on a random night in suburban Denver and started swinging a bat, I would have a better chance of hitting a porn-filled piñata than I would of catching a lead with these internet sites. They don’t even look at your resume; they just feed it through some keyword search program. Sometimes this technology generation shit really sucks.

Did you know you aren’t supposed to cross your legs during an interview? I bet you didn’t, but I did. Do you know why? Because I’ve read Knock ‘em Dead Interviewing. And boy would that little tidbit come in handy IF I EVER GOT A FUCKING INTERVIEW. Oh, I know all the tricky questions and the best ways to answer them; I got it all down pat except for the whole “getting an interview” thing. That, I need to work on.

But I tell you what: one year of no marketable skills looks a hell of a lot better than three years of no marketable skills. That’s right, Toyama. I’m talking to you. You remember what home looks like? Do you remember your families? Probably not. Soon you’re going to forget your last names, and then your nationalities. And stop drinking so goddamn much. Hippies.

I miss you all.