illusionofjoy | How the pieces fit into the puzzle

I'm not a big fan of capitalism – not in it's pure, undiluted form, anyhow. I'm not suggesting a switch to communism, which is an equally absurd and flawed economic system undiluted, but I believe that a balance between capitalism and socialism is severely lacking in the United States. Still, this is what I have to work with for the time being, and often a head-on attack on an economic system is futile. This is why I took advantage of the voluntary overtime which was being offered where I work yesterday.

Of course, as I reflect on this choice now, I feel as if I haven't had any time to myself at all this weekend. This is pretty much true; yesterday I was awake for no less than 22 hours. I can pull this off, but I'm not a happy boy when I do.

Saturday morning began like a weekday. My alarm clock went off at 5:00AM, and I quickly killed the buzzer, leaving only the radio playing. Sadly, my local NPR station does not do five solid hours of news on weekends, so I would hear news, weather and traffic reports alternating with jazz music. Jazz has its place, and I have nothing against the genre as a whole, but I simply can't stomach it at 5:00AM.

While my primary alarm clock goes off at 5:00AM, I don't generally get out of bed until forty minutes later. I have to do this, because if I jump right out of bed and get moving, I usually end up feeling like puking for most or all of the day. So, I have to gradually rouse myself from sleeping so as to not feel worse than I already do, what with being up so early. On weekends, when I usually have the luxury of not having to be anywhere, the process of shifting myself from stationary to first – maybe second – gear can take well up to two hours.joi_division has tried to interfere with this process on certain annoying occasions, becoming privy to the consequences therein.

On weekdays (and yesterday) the process of the 40-minute wake up is accomplished with two alarm clocks and my cell-phone as a backup. There is the aforementioned main clock radio, which is plugged into the wall and begins it's caterwauling at 5:00AM. I momentarily get out of bed in order to switch the buzzer to the radio, which will shut itself off automatically after two hours. I then return to bed, where any dreams I may have become entangled with whatever is on the news that day. Needless to say, when I am old and senile, I will likely believe that Saddam Hussein was devoured by pink dragons.

I have a second alarm clock. This is a small two-inch square of white plastic only a half-inch deep that is powered by one AA battery. I bought it from Radio Shack many years ago and it has been with me on many trips. I don't like wearing watches, so there have been times when I actually carried this clock in my pocket when I needed a convenient timepiece. Anyway, the alarm on this analogue device is a gentle chirp, which starts slowly but build in speed until one either turns it off or pressed the snooze button. I have it set for 5:10AM, and upon hearing the first few chirps, will immediately hit the snooze button and resume cuddling with the blankets. The chirps begin again after ten minutes and the process repeats. I usually hit snooze about three times before finally, begrudgingly crawling out of bed.

It is when I don't get out of bed a couple of minutes before 5:40AM that my cell phone chimes in. While I may not have a camera or any of that other fancy crap built into my phone, it does have a clock with an alarm on can set. Not only that, but when the alarm goes off, it is the most obnoxious digital chirp I have ever heard in my life. It sounds like a robotic bird belching. It didn't take long to condition myself to get out of bed before this thing went off, just so I wouldn't have to hear it.

Once I am finally up, I go through the mundane process of showering, getting dressed and walking to the trolley station. I had been hoping that Joi would drive me into work, but she was going grocery shopping that morning. By the time I got out of the shower, she was gone.

Saturday morning in downtown Pittsburgh is a surreal experience. I knew that the cafeteria in my building would be closed, but I didn't expect every coffee shop in the area to be closed before 7:00AM as well. I did eventually get a much-needed coffee, but this was during one of my breaks, after I had signed in for the overtime.

On weekdays, I work from 7:00AM until 3:30PM, which is early, but allows me to beat the afternoon rush. Rarely have I ever had to fight for a seat on the trolley. Yesterday I was in the building until 2:50PM. My one hope is that, ultimately, the extra cash in my paycheque will be worth the "me" time I have traded. A balance must be maintained, to give to one you must take from another.

When I got home yesterday afternoon, I briefly considered taking a nap, but quickly dismissed the idea in light of the arduous process of waking which I described above. bonamoz was having a birthday get-together that evening and Joi and I had been invited. I was going, though Joi, otherwise engaged, was not.

B lives with her boyfriend out in the middle of nowhere. The get-together was being held at a restaurant in Cranberry, a northern Pittsburgh suburb that probably wouldn't exist if it didn't happen to be located where I-79 and I-76 (aka: The Pennsylvania Turnpike) intersect. To give you a sense of geography, I live in Mt. Lebanon, which is a southern Pittsburgh suburb (and also one which is considerably closer to the city, so much so that the nearest highway is I-279). I departed about an hour before I was set to arrive and found myself stuck behind a long line of cars waiting to enter the freeway. In fact, this line of cars was backed up halfway across the Liberty Bridge. I gave B a call, telling her that I might be late.

As it turned out, I showed up at the time I had been told to despite the traffic. There were many others there, the majority of whom I didn't know. Aside from B and her boyfriend, the only other person there whom I'd met previously was everyday_gray.

Later in the night, those who had the fortitude to stay up later ended up going to a bar and grill (if it was with or without an "e" I can't remember) in the middle of nowhere known as Peter B's. We had been told that an 80s cover band was playing there and figured we may as well check it out.

Peter B's is located in a building shaped like a barn, complete with a tri-angled roof and attached silo (or perhaps it was a smokehouse at once time – I'm not well-versed in agricultural structures and their uses). In any case, the building may have very well been an actual barn at one time that was renovated. Inside, there are two levels: the main floor, where the bar and the restrooms are, and the upper story which is really an extended balcony with contains booths, a pool table, a dart board and a video game console.

You know that you are in the sticks when the video game console is for a game of virtual hunting. I kid you not – you pick a weapon, choose your prey, point and shoot. Oh, and in case you are wondering, I am not a good shot with a bow and arrow – bears have nothing to fear from me. Well, pixelated bears anyhow. Whatever happened to games where little yellow circles popped pills and got chased by ghosts?

The band, whose name is Glitz was indeed an 80s cover band, however they weren't quite what we expected. I doubt that the four men in the group have anything by Echo & the Bunnymen or The Jesus & Mary Chain in their record collections. Collectively, they probably own every Poison, Judas Priest and AC/DC album ever pressed. Granted, there is plenty of big hair to go around in either camp, but you know…

For what they did, Glitz were pretty good at it. I can make fun of hair metal all I want – because in some camps, such things are a national pastime – but as imitators, they knew their shit. As an added bonus, the mannerisms of the lead singer reminded me of Jack Black. I must watch School Of Rock again sometime in the near future.

Judging by the upcoming gigs listed on Glitz's website, I suspect that these guys all have day jobs. I say that, because every single date is on either a Friday or a Saturday. I also think that they are doing it just to have some fun – at least I would hope so – and maybe make a little extra cash. Lord knows that making money with music and being successful is difficult enough. To do so as a cover band is well nigh impossible (unless your group is named UB40).

I can't really fault four guys for just playing music for fun. This doesn't mean that I won't poke fun at the type of music they choose to play, but let's face it, who in their normal lives doesn't want to play rock star for a weekend? I wonder how many middle-aged suburban husbands with a wife and two point five kids, a day job where they have to wear a suit and a two car garage wouldn't mind slipping into a pair of leather pants, strapping on a guitar and flirting with skanky women…

Actually, I'd like to apologise for putting that image into the collective consciousness.

Like I said, it's probably fun playing in a cover band, but I honestly could never see myself doing it. My ego won't allow it. It's not that I don't like to play other people's songs, but I have plenty of my own songs that I'd prefer to inflict on an innocent public. Then again, maybe I could start a Joy Division cover band and call it Illusion of Joy Division (ha, ha).

Almost as entertaining as the band that night were some of the other patrons of Peter B's. There was one intoxicated hick who showed up on the dance floor with his own incredibly intriguing interpretation in bodily motion of a rousing rendition of Metallica's "Enter Sandman." His lurching and stomping showed me that he was really feeling the song and all of its rage, angst and paranoia. I'm glad he didn't catch me staring and laughing…I really don't need my ass pounded by a guy who wears a trucking cap without a hint of irony.

Along with lurching hicks, I've come to the conclusion that some of the world's ugliest women frequent bars in the middle of nowhere. Frosted and feathered hair and underwear which should never see the light of day – oh my! At one point I noticed a nearby woman wearing low-rise jeans and pink panties. As if to be the cherry on top of the sundae, the waistband of said unmentionables was horribly twisted. She didn't seem to notice or care.

"I have only one wish right now," said to B, "I want that woman over there to pull up her jeans."

I'm sure if the woman in question actually heard me, but moments later she pulled her sweater down. It immediately crept back up, once again revealing the twisted pink panties (please note, these were not thong undies, but your standard-issue cotton women's underwear, the purpose of which is to cover a total ass).

"Oh, honey," I said to no one in particular, "pulling the sweater down isn't going to cut it. You've got to pull up the pants…"

It was late by the time I got home; almost 3:00AM. Joi was in bed, but awake, mostly because the downstairs neighbours were violating the terms of the lease by having band practise in the middle of the night. Such things are completely allowed between 8:00AM and 11:00PM, but I guess the squeaky girl they found is so desperate to become the next Christina Aguilera that they couldn't help themselves.

I know a venue they could play at…