Fitz, the Logger

Hi. They call me Rooster at work.

Today Fitz made a good joke. He called my first novel, The Big Mac Chronicles. This made us all laugh. Especially me. I know the truth. Fitz is in love with his brain. This is the truth.

I have nothing else. That's it. I could make another movie on my lunch break. I could do this pretty easily. I don't though.

"What are you blogging?" Fitz asks.

I don't say anything. He sits in the chair next to me. Now he is talking again.

"What's that? What are you doing?"

He is talking about my typing. I am typing with two fingers. This is the way I type.

"You don't know how to type."

Now Fitz sings a song about how I can't type.

I am still typing with two fingers.

Tonight is Fitz's going away party. He and the rest of the band have had enough of their 500 square foot studio and Los Angeles. They are going back to Philly.

I will miss his songs. His impersonations of me. I will miss him terribly.

"What are you doing?" he says again. "That is not the way to type. You're a writer. Look how much faster I can type than you."

The office watches him type. He sings another song about my typing. I don't say anything and he gets self-conscious.

"I'm being an asshole," he says. "I'll stop."

"That's okay," I say.

"Okay," he says and then sings, "I'm Pirooz. I write books. They are about value meals. I can't type. I have a family. They are nice. I am Pirooz. I am nice."

It is amazing how much more true this song is than any bio or description has ever come.

I hope Fitz survives me. He would be great at funerals. If I ever get married, I want him to do the toast. In fact, I need to record him making fun of me tonight at the party. I will post it at around 430 AM tonight. Have a good Friday, Bloggers.