Move Already II

I had all this stuff to write about today- couldn’t wait to get done with all the work stuff to get on the blog. It’s all gone; can’t remember a thing- other than I can’t spell and Napoleon really does have Alzheimer. Oh, and pomegranates are very difficult to eat and they stain the shit out of your clothes. Thanks GH, I’ll make sure Vinnie pees on all your work shirts- that won’t do though: they’re already stained with dead men juice probably.

Anyway, the weather is calling for freezing sleet and I’m still at the office when I really should be home. Then again, I’m thinking I don’t really like where I’m staying, I don’t like using the bathroom there and I can’t really picture me doing any sort of workout. I really should be looking for alternate accommodations- I think I rushed into this one. What else is there to a “home?” If you’re not comfortable using the bathroom- it is immediate grounds for moving- if you can. And I can at this point, it seemed so much easier to just stay there thru December- but the month looks a lot longer when I look at it from this particular point of view. What could be better I thought? My supposed roommates are a Librarian girl and an Opera singer- sounded so interesting. But the lack of conveniences at the place is growing insurmountable in my head.

For instance, I have to log all my shit to the bathroom when I take a shower. One, I’m a freak about leaving my toothbrush out in the open in a small enclosed space that includes constant flushing of the toilet. Do you know how many bacteria/nasty shit floats up in the air and settles onto your toothbrush per flush? It’s bad enough your own flush ends up on the bristles you then introduce to your mouth. You’ve put worse stuff into your mouth you say? That’s fine and all, but speak for yourself and don’t come here trying to kiss me.

I also have no furniture in the bedroom other than a futon. The futon is not as bad as I thought I’d be. Cheap futons have come a long way since I bought my first futon ever back in the 90’s- looong time ago- it was like sleeping on assorted, pointy, flaming rocks or something similar. And sex on it? Forget it, complete murder. Good thing my thenboyfriend was always a quickie when it came to that. What?!? I didn’t know any better.

There’s also no functioning closet in the bedroom. The rod is too long and Librarian girl has been unable to install it. She did install the two supporting ends to each side of the closet walls though. My clothes lay either on top of the luggage or on random spots on the closet door that’s resting against a wall in the bedroom.

Curtains? Blinds? Old crazy-pattern sheets? Aluminum foil? Nothing! Complete lack of privacy- have to turn off the lights when I change at night or get dressed in the morning. Or take more stuff on my trips to the bathroom. Not good. Librarian girl said that the surrounding houses don’t really look into her house, there’s a really old lady who’s blind in one, some guy and his girlfriend in another and I forget what else she said. But her dad is coming to install window stuff some time in January, so come January I’ll be free to do what I usually do when alone in my bedroom, which includes lots of jumping and other clotheless activities. ‘Till then though I’ll have to forgo all this- I don’t want to be the neighborhood freak, besides I wouldn’t be making any money off it either and times are tough.

There’s no washer or dryer on the premises. There’s no teapot in the kitchen. The list goes on, need I more reasons to get out? Apparently so.

Just Move Already

So I’m back in my office. The Atlanta office, the office that has all my pictures; the kids’, the fake boyfriends’, my trip to Colorado, pictures of green things. And I realize that this isn’t really my office anymore- not really anyway. These guys, Napoleon and all, have me all moved and tidily packed off to Charlotte. As if taking a person and shipping them off is that simple. But it is that simple. To them it is filling a position that is severely lacking. To me, right now, is leaving everything that’s ever come closest to being “at home.” How do I explain that? And even if I did it’d only be words coming out of my mouth; words that wouldn’t even register in their brains or anywhere else. You could say NO you say? Right, I could say no- but that wouldn’t be the best, smartest or easiest move on my part either.

Come to think of it, it wasn’t too long ago when I sat in my tiny patio and thought that the solution to all my problems then would be to start anew, to start fresh somewhere far away where nobody knew me and it’d all be better. And here it is; although Charlotte isn’t exactly far away. Charlotte isn’t exactly new. So I was thinking the other day- while talking to myself- here it is! A chance to do something I was actually wanting to do not too long ago- but it was long ago enough to have forgotten why I wanted to do it in the first place. Kind’a too far back to remember right now even though it was 2005.

Maybe I’m mixing my personal stuff with my business stuff. I should listen to my own brand of advice. One of the young ones here (my favorite young one even though he's started sporting a beard since his trip to Israel) is facing the moving dilemma after his training is completed. His move won’t come until well into Summer 2006 probably but it’s weighing on him heavily. He keeps basing his relocation on the # of miles away from his girlfriend; a girlfriend who refuses to even entertain the idea of even thinking of moving here to be closer to him even though she doesn’t have a job or any other responsibility to keep her where she is at right now. A girlfriend who refuses to even speak about anything further than 2 months down the road even though she claims she wants a family and all the stuff that comes with it- with him supposedly. A girlfriend who gets further away the closer they get- or something like that. A girlfriend who’s just not that into him at the end of the day; a fact he refuses to see, because perhaps it will show him his own weaknesses and the fallacy of the human condition when it comes to significant others who refuse to see us as we see them, whom we refuse to see in plain light as they see us.

Drink Some More Will U

I am extremely agitated and yet it’s all so quiet in here right now. It seems, sometimes anyway, that just when I think (rarely really) I have it all under control some piece of string that somehow was holding it all together starts unraveling at a speed that I can’t see coming much less control. Maybe that’s what brings on my drinking bouts. I am sitting here, self-diagnosing again. One, because I haven’t been to the doctor, who’s probably gonna fucking yell at me since I haven’t yet done one thing she prescribed for me last time I was there. Two, because my skin has started doing crazy shit lately- bruises from nowhere, rashes that come and disappear when I’m about to show them to somebody so the only recourse I’ve had is surfing the net looking for cases that might be similar enough to mine so I can then pick them out of the thousands of listed maladies and assign those to myself. That’s not going so good, the pictures on the internet are simply gross and extremely saddening- there’re a lot of kids with bad rashes out there.


You can probably tell I’ve been really busy since I haven’t had the moment or moments to actually sit and put thoughts on paper. Busy between the two worlds, the working and trying to get this remote office-working down pat and drinking myself silly when I make it back home for the weekends. In case you were wondering if that’s a smart thing to do, I highly discourage you from doing it. Granted, I won’t myself stop doing it anytime soon but I will tell you not to do it. Well, Maybe I’ll stop it- but chances are I’ll probably go hang out with people as soon as I make it into the city limits and like I’ve mentioned before- all my friends are alcoholics. I wonder what my liver looks like these days.


I figured I’d be better off laying off the PBR and drinking wine, but being a wino is some hard work and it’s much more expensive, so now I gotta figure something else out- ‘cause the wino weekend did not work out too well for me. Maybe staying in and being anti-social is the only answer, ‘cause I certainly can’t commit to hanging out w/ a bunch of drunks when I’m not one of the bunches of drunks in the room. Plus, it seems I make rather hasty decisions when I drink these drinks I drink. For instance, last Saturday while hanging out at one of our better local restaurants a kid in a wheel chair showed up and all of the sudden I find myself in the midst of a gun buying ceremony. The kid said he usually carries two guns and often practices on the weekends and will include free training to anyone who buys one of the guns he’ll provide. Hey, I thought, as I watched the Romanian’s girlfriend trying to keep her new ferret inside her purse, I need a gun. I can use it if someone ever tries to attack me again. Yeah, I should get a gun. The kid in the wheelchair kept demonstrating the insertion and extraction of cartridges from the two guns he had laid on one of the tables. The restaurant was closed and now that I think about it- I hope the owner was smart enough to lock the doors.


The one thing that kept going thru my mind, besides the wine and the thought of what a good idea it was to buy a gun right then, was wanting to ask the kid how he got in the wheelchair to begin with, but I figured it probably wasn’t such a good idea to ask him all that infront of all his eager customers. He finally got tired ‘cause all the drunks that had bought were done and they kept pointing the gun around, it wasn’t loaded but it was still unnerving to him it seemed, so he promptly collected his stuff put it away in the confines of his socks and pants and announced that he was off to find a poker game somewhere. But I can call him anytime to schedule some shooting practice- it can’t hurt to actually know how to use a gun, can it?

Car Prison

So I was supposed to be in the office by 7:30 this morning but made it in by 8:15, not too bad considering I knew I didn't have to walk past any questioning eyes on the way in. We drove all day, all day- today's driving beats going to Macon or Griffin from Atlanta any day. Mental note: I will no longer consider the Macon/Griffin route a shitty route when back in ATL. Well, not for the first couple of weeks anyway. I think we drove all over NC today, luckily it's a one time deal to get familiariazed with the product here. Yeaaay. I'm even staying away from the PBR while up here I'm so confused. I am in search of the closest thing to my neighborhood in ATL here in Charlotte but have limited references and limited resources thus far. I will be in car prison again tomorrow seeking a bearable neighborhood. I think I can cope with car prison as long as I am not condemned to live in the equivalent of say Alpharetta or midtown or Virginia Highlands. I want to be near the crazies, the freaks and the borderline fruits so I may feel normal, at home or close to at least.

The current "man" here in Charlotte lives in a cookie-cutter fairly new subdivision but knows, or claims to thus far, to know what kinda 'hood I'd like to grace with my constant presence, so for now I have to rely on his guidance. I've asked random people and they seem to think "quiet" neighborhoods are the answer. What are they talking about? I want action- even if I'm just watching I want action nearby. I want the quirky characters that make a village a village. I want a place where you know people but can remain unmolested if you so choose. I want places within walking distance so I may avoid the car prison.

Charlotte is just like anytown USA so far, much cleaner than ATL thus far- I'll find the grit though- there's always grit you just have to look.

There's the expensive, no doubt trendy places around here- those are only fun for people-watching, for poser-identifying, for liar-spotting and I'm not in the mood for that. I'm in the mood for home, my dog, my running shoes and skates. That sounds pathetic at best, all that I can bring up here on my next trip back- it just seems a temporary glitch like all the changes in my Life at one point or another. Gay Husband will most likely have to hang with the friendly neighborhood witch, she's not as cool as I but it will have to do. That or he'll have to find himself a new straight-bitchy fake-ass wife, he's pretty good at it, I'm about his tenth I bet.

I don't even know what the #%$*@ I'm writing, I'm just staying away from the evil television in my room- it has poisoned my mind with the estoopidest song ever, that dumb ass Black-Eyed-P shit about bumps and lumps and money spending and spinning and crap. Who writes this shit??? Why do people think that song is cool? Why is using your ass and tits to make some over-horny asshole buy you things cool and worth writing a piece of shit song? And these assholes buying these broads shit just so they can fuck them? What's the ^$%$* point? So what, so you fucked her and then what? It is all so pointless. So you got some dumb, dick-driven asshole to buy you shit- woo-fucking-hoo! What an accomplishment that is, astounding- right up there with winning the Nobel prize, feeding the hungry, writing a master piece.

So I gotta go some drunken whore just walked in asking me how long I'd be on this piece of crap computer and I told her I'd be a little while- so the overgrown, mutant, pathetic child ran to the front desk to get some dumbass efficient little worker in this overpriced shithole to come over and inform me that there is a 30 minute limit so that "every guest can use the internet." Let's see if I can figure out how to make this thing useless for the rest of the night since I'll be forced to go back into the crappy room that smells like mold. What a skank- shouldn't she be out drinking some more?

I'm not bitter or in a bad mood, it's the remnants of the car prison, I'm still under it's evil spell.

Eccentric

Yesterday while flying around in the company jet with Napoleon, eating munchkins, drinking Dasani taking my seatbelt off 'cause I wanted to, I got to see what Big Time is. That's what Napoleon said anyway. He kept asking me if I'd ever flown in a private jet before, if I didn't think this was the only way to travel, or if I thought we could've accomplished so much in such a short period of time if we would've flown commercial. Nap and I left ATL for Charlotte went in to see an attorney for some case he's trying to solve regarding some bullshit borrower's scam who's trying to pay us off way short on a defaulted loan, left for someville to meet with some ridiculously millionarily old man, came back to Charlotte where he dropped me off said good by and then Nap went back to ATL where he probably proceeded to retell the story of his day's travel to anyone dumb enough to listen. (And I'm not calling you dumb here, you are reading after all).

This eccentric man we met in someville was short of unbelievable, maybe the older, jewish, smaller scale version of MJ- you know Michael Jackson, 'cept this guy doesn't sing or dance, he's never been to trial for allegedly messing with children, and I'm pretty sure he's never bleached his skin or rebuilt his nose. This man however has like a gazillion dollars, is building a railroad track on his property, has a merrigoround and is installing a teacup ride. He has a submarine, a tank and a jet fighter from World War II. He has a giant warehouse filled with everything from green bananas to expired candy bars, faux antiques to plus-sized women red bras. His house sits atop a mountain and is over 40,ooo sq ft with over 80 bedrooms, one ball room, three kitchens -one kosher of course- an indoor swimming lap pool, blues brothers replicas, a Rembrandt, an Anne Frank room hidden in the walls of the walnut covered walls of the library, three towers, a bomb shelter and some other stuff I lost track of in trying to find my way out to the front door while fearing I'd be trapped without food in the gargantuan structure and miss my jet ride out of there.

He told us his camel -which had two humps -had died recently and the emu was ok as were the miniature ponies, the assorted wild turkeys and the geese roaming the property. His geese love corn chips by the way. He stopped the SUV on the way out, the geese came squaking and flopping over to the driver's side door and he dropped an entire bag of cornchips on them which they quickly attacked with salivating beaks. Those lucky bastards, I have to buy my own cornchips.

This guy's an avid collector but I doubt he has the time to actually use all his stuff. He has more money than he or his kids and third wife will ever need but still wheels and deals like a pro. I watched him in action while buying property and the whole thing was a pissing contest, it was like a Monopoly game for him, where neither money nor the actual product really mattered- where only the negotiating and winning mattered, even if you los t a little bit. It was strange.

He's a pretty likable guy though, funny and kinda alzheimery, like Nap- that's why the two of them get along so well I think. You can tell they like each other but still the room's not big enough for them both- like they're always trying to up-one another. The old man knows a lot about a lot of stuff and repeats himself quite a bit. He said he's had surgery on one leg and he falls about once a month. I wonder what it feels like to have a bunch of shit you can't use. I guess it must feel good to simply look at it- although I can't relate- I am hands on, I want to use, touch and use some more. Except they call that crazy in my circles 'cause I don't have enough money to qualify for eccentric. Yet.

Girl Raises

So after an almost 5 year stint I am starting to sloowly climb up this fucking banking ladder. Yeaay. If bartering your time with your boss as to your exact value as it translates to $$ signs isn't one of the bullsthittest fests ever I truly don't know what is. Why must everything be a pissing contest for "corporate" men?

I like Napoleon and all, he's a pretty good guy, he's from up North, takes care of his people, has nice hair, is a sharp dresser in expensive Italian suits and loafer shoes with the dangly thingies and plays it straight, what's not to like? (Those are all in the company handbook and we have to memorize them before we get to work in his division). So last Friday he calls me in and asks what my "aspirations" are, to which I quickly responded with facts: to make a zillion dollars in the next 2 years. Well, he said "No. Think about it over the weekend and we'll talk Monday." Which of course means: "We already have a number in mind which is what you will get -not a penny more and you'll take it." So, I had grand plans to research the market- to check out what the going rate is for whoring yourself out 5 days out of the week while spending 2 days in a drunken stupor forgetting to feed your dog and exchanging glances with other confused patrons at random neighborhood bars.< /div>

The research consisted of mentioning my pending review/raise with Vas, GH and a couple of my imaginary lovers (whom I was forced to spend some time with this past weekend- but that's another story). I meant to call a couple of my financially-stable-and-climbing friends but they no longer take my calls due to some bullshit about me being a shitty friend or something.

I thought about which approach would be best all of Friday night in between watching A History Of Violence, eating popcorn and trying to seduce Vas. Somehow I got lost with all the gratuitous sex, 69's, and that Maria Bello flashing. I did not need to know that her pubes don't match her "blondish" hairdo, really. I think the best scene of the movie was the two confused teenagers smoking pot while hanging out on Main Street downtown. That and Vigo's/Joey meeting with his older brother in the mansion.

But getting back to the approach: First I thought I'd play hardline and quote some extraordinary amount of money and go through the mandatory haggling to reach a decent figure. Then I thought I'd ask an offer and take the haggling from there. I hate playing these fucking games. I played out a million and one scenes taking place in Napoleon's office and yet none seemed quite right. When I got in there on Monday I simply told him to please skip the haggling since we both knew the number was already recorded on my next paycheck. I asked him to simply treat/pay me the same as he does my male counterparts, to consider that bringing in a fresh catch off the street costs much more than I do or will when you add the headhunter's fee and all the bullshit bankers demand when coming in to a new place, to discontinue thinking of me as a "non-family-supporter-bread-winner" person and a host of other things. At the end the paper was signed with the number that was already decided and way past due. Napoleon then made a huge show about how it wasn't final; he had to get it approved upstairs. Right.

And then the bomb dropped. "You got a minute? Come in to my office. The North Carolina office is in dire need." Translation? You're going to North Carolina, now. Shit! I just bought a new couch damn it, I have to break it in, my incompetent neighbors even put a minute tear on it while lugging up the stairs.

So here I sit in an overbooked hotel in NC (= I got one of their crappy rooms) trying to figure out how to best play this. Napoleon and I flew up this morning in the company jet, that means I am officially Big Time, not everyone gets to fly in the company jet, not everyone indeed. The best part? Napoleon has started going around telling people I got a raise and a promotion to come run their operation here. And, and- he says to me: "Congratulations. This is nice living. Not many women make this much money." WTF??? "I know it's not fair, but it's the truth, wouldn't you agree?"

There's a very angry looking bald men lurking behind me so I must give up the hotel computer, lest he throws something at me- that and I need water. Shit, I need that fucking laptop after all. I'll add it to the cost of hanging in NC.

Quit?

My favorite bartender is threatening to quit drinking. I don’t know that that should make a difference in my own drinking habits, but somehow it got me thinking about the amount I currently drink. Again. Depending on the mood I’m wearing it’s either a lot or a regular amount, it’s all subjective most of the time, but enough to make me wonder whether it’s too much or not. I usually answer/justify it by telling myself that if I didn’t somehow alter my reality I would indeed go fucking nuts, but that’s all that is -a justification for a behavior that leaves more questions than answers. So I’m left wondering whether I should cut back or increase the dosage to stop the wondering at this point.

She recently quit smoking on a whim she says. So I guess she’s now looking for other things to cut out of her Life and drinking seems to be her next target. A good target I suppose, least her liver will thank her kindly. Thing is, I don’t wanna give up the beers, the copious beers flooding my system do something for me right now so why change it I wonder. But people, myself included, need projects. Bettering yourself is a project. Drowning yourself in stuff is a project, be it work, drinking, quitting drinking, quitting smoking, saving people, etc., etc., etc.

There’s a neighbor I usually refer to as the “lady on the grape,” simply because her teeth are perpetually a darkened red-purplish color when you see her, and she’s loopy and she’s borderline insane which I attribute to her daily partaking of the grape, the gallon bottles of her cheap red wine- not that there’s anything wrong with that. But when I see her I wonder if we’re not all destined to become one with the substance of our choice. Will I be known as the PBR lady in the future? Will I make someone wonder how close my ties with the PBR are? ‘Cause if that’s my destiny then I’ll shun the PBR at once. Well, maybe not right away, but soon.

I’ve had my times of complete non-partaking of the juice because other stuff occupied my time, my thoughts, and my constant need of entertainment. Mostly because I was too tired to drink. Living with someone is hard work. Well, living with him was hard work. Everything was work, from my actual job to the living together, it seems it was all work. Always something to do, always something unfinished, always something to plan. I remember going out-out was a novelty, not because we couldn’t, but because it took entirely too much effort and energy and who wants to do that when all you’re wishing for a is a few hours in bed, asleep, alone? Besides that who wants a hangover and the shittyness that goes with that when there’s so much to do? That and many other reasons kept me off the juice. You’d think it would’ve made me drink more wouldn’t you? But no, I was supposed to be the responsible one so I was.

And since living alone again, the drinking once again commenced, a tight bond with the PBR’s been forged, and there’s no need to break it just yet, or ever. PBR + me = yeaay. That’s a pretty good formula, and when you have a pretty good formula it is just plain dumb to change it or alter it in any other way.

But drinking has its setbacks as well. It turns me into the best dancer in the galaxy. It makes me the hottest chick in the room and sometimes it makes me angry at shit I don’t later recall. It also gives me great ideas for a book but since I’ve yet to purchase my miniature recorder I quickly forget those. It makes the guys hot Gods from Venus. But without all these my weekends would be providing me with even less material for these rantings I’ve come to look forward to, so all in all it’s a necessary step to this the Life I lead.

Something tells me she won’t quit just yet, so my own relationship with the PBR -which mostly develops at her bar- is safe for a while. Although I saw her downing water like a champ while I sipped my PBR last night, I saw the doubt flickering in her eyes as well. She wondered if she could stand it if she really quit, not the “temptation” as she called it, but rather the “putting up with a bunch of drunks” while stone-cold-sober. I can tell you from experience it is nearly impossible and quite disruptive to one’s Life and I don’t recommend it at all. So we shall see on her almost resolution, we shall see indeed.

Factory Defect

In talking with some skater friends after last Monday night’s skate I was informed that I too am factory defective, else why would I choose to skate otherwise. While at first mention it seemed ludicrous, to be told that I’m defective and that the fact that I skate makes me so, it made some sense after someone explained it. He asked a series of questions, that although have coherent answers in my opinion still proved his point further. Apparently, if you choose to skate in the dark, in the city’s busiest streets, some with non-functioning lights and regularly disobey traffic laws in order to avoid speeding buses and careless drivers then you must be some kinda crazy thus defective from the factory. I skate ‘cause it makes me strangely happy, between scaring the shit out me at times and actually providing a physical outlet and workout, it actually frees me in some strange way, however briefly. Sometimes while barreling down a street that may or may not have a deadly pothole at the bottom, I realize that whatever was weighing heavy or whatever I was obsessing about is suddenly gone. And it’s free, well except for having to buy skates, and the helmet, and the wrist guards, and the blinking lights and the skate socks and the random workout clothes. Yes, my high school Economics teacher was indeed right- there ain’t no free lunch. Ever.

There are several people in the skating group we were discussing, using phrases such as “acquired taste,” or “not all there,” or “just not right.” Yes, all lame euphemisms for “I don’t like them.” But since I rarely hang out with these guys I figure it best to not freely share my overflowing number of opinions about every single person I come in contact with during any given night skate I attend.

There’s the raging vegetarian, always trying to push his tofu this, tofutti instead of turkey for Thanksgiving, his Tai-Chi for your inner this, his Kung-Foci for outer that and the incessant talk about skating or biking to work to save the environment. Then there’s the girl who, now older, is still mentally trapped in her younger probably attractive years and insists on saying the dumbest things to once again try to be the center of attention. She’ll stand on her head and do pirouettes, simulate ballet while skating and just talk about herself the whole time. Oh wait, that’s what I’m doing here. Well, I’m not making you read it though. Anyway, even though I don’t really like her, she actually gained much respect from me Monday; she was telling the story of her last skating accident. While skating thru the Ansley Park loop, she came up on a particularly nasty turn/stop-sign/drop on the street at which point her face hit the ground first and one tooth leaped out of her mouth from the impact. That sounds absolutely painful and fucked up, still she got her tooth put back in, which didn’t break by the way ‘cause it was so strong she said, and recuperated and back on skates she is. That’s admirable.

I’ve had my share of impromptu meetings with the pavement myself but nothing that tragic. I’m covered with several reminders, but I think it gives skin character to have “battle” scars. The cool character that is, not the kind of “character” you develop from over tanning in a shitty tanning bed, least that’s what I tell myself every time I see all these marks on moi. I think the worst was a downhill turn with zero visibility with sudden traffic influx and speed beyond the help of a 2x2 rubber cube attached to the back of my right skate. I fell on my ass, but going at that speed your ass scraping rough asphalt isn’t much of a braking system either. The asphalt and my ass exchanged an extended period of brutal caressing and it left its imprint on my ass and my ass on it. I couldn’t sit for two weeks. I had just gotten an office job, so for two weeks I knelt in front of my computer while at work. Oh the joy and the jokes that brought about.

Then there’s the psycho Echo- she says that’s her name. She’s supposed to be in school to become a biophysicist or something. So she says. She orders pizza without the dough ‘cause she’s allergic to wheat and asks people for a free place to stay ‘cause she’s in school and can’t afford rent and she only needs a place for a couple of months before she goes back home.

There’s also the control-freak girl who likes to lead skates but won’t tell you where she plans to go because you are supposed to follow her and wait ‘till you get there. The problem with that though is that she likes to stop at every single stoplight to “regroup” thus rendering the purpose of being out there for exercise useless. She gets pissed when people pass her and screams out stuff like “who’s the leader here?” Kenman, one of the cool people there once told me that she’s a VP of something at her job and that she’s used to being in control. It must be a bank, which makes it a joke -we have a VP for everything at banks, a VP for the VP of office supplies inspections included.

The saving grace is the act of skating though, and that there are cool people in the group as well. We have our own little microcosm right there, a representation of the world at large, only a little more factory defective at times. And that gives me a better perspective- sometimes. Vas was just saying that everyone falls short of great at one point or another; I guess he’s right. Looks like I’ve been expecting too much from people over all. But isn’t accepting that like “settling?” Why should anybody settle? Ever? ‘Cause if the don’t they’ll never be completely satisfied you say? Well, there’s still a part of me that can’t quite accept that theory even if I am factory defective myself.

Some people just shouldn't

Breeders. Preggers. These terms, I’ve been told, are highly offensive to those actually practicing or planning to practice said roles. I find them amusing, a little condescending maybe, but still funny. I guess I refer to said roles in those terms simply because in the grand scheme of things I’m not really planning on doing either- that is breeding for the purpose of ending up a pregger. I once considered having a kid and being a single mom, thinking I didn’t need a guy to help me raise a kid and thinking I wanted a kid. WTF was I thinking though? I wasn’t even on drugs or anything- it simply seemed like a good idea at the time. Am I ever glad that dissipated into nothingness before I had a chance to act on it. I can’t imagine me with a kid. I mean; I’m sure I would’ve taken care of business and taken good care of the kid and stuff but still, a part of me thinks it would’ve been a terrible experience for the kid and for me. I still can’t get over the fact that I have a dog! I still forget to check her water sometimes, what if I would’ve forgotten to feed the kid for a couple of days? Somehow, I arrived at the conclusion that it’d be the most selfish thing to actually set out to have a kid with the intention of being a single mom from the onset. It’s one thing to have thought I didn’t need a guy to help me raise the kid and quite another to purposely deny the kid access to a father.

Even when I’ve considered a baby after that first thought of long ago, I asked my sister-in-law if she’d carry the baby for me. She said yes. She’d had three at the time what was one more, right? Plus, she said she “Loved being” a pregger, I mean I’d be doing her a favor. Then I thought that’d be fucked up too. How do you explain that to your kid: “Hey I hated the idea of being a pregger, but still thought I wanted a baby so your aunt carried you for 9 whole months while I just kind'a hung out and told her what not to eat and stuff.” That kid would hate me for sure. Best not to follow that route either.

Family doesn’t really ask those questions about status of relationships or prospects or whatever they’re calling it these days, guess they know better. People at work do ask every once in a while, especially when I place pictures of someone in my office, I’ve started downloading random pictures off the internet and placing those in my picture display area, and when people ask I just let them think whatever they want. But I’m starting to change them often now so now they’re gonna think I’m considering half of Atlanta or something. I don’t even know why people bother in asking such things, it’s not like we’re friends or like they really care. Just like I don’t care whether they and their husbands are still “happily married.” Most people seem to lie anyway. Most of the older women that work here are either divorced, separated or just bitter, why would I want part of that? The only person I actually do discuss a few things with -truthfully- is the Rabbi that I work with. He keeps telling me that people are never ready, that everything works itself out. While in moments of extreme delusional thinking on my part that sounds semi-enticing, it really sounds irresponsible in the end. How can you go into something simply “hoping” it works out? That’s crazy. Guess that’s my overwhelmingly positive attitude speaking!

So speaking of Preggers, we actually have one in the office. Her story is quite insane actually, the little I know is mad. She doesn’t seem to know who the father is, just like she seems to not quite know who the daddies are for the other 3 she has at home. That’s not the bad part though. She’s the one I wrote about a while back (http://tinyurl.com/awljf), I guess trying to be skinny is not the biggest of her problems after all. Since she’s such a healthy eater, she informed the person ordering lunch for a training class that they could not order just sandwiches with cold meats because she can’t eat that since she’s pregnant and all. Meanwhile back in the legion of doom, she is constantly riding the 23 floors down to the lobby and outside smoking area to go smoke countless cigarettes during the day. WTF? Didn’t they say smoking causes severe damage to fetuses and stuff? I know I’m not a doctor or anything, but given all the data on the damaging effects of tobacco overall isn’t it common sense to STOP smoking once you know you’re a pregger for sure? Perhaps that’s entirely too much to give up for the mere possibility of avoiding unnecessary damage to the fetus she’s carrying. Who am I to judge you ask? Somebody not pregnant smoking a shitload of cigarettes outside my building’s lobby area that’s who. Anyway, stuff like this proves my theory that some people were not meant to be parents, furthermore I believe they know it in their core yet they continue to breed. Maybe these people didn’t know any better at the beginning, but they sure as hell know for sure after they popped the first one- and yet, they continue breeding anyway, completely disregarding the outcome of the Life they carry. That is not only grossly irresponsible but just quite shitty overall as the fetus has no choice in the matter, it doesn’t get to pick out a responsible parent, a caring parent it’s just destined to be born to someone who places no value on the Life period. That’s beyond sad. So that said I’m gonna go on hoping that my nagging suspicion of my self-diagnosed infertility is indeed fact. I’m really gonna ask the doctor this time. Shit- I think I just cursed myself. Again.

Masturbating Chipmunk

Review #4

What else to name these excursions? And I say excursions because I actually left the confines of my hood to meet some people from work this weekend. I usually don’t hang much with the guys at work but I’m curious to see the new guys in their true element since I will be spending much time with them in the near future.

This weekend included drunken locals, denied entry into the neighborhood hangout (not for me but poor ol’ Vas- they’d let me in even if they were at capacity; they’d just kick a non-regular out. Vas didn’t know he could do that though- we’re gonna have to forward him the new rules so he may always have access to his Mooseheads and his dartboard over there).

Friday included a visit to the local Thai and Sushi place- an event planned by one of our local/crazy friends, or is it crazy/local? Anyway, she decided she needed to get a bunch of people together with intentions of playing Cupid some (she wants the neighbor and the neighbor wants somebody else and who knows who the somebody else wants) and maybe mixing her bag of friends up for some “interesting” conversation. While some of the conversation was indeed “interesting” I also found some of it trite and quite retarded- but hey, you can’t pick your friend’s friends. I missed the best part ‘cause I was late again. The food, stolen calamari and tuna sushi from other people, and the sake were REALLY good.

We went to the Earl where I found much more interesting conversation with DANG, a local celebrity at the EAV. The Earl doorguy wouldn’t let me in because I don’t have an ID since the carjack attempt, but the manager came out and kindly let me in “only that one time” since he knew I was there to “spend money.” Yeaay, they got all of $10 bucks for the 3 PBR’s I drank. See, the Thai place has the unfiltered sake, which I like ‘cause it kicks your ass when you least expect it. Dang has the silliest jokes and some really good stories from back when he used to raise pigs in a farm over in Wisconsin I think. He raised a whole herd of pigs and had to leave in the middle of the night one night when he could no longer keep telling the farmers that the pigs weren’t “ready yet.” He said he couldn’t stay to watch the pigs get murdered, ‘cause the pigs were his friends and they used to “fuck” with him when he was on acid. They even untied his shoelaces one time to try to make him trip (no pun intended).

As noted in the previous post, there has been a wave of armed robberies in our hood, so DANG kept saying he was almost afraid to walk home by himself, he’s also been mugged and has walked up on people getting mugged, he once chased the muggers into the dark park with no gun himself one time, but he says he probably won’t be doing that again. Vas showed up at some point ‘cause he was tired of painting his bathroom (yeah, that’s what he calls it these days). We eventually snuck out of the Earl since the group I had come with seemed to be involved in some group therapy and were in the process of hugging and patting and crying or some crazy shit. By the time we walked over to the neighborhood hangout there was just enough room to let us in so the night ended there with more PBR’s and darts and barely making it into the car. The PBR’s are always good at the neighborhood joint- highly recommend them. Also, Ms. Ash- the coolest bartender in the EAV, offers free protection if ever there are yuppie-frat-boys trying to make estoopid conversation, she told one guy that if he was trying to pick me up he needed a how-to-book-for-dummies. I guess I wouldn’t think it was funny if she was to tell me that, but she wasn’t talking to me so it was really funny.

Saturday included a fundraiser for Katrina pets. Not only did I witness a dancing, masturbating chipmunk, which I later spotted at Mary’s paying a very high tab while screaming “Did I drink this much?” but also saw a decapitated, overgrown kitten and a half-woman-half-kitten simulating fellatio on unsuspecting attendants. It was insane, but they had free wine and some really good food- oh, and some really cute puppies too. The neighbor and I went to Halo to meet the work people after this but ended up leaving after one drink. That place is just…… estoopid really. A bunch of too-cool-for-school peeps coked out and who knows what else gyrating and grinding into the many willing girl-assess all over the place. The bathrooms are cool though, unless you get trapped in there with a loudly snorting bunch taking up all the room by the sink. We left Halo, glad to be in the clean air outside and made it back to the neighborhood place for more PBR and a little homegrown drama and made it into Mary’s just as everyone was getting kicked out. Made home just in time to jump onto the couch with my lonely dog. She doesn’t like it when I leave her but hey- she’s got a much better life not having been euthanised at the dog pound back in the day of her rescue.

Sunday was just a long day of laundry and weird movies. Vas lent me Being John Malkovich and the neighbor brought Donnie Darko over- WTF? I’m supposed to be watching movies for mindless entertainment not to catch glimpses of dealing with mortality and the possibilities of being able to inhabit people’s head in order to live forever. And what the hell was that on top of Charlie Sheen’s head? No wonder his wife left him once she saw what he’d look like in old age.

Car-Jacked. Almost.

I always thought that I’d freeze if ever I were in a situation where I felt extremely threatened. I didn’t. At least I think I didn’t. Last Saturday, which was to include a review of several things, turned out to be a lot more “happening” than I’d planned. I hang out alone a lot, meaning I go places by myself a lot of the times. Sure, I usually run into people I know when I get to these places or end up talking to perfect strangers, but I go places alone.

Saturday was the grand opening of a friend’s coffee shop. I drove there and GH met me there on his Scooter ‘cause he had to go embalm old ladies the next day. We ran into several people we both know while there and went to dinner afterwards. After dinner I was headed home cause I was tired and I didn’t have my dancing shoes on. I had my dancing shoes on I just didn’t have my psychological dancing shoes on and I was tired and I had a friend drunk dialing me to come meet her at her sister’s bachelorette party. Did I mention that I despise bachelorette parties? I do, with a passion. There’s nothing I find more distasteful or annoying than a bunch of estoopid, drunken girls donning a giant inflatable penis, playing estoopid games while the bride-to-be wears a estoopid veil covered with condoms and other ridiculous shit on it. That’s how they do it in the dirty souf! Anyway, I checked in with her several times and by 11:50 p.m. she was a slurring mess offering to pick me up anywhere since they were in a limo. It was her duty though; she is to be the matron of honor next week.

After dinner GH left for home and I stayed and talked to Scooter man for a while, then he went home ‘cause it was 11 something and he was planning to crash the Harley Parade with a group of friends on their scooters- sorry I missed that but I’m still training on how to properly ride GH’s scooter without running it into the ground in lieu of using the regular brakes. I’d decided to go home myself but then figured I’d had enough rest ‘cause I’d stayed in on Friday night. I headed over to my regular hangout and drove there even though it was only 2-3 blocks away. That’s when the fun started.

I parked on a side road, turned off the engine, and answered a quick phone call from my drunken friend who said she was in line to get into the trendy-so-cool-now club. Oops, now I’m really not going to this bachelorette thing. Line? Club? Right. I see a youngish black dude cross the street, lean over to pick up a mint and hear my car door open, driver side. Next I see a torso in a tan t-shirt with a very shiny small gun which moves to my head while I hear:

Dude with the gun who needs a job: “Get out of the car.”

Me: “Oh, c’mon man.”

DWTGWNJ: “Get out of the car.”

Me: Trying to figure out the severity of the situation, thinking, shit my skates are in the trunk, this car’s paid off, is he really gonna shoot, is that a real gun, blah, blah, blah….

DWTGWNJ: “Get in the passenger seat.”

Me: “Hey, you can have the car I don’t need it, let me out.”

DWTGWNJ: Cocking the gun, pointing it straight to my left temple and actually exerting pressure enough to make me lean to the right: “I said get in the passenger seat.”

Me: “You get in the passenger seat, where do you need to go, I’ll give you a ride.”

DWTGWNJ: Still holding the gun to my head, “Get in the passenger seat.”

Me: “It’s a stickshift. You know how to drive a stickshift?”

DWTGWNJ: Removing gun from my head; “Maaan, just give me your purse.”

I handed him my purse and he walked away from my car. I tried to get more detail as to how to describe him. Another guy came out of the shadows/bushes from the right side of the road and walked alongside of him. They kept walking while going thru the purse, stopped at the corner and kicked something, made a left and went out of site. As I watched them get away, casually walking away with my shit I wished I had a gun. But I guess it’s best I didn’t -I’m pretty sure I would’ve used it. I walked the few feet towards my hang out after calling 911 and reciting the incident to the dispatch. I think she asked me if I wanted a unit to show. WTF lady? Yes I want a fucking unit here; I just had a gun pointed to my head, my good side too!

The doorguy at my hangout (they now employ one since the local cops have been busy staging set-ups to fine bars/bartenders for serving underage drinkers) I happen to know, said hi and I told him what happened and a bunch of people came out to see what was happening. They went around the corner but the would-be-car-jackers were gone. A cop finally showed up took a report and said some really estoopid things about how that wasn’t Buckhead, (a supposedly posh drinking mecca in a nicer neighborhood, ‘cept several people have been murdered there with guns mostly and a couple of stabbings). The cop said another unit, civilian, would come out. I waited, waited, waited. Nothing. Meanwhile the people I know at my hangout kept beckoning me inside for a stiff one; a drink of course. Another guy that was leaving when I got there had actually gotten mugged about a month and a half ago; I’m no detective- but it’s the same area around a park, the same ammo pretty much every time, it’s the same assholes out there.

I eventually went inside and sat for a drink, several drinks really -but refused all the shots that were offered ‘cause I only do PBR now, I like to function after a night’s full o’ drinking. Besides, jagger makes me see things and shit.

I did become a celebrity for the night, though, people I didn’t know kept coming up to me and introducing themselves and telling about how they knew this guy who knew this guy who got robbed. And how one time at bandcamp……. Other people simply whispered, “Hey that’s the girl who got mugged earlier,” as I walked by. Yes, another survivor of the rough streets that is my ‘hood. It’s really not that rough at all, I think the cops are just waiting for another person to actually get hurt -really hurt- before they really do something about it, because the last death from a “pedestrian armed robbery” where somebody actually died was well over two years ago already.

The funny thing though is that I never carry cash, ‘cause using credit cards lets me keep my drunken fieldtrips more accurate so they got nothing. I did have cash in the car. Some change I’d left there the week before, about $60.00. They took all the credit cards but the guys from the bar actually recovered my purse from the sewer hole at the corner where the two guys kicked something before turning the corner.

I hope they get caught. They managed to use an unsigned card at a Super-Wal-Mart. I don’t like Wal-Mart and I don’t shop there. Ever. When I talked to the credit card people I asked them who actually gets stuck with paying fraudulent charges. She said she couldn’t “discuss this at this time” since I need to fill out paperwork. Whatever, it wasn’t my charge and maybe they’re on camera somewhere. At the end of the day though I don’t have much faith in the Zone 6 APD, and I’ve probably watched one too many episodes of Law & Order and the many other cop/lawyer shows I was addicted to before I turned off my satellite. Still, had I not watched so much Law & Order, I wouldn’t have kept repeating to myself: “People don’t come back from joyrides with guys with guns.” And if they do, they come back really fucked-up and stuff and really a bullet there would have made that obsolete so staying put was better than moving to the passenger seat I thought. Although my friend said that that small gun wouldn’t have killed me, rather it would’ve turned me into yet another Terry Shiavo and then the “Christian-Republicans” would’ve had another case to champion and the election for 2008 would’ve been a slam-dunk. I’m soooo glad I didn’t get shot. Plus, I won our little office contest of "Can you top this weekend?"

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http://www.securitydriver.com/aic/stories/article-96.html

Man Hands

Just when I start thinking my drinking is in fact under control, it flares up again-like some bad rash or something. What causes it specifically? I don’t really know for sure, but then again if I look at the circumstances leading up to the times when I drink the most, those are actually preceded by some sort of intense-filled moment usually caused by family or by some relation of the moment. And how do you solve that? It’s not like you can trade, upgrade or decimate your own family and relations- well you could but that’s for another story.

Over the weekend I noticed something I hadn’t really seen before- GH pointed out that he had never noticed my hand veins stuck out, bulged out of my skin. I had noticed the actual veins, green and bulging before but didn’t think much of it, ‘till Saturday when I noticed that these only bulge when I am in a state of extreme excitement, usually the bad kind, the kind that sends the lower left backside of my head to doing it’s own painful dance. When I’m calm the green bulging monsters on the back of my hands and wrists are barely visible. When I’m calm I don’t have man-hands. When I’m calm I’m usually holding a PBR- is that bad?

So I’m trying a new thing: to not cause my veins to bulge as that is most likely linked to the high blood pressure my doctor warned about. But I find that I don’t have as much control over this as I’d like. Just reading certain things gets me going, talking to some people- the mere sight of them gets me going- but rather than going to pills for “controlling” this, I’m trying “alternative” measures, aka drinking more PBR or trying to justify/think clearly of the things/people/situations that cause my veins to overfill with my rushing blood- mostly just drinking more PBR though.

This was apparently in my thoughts over the weekend, cause I wondered if I still have man hands when I’m on the PBR, of course I usually don’t think to look or notice, but in between the pictures of the burlesque troop I saw this weekend, there were several of the back of my hands and they didn’t look particularly manly to me. So I guess my self-prescribed medication is working indeed. Who needs doctors after all? Don’t ask me in 15 years, I’ll probably already be in liver treatment clinics.

My chiropractor friend said that even though we have averages for everything some people don’t fit within these averages, bodies function at higher or lower levels, making each one different, special. That makes sense; I mean I’ve never quite fit into any particular category, why should my blood’s speed be any different.

Review #3

No- I don't want to come out and play

Of all the euphemisms people use in reference to going out and getting drunk, “coming out to play” is the one I hate. It’s fucking ridiculous for a bunch of “grown-ups” to go around saying “We’re going out to play” when they’re simply really saying, “Hey, we’re going out to some bar/restaurant/someone’s house and getting shitty ‘till we can’t see straight.” The same people who talk about "playing" are also the same ones who refer to weekdays/workdays as a “school nights.” What the fuck is that?

Yes, I remember school and I remember being sent to bed early and I can’t help but wish someone had told me back then that school was all bullshit and that you’re not really there to learn stuff of much use, but rather to spend the last few years of your “free” life in peace and relaxation instead of stressing about memorizing dates, equations, formulas and dates/events based on some delusional “writer’s” view of history and of what is really important. The FOIL method? Yeah I’ve used that several times to get me out of real jammed up sessions. The Pythagorean Theory? That comes in really handy when measuring for carpet in my asymmetrical rooms. Bacon’s Rebellion? Perfect for comparison with everyday events in Polar Rock, GA.

But how do you tell someone not to ask you to “come out and play?” Some things are better left unsaid, lest you hurt your friends’ delicate feelings, yes, all three of them. So take heed all youse who read this completely realistic account of my Life: Don’t ask me to come out and "play" with you. Ever. Instead just use your grow-up voice and words and say what you mean, “Let’s go out and get drunk already.” Or whatever else it is that you do and stuff.

Someone called and asked me to “come play” last night- thank God for the Clairmont Lounge; instead of hurting their feeling (no s needed- this person only has one feeling) I said I was going to the Clairmont. However, going to the Clairmont Lounge turned against me since I had vivid nightmares of giant, droopy, hairless, talking vaginas when I made it back home. There was one lady in particular who does not take her clothes off but simply stands infront of the unsuspecting patrons and continues to flash her danger zones while making licking gestures with her tongue until the patron is forced to give her a dollar bill in order to salvage what’s left of their retinas and make her go away. Thing is though, that once that patron gives a dollar she keeps coming back- and their only hope is that her set of two songs isn't The Wall and some other equally long song. Last night she did pick The Wall and some other long-ass song. I guess you don’t go to the Clairmont for edification and warm-fuzzy feelings or attractive-looking vaginas after all.

We went to meet “Blondie” a local celebrity, but she wasn’t performing, she was pimping out calendars or something, or maybe it was a book of poetry now that she’s also a bonafide poet. I guess she added Poet to her resume, right next to best-beer-can-crusher this side of Dixie title. Going to the Clairmont Lounge is just one of those things you have to do while in or around Atlanta.

The mix of performing artist is quite varied there, the young ones need a gym and less rough sex to diminish the bite-marks and various bruises along their gluteouses. The old ones need- let’s see what does and old nudie performer need? I wonder if the Clairmont offers benefits or a retirement fund of some sort?

One Funeral and a Wedding

I wonder how many of each happen in any given weekend and which one has the highest occurrence rate in relation to the other.

The funeral I couldn’t make- it was thousands of miles away, happened sort of unexpectedly even though she was to be a whopping 93 and it went very quickly. The great-grandmother is gone for good this time, separated by more than just physical mileage now. I am left wondering why she never did answer all my questions as to the course of her Life, thus my grandmother’s Life thus my own mother’s and my own. So many questions left unanswered. But she was from a different time, a time where everything was taboo, where inappropriate is not discussed but rather ignored, a time when it’s best to pretend that things were not as they really were.

I don’t necessarily buy the different time theory though- it’s more a mindset that defines a person, a family without time constraints in my view. I still see people right now- families that pretend what really isn’t there, that sugarcoat their existence and their children’s behavior for the sake of not looking “bad” to others I suppose. For who else are they kidding I wonder- they know the truth, the facts as they are really happening and yet choose to recreate them. Even if they change the facts, create their own facts, they know about the truth and knowing what they know is partly their reason for concealing or not revealing the truth.

I have created a story in my head about what really happened in the early 30’s. How my grandmother was really conceived, because there’s a lack of facts. No one speaks about it, some because they really do not know, others because they are following the great-grandmother’s lead to keep everything under wraps, out of sight. Why this inability to recognize and embrace the truth? Didn’t she realize that in keeping all these secrets she denied me of facts I desperately need to know? Then again it wasn’t about me; it was about her. But we are inextricably linked she and I. Didn’t she owe me the truth if I asked for it?

From her I’ll never know, the remaining link is my grandmother, but she is also thousands of miles away, physically and emotionally. She’s too entwined with Jesus, the Father and the Holy Ghost to realize what it is I need from her. She is burdened by the weight of her age and the nagging feeling that we, her family, are all going to hell because we are not embracing Christ. She has told me a few stories, stories linked to her past which I consider my own. Perhaps I’ll have the chance with her to hear what I need to hear, to reconstruct what really happened based on facts from her, which, I suspect, will be closer to the truth I now hold.

The other part of the weekend involved a wedding. The wedding was indeed everything you hear it’s supposed to be. Happy, flowers, dresses, champagne, good music, sweet vows, lots of tears, family and a whole cadre of the too-cool-for-school peoples gracing both the ceremony at the Botanical Garden and at the reception as well. Running towards the double doors as directed by the rent-a-cop on duty, we made it just in time to see the second or third bridesmaid walking up. Then the brides emerged and the ceremony started. It was very nice, inexplicably nice. I wonder if marrying couples hate standing by as the entire attendance to the ceremony mauls, paws and kisses them to death. They were very graceful about it, perhaps this is part of the rehearsal dinner and they knew what to expect and learned to just deal with it.

The reception started as all good wedding receptions do: with a long-ass line at the bar. No time for small-talk, no time for bathroom visits- people need their drink damn it! I oughta know I was in the first group of impatient alchies waiting for the next drop of fermented barley and malt. The rest of the night was spent harassing the brides, the photographer and other people I hadn’t seen in a while. The amazing thing was running into so many bartenders who are still bartending these days. Guess it still pays the rent. Perhaps I was never the star bartender I thought I was. I keep hearing how it’s such a lucrative career. I never saw it that way. It was an exhausting, tiresome neverendingdrunkenfest. And I’m not talking just about me either.

As the night progressed and the wedding script played on, it looked to me that perhaps it is possible to really love somebody- whatever that means, ‘cause love takes various forms in Life. Perhaps it was the fermented liquids swimming in my veins, perhaps it was the closeness I felt to some of the friends that were there. Perhaps it was my unusual exhaustion at mentally, sometimes verbally, ridiculing those I consider ridiculous. Who knows? There are still no solid answers in my head and it is perhaps that we’re not meant to always use our heads for Life.

Peeking Squalor

So yesterday I’m driving around town doing my usual ghetto-run. A ghetto-run involves doing inspections of mostly run down property in some of the most run down neighborhoods in the metro Atlanta area. While most of the time these ghetto-runs are uneventful, I sometimes encounter situations and/or people that make me think about the state of things overall. Yesterday I met Ms. Turner.

Driving down the industrial/deserted areas around Jonesboro Road in southeast Atlanta I saw her walking her bike alongside the littered road. I turned on a side road to inspect a house and up she pulls panting from riding her bike. She said hi and asked to speak with me for a moment, extended her hand with caked on grime to shake mine. I finished opening the door and shook her hand while she proceeded to tell me I looked familiar. I asked her what it was she needed to speak to me about and she proceeded to offer her services saying she didn’t care if I asked her to wash a car, sweep a driveway, clean something -she just needed a $1.50 for a can of milk for her kid. I hardly, if ever, carry cash so I told I was sorry since it wasn’t my house, didn’t live around there and could offer her neither cash nor employment. She said even change would do since “you have to start somewhere.” She also said that one day she started with .13c and ended up with $22- I guess that was a good day.

I rummaged in my car and purse and ended up with about .73c. While looking for change she told me she had nine kids. WTF? was my first thought. She proceeded to say she had her own four and her sister’s five kids, her sister currently at the Grady in a comma from a heart attack or something. She also mentioned that the house was more quiet now that there were nine kids than when there were only four. She thinks it’s because they have someone to play with now. She said it was hot out there on that bike trying to get enough money to feed her kids. She thanked me, got on her bike and rode off waving to the next door neighbor who simply looked at her without waving back. I wondered who was looking after her kid(s) that needed the can of milk while she was out there pedaling in the heat collecting the money to buy it.

Blowing Up

It’s great working for a rapidly-growing-planned-budget-exceeding-money-making company! Or so you’d think. (Yes, I realize some people don’t have access to jobs, but I’m not writing about them right now). Hate to keep bringing the penis thing up (well not really) but that’s what I keep seeing around here; that the simple, uncontrolled anatomical differences dictate my value as their employee. What am I in Kabul? Being the only nonmale in the department not in a fax-fetching, knob-polishing, data-entering, mail-delivering capacity I still deal with the lack of money aspect of it all, meaning my pay is not equal to the pay of those with attached penises that do the same work as I. Well, time feels short, another aspect of shelf-life in the work place I suppose- everyone has a limit.

Napoleon had a Sr. Management meeting this morning, which of course led to a department meeting afterwards. He recited a list of numbers -from net profit to year-to-date deparment contribution to current size of portfolio- all impressive numbers, all proving the importance/impact of this department on the overall company, hence the value of the peons that make up the department. Right? Great! “We’re doing great,” ‘cept I’m not. Yes, I know it’s a team effort. “We’re all bigshots,” Napoleon said. ‘Cept my bank account says I’m not. And yes, I know it’s not all about the money, I’m “learning from my proximity to the executives as I wouldn’t in any other banking institution,” but the bills won’t wait ‘till I collect on this “investment.” The mortgage company doesn’t care that my value will increase with time due to my being exposed to these great execs. They usually demand to be paid upon receipt. But that’s not how one approaches one's boss, talking about one's bills.

How does one approach the boss? If I listen to Suzy Orman, I should just work my ass off, have no social human contact whatsoever outside of work and allow my benevolent employers to notice my dedication and ardor for the company. She cited numerous examples based on some chick she tutored to become “financially secure.” According to her cockamamie theory, the powers that be will notice and will miraculously descend upon me with praises and unexpected raises if I follow her method. Right.

I am convinced she’s a plant by corporations. She’s a tool for them. I am convinced her stoopid Young, Fabulous and Broke bullshit conjectures were planned, created, produced and now broadcast/distributed by the Corporatti in order to brainwash her target audience into blind servitude for whatever company they happen to be in. I almost choked on a spicy peanut when I heard her say that one should never ask for a raise. Who the fuck is she kidding? Granted, one shouldn’t ask for one every month, but asking is what gets around these places. Negotiating with the boss is what gets you a ¼ of what one asked for.

Thing is -I expect a raise. I’ve been expecting it for quite a while. I’ve been hearing about it for yet another while. I already bust my ass. I just don’t wanna be the quintessential bride to an unappreciative, unrewarding, lowpaying company to then look back and say “I gave you the best years of my life.”

While I agree that “talent” and hard work are key ingredients in any company I also know that relying on those alone doesn’t get one far at all, because in order for those to work, those in charge have to believe and implement those thoughts/beliefs. And the reality is that those in charge pay much closer attention to the bottom line, their own pockets and their own amassing of wealth to the extent of often ignoring the needs of their employees.

I don’t expect a handout, it’s a two-way street: I work. They pay. And they should pay me, the penisless, the same as they do them, the penisowners, for the same work is all.

Need......Sleep........Please

It wasn't even the rollers. I just couldn't sleep. I should hit up one of my walking pharmaceutical company friends and put an end to it. Gaston put it best when he said "You never know how much you'll miss something until it's gone." Deep indeed- and he was talking about sex. That would've helped last night. A sex bout followed by deep sleep. His love/lust affair was short indeed. Even with his Venus-Mars shit the thing didn't work. Even though he followed tried and true protocol the affair/relationship was short. All that waiting 'till the gazillionth date before getting to third or first base- all a hoax obviously.

And now he waits. I asked him if he was gonna go back onto Match.com and he said no. Apparently there is some unwritten rule about how long he has to wait before he gets back on to the horse sort-of-speak since that is where he roams for "love" and the person who is no longer copulating with him is on there as well. They probably check each others' profiles and updates time and date incessantly to see when the other gets back in and on. I tell him he's just wasting time, he himself said she's an annoying little princess and he can't stand her anymore. Apparently she wasn't a spoiled little princess when she was blowing him though. Oh, the essence of true love. The beauty of waiting 'till the time is right.

Not even a string of bad movies put me out last night. Outland, another SciFi shitfest. If that's not the most unconvincing role for that old dude Sean Connery I don't know what is. The opening scene where he tries to be the dad to the chunky kid who's supposed to be his kid is hilarious. As is the message from his wife telling him she's going back to earth 'cause their child needs to smell real air and he looks at pictures of earth all day. Looks to me like the kid eats pop tarts, cheetos and random tubs of fresh churned butter all day though.

The best character was the cranky ass but funny doctor Lazarus. She's brilliant- she even figured out that "Polydichloric euthymol! Those stupid bastards are taking polydichloric euthymol!" simply by pressing the same button on an unplugged word processor fifty times. The euthymol being chronic Kool-Aid in sealed plastic condom enclosures. This guy Alen said; "In Space- No one can hear you yawn...." true but it still didn't fix my insomnia last night.

Formerly Fabulous

You can’t take GH anywhere, really. Sunday alone, the day of the Lord, we almost got into 3 fist-fights on account of his mouth, his disdain for etiquette and his inability to observe the “personal space” rules. First off he pissed off the lady with the pomeranian about Clark Howard of all people. We were at a bbq hanging out and the pomeranian lady starts talking about how she volunteers for Clark Howard and how stoopid the people that call the show are and Habitat for Humanity and the people with “bruised credit” and blah, blah, blah and out blurts GH: “I hate Clark Howard.” The conversation got even better after that: Iraq and all. The pom lady said how glad she was to have talked to a friend who is in Iraq working for Halliburton, how now Iraq is so much better off ‘cause people have toilets and such and out blurts GH: “Yeah, my whole family’s dead but I have a toilet!” I went inside to look for more shrimp after that- there’s no salvaging that conversation.

To round out the day of the Lord we ended up at the closest thing to church on a Sunday, The Earl. GH proceeded to violate the tattoo guy’s personal space. The tattoo guy who claimed to have “been on the scene” for 10+ years was sitting next to GH and had an intricate maze sleeve and GH thought it a good idea to actually touch the guy. WTF? The tattoo guy said he’d let him “slide this time” but that etiquette calls for NEVER, EVER touching or lifting someone’s shirt sleeve without asking. He also said that they’re having the best ever opening party this coming Friday and that GH would regret not going to the opening party and not having a VIP invitation to the grand opening and also that East Atlanta needs a tattoo shop where there is a high concentration of Highly Skilled artists because then East Atlanta will become a destination for tattoo getting people- yet another milestone for the cool place that is East Atlanta I imagine.

I know there was a third almost fist-fight I just can’t remember what it was anymore. All I know was that the plan, which sounded really great at the time, was to make it to the village early for a drink so that we’d all be home early since we all had to work on Monday. Well, early turned into after midnight I think and our neighbor ended up throwing rocks at a parking sign for no apparent reason other than he could I guess. He called earlier today apologizing for throwing rocks like a third grader.

I know that before we got too intoxicated to speak coherently, the new neighbor and I discussed shelf-life. Shelf-life is an interesting concept, mine particularly is about a month, two if in limited doses. But what are you gonna do right? It’s another one of those built-in things about people. The new neighbors claims that his is about three days but he’s wrong- he’s been around for like over five days already and I still think he’s pretty cool. The one's whose shelf-life is shortening at an alarming rate is GH's- he better watch hisself or else he's gonna end up in the divorcee category again, and there is no taking back someone after a second divorce is there?

N.O. Disaster

In speaking with several different people over the past few days it seems there is a very distinct line drawn as to how people feel about the New Orleans ordeal. Last Saturday I even had a very heated discussion mainly focusing on the response time by the federal government. My drinking pal for the evening kept reiterating that the local government was at fault for most of what went wrong with the rescue efforts or lack thereof. I mentioned there was not much of a local government after Katrina but still he says that FEMA, Homeland Security, Bush administration et al were not at fault that he could see. He has since read several articles and papers but points out that repairing the levees wouldn’t have made much difference and quoting a source in the Washington Post that Louisiana received the most funds in the country from the Corp of Engineers’ $22.9 billion budget. But then I imagine that Louisiana has the most levees in serious need of repair/update. But that is all beside the point right now, fact is the levees did not get repaired before the hurricane and here we are. My main point of contention on Saturday was the inexplicably late response to it all. Then this last Thursday a girl at the coffee shop mentioned that her friend that works for a relief/rescue organization was amazed at the fact that the news had up ‘till then mostly ignored the fact that the Red Cross and other rescue agencies were on the ground ready to go into the affected areas shortly after the hurricane and that the Feds denied them entry citing “legal repercussions.” What? That has since made it out on to the news but it’s beyond ridiculous to have had probably the most experienced people in disaster relief response right at the door and to not let them in citing non-existent legal ramifications and such. I’ve yet to hear of any Red Cross volunteer suing anyone in relation to any rescue/disaster mission.

He hasn’t read the “dry runs” there had been, namely hurricane Pam, citing the expected damages if a category 3 storm ever hit Louisiana. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say after he reads up on that- given that said reports are dated 2004.

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http://www.fema.gov/news/newsrelease.fema?id=13051

"I will find you."

My T.V. doesn’t get much use these days. It sits behind closed doors and regularly gets bypassed for use of the small stereo that can only play one C.D. at a time. This probably inadequate stereo only cost $50 at a fundraiser for the Tsunami victims and it works and it also gets radio stations if I wrap the antenna/cable thing on the closed doors of the furniture. Well, the T.V. comes with a built-in VHS player (I’m so ahead of time’s time) that I found out works! I didn’t know it worked until a friend came over for dinner last week. He brought along hisself and a handful of movies he had checked out at the local library. He says he doesn’t know why people spend money on that stuff, it’s free! It’s right there at the library and it’s FREE! Of the handful of movies only a few were VHS- gotta hand it to him for being so versatile, VHS and DVDs. We watched Bruce Lee: The Legend. I’ve been practicing my Kung-Fu ever since and it’s been over a week; I think my form’s improved greatly. Bruce would be impressed- too bad he died on Ping Li’s bed of “unknown causes.”

So what do I do with all this newly gained information of a working VHS inside my house? I break into a neighbor’s house and steal as many VHS’s as I can carry while running from his place to mine that’s what I do. I didn’t really break-in though, I have his keys and his alarm code and his password and access to all that he thought would be safe under my “watch.” He’s in Germany and Magadascar and France and Spain and who knows where else. Bastard! I hope he gets lucky though, that’s probably a thing to remember: getting lucky in Magadascar; he’ll probably be a “gentleman” and bypass it though- what a waste.

Movie choices in VHS format at the neighbor’s house were limited at best. I don’t really like StarWars. I’ve seen Last of the Mohicans enough times to last me ‘till my 11th life on earth since a highschool friend was in passionate-obssessive-high-school-love with the dude that played the real Indian in the movie, Uncas. She didn’t really like Daniel Day-Lewis, even though she went around yelling: “Stay Alive! I’ll find you. Wherever you are, I’ll find you. Staaay Alive.” She had the extreme hots for Uncas, Eric Schweig. She said she woulda jumped off a cliff too like Madeline Stowe’s sister if they took her Uncas from her. I think she used to make out with the VHS tape cover when she went to bed at night. Either that, or who knows what else she was doing making all that noise when we’d have sleep overs at her house.

Other VHS’s included in the collection I found were; Dunes, The Thing, The Hunt for Red October, some Stallone movies and a bunch of other stuff I don’t remember. So I watched LadyHawke. I figured anything with Michelle Pfeiffer in it couldn’t be too bad. Was I ever wrong. From the 80’s inspired “classical” soundtrack to the editing to the costumes/weapons to the speech. Holy Shit! I want my hour and change back. I mean I’m glad Navarre the Wolfman and Isabeau the Hawklady lived happily everafter but I still want my hour back. I wonder if Pfeiffer still lists this movie in her resume. I did notice that on the parts where she had to scream she tried very hard to emulate the shrieking of hawks. Hawks everywhere will certainly approve, as will the wolves worldwide should they ever hear Navarre’s angry growl at not being able to touch Isabeau, Pfiffer unless she’s in her hawk form. The special effects are amazing, specially the parts showing the eyeball’s transformation from fauna to human and vice-versa. Absolutely killer.

In the movie, I also got to see the beginning of Broderick’s training for Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, he plays a smart-ass guy who talks too much for his own good. Only in this movie, he talks to the Lord a lot and rather than having Mia Sara as the love interest he gets really close to Imperious, Leo McKern the drunken priest. Hmm, let’s see; a drunken priest who betrayed the secret of two young lovers, drinking excessively while alone with a young Mouse, Broderick; hugging the Mouse and standing extremely too close behind the Mouse while inside a church- what is this movie really about? I don’t know nor do I care. I lost an hour and some sleep, while adding more questions to my already overwhelming repertoire. I do wonder though, how Broderick ended up with Parker, perhaps I am confusing her character on her stoopid Sex and the City Show with her real Life persona. Ugh.

Trying to Help

GH called me last night in a hissy because I don’t care about his well being he claims. He is in Mississippi helping out with the dead- or trying to anyway. Since Katrina, his company had been unable to communicate with the local funeral homes in the affected areas and decided to deploy Atlanta funeral directors/embalmers/dead people handlers over to help out with the mounting casualties. So he and others from his funeral home got deployed this past Sunday. Those going along with GH did not have much information other than it “might be like a camping trip so bring your own sleeping bag- oh, and here’s a van fill it up with stuff you can collect from your neighbors and get down there pronto!”

So Monday night rolls around and he called complaining about his lack of real friends or even a soul who cares about his whereabouts or well being. What? I was busy finishing For Whom The Bell Tolls along with a bottle o’ wine my neighbor brought me from Chile last month! Jeeesus. Anyway, he reported that the medical examiner’s office is holding the majority of the bodies and so he and his Atlanta dead-bodies-handlers-posse haven’t done much. He says it’s chaos and no one knows what’s going on- for the most part. They finally got a call reporting 4 dead bodies on the roof of the K-Mart and off they went to retrieve them and do what they do, but they got there climbed up on the roof and there were no bodies he says. “Did you go to the right K-Mart?” I asked, he said it’s the only one in the area. Who kids about bodies on the roof of the K-Mart? Oh, yeah, people devastated by natural catastrophes, they have to have their fun too I guess.

So after the false bodies report they decided they all needed to bathe (not together or anything like that just collectively). The only place with running water, they were told, was the local prison. He said the shower facilities were extraordinary for a prison, green tarp for shower curtain and all. In addition to running water they made out with prison fried chicken. They hadn’t eaten for a ½ a day either so the prison chicken was good, although they threw the remnants away before they got back to camp- they were embarrassed at having had eaten prison chicken he said.

Moving

Even the best laid plans are sometimes bound to have inlaid faults. We are moving offices this weekend and although the plans and preparation have been in the making for quite a while now, I see potential for major fuck-ups in several areas- but hey, the big guys are in charge of logistics. That’s why they get paid the big bucks it appears. The big guys decreed three different days as “casual days” as an incentive to get people purging (no, not puking but rather ridding oneself of no-longer-needed-files-papers-and-random-stuff), packing and thus making a smooth move from our current office to the new one a couple of miles around the bend. Casual meant, allowed to wear jeans, capris, t-shirts but no shorts, sandals or tank-tops- thank Jesus we still adhere to some kind of standard, there are lots of peoples here whom I’d rather not see in shorts nor tank-tops. Two casual days have come and gone.

As with any relaxing of rules, people tend to overstep the casualness of it all and miss the entire point for being allowed to be casual to begin with, meaning lots of people dressed down but did almost everything under the fluorescent lights other than pack and purge or purge and pack. So now we’re down to –2 days and there’s shit everywhere. In addition to semi-purged file cabinets, piles of files 10 feet high, there are now zillions of orange crates everywhere, in every room, every corner, every hallway. Apparently the big guys heard from some employees that there seemed to be too many orange crates so one of them sent out a highly official memo stating that “While it appears to be an enormous number of the above crates, the number was calculated using a highly scientific formula which does not allow for inefficient packing.” I’m glad we’re putting our moving money (aka my bonus) to good use, highly efficient formulas- that’s big time!

There seems to be no end in sight. I am in charge of packing tons of shit/files no one seems to know what we’re required to do with. We asked our “compliance officer” and she said she’d “find out.” No word yet. To me that means one thing: shred baby, shred. Shred like it is Enron’s second coming and answer questions later. Really what I’ll do is pack everything and send it to storage marked for destruction in the year 2025, that ought to be more than sufficient time for those files to marinate in nothingness into thin air since I doubt they’ll ever be recalled from whatever dark warehouse they end up in.

And in the midst of all this- collections is raging on as it is also the last day of the month and the deadbeats doing business with our department continue to show us all that they have no intention of changing their ways, ever.

Review #2

The second annual Elvis Death Day was held at Variety Playhouse this year, I guess because Echo closed down. It was a good show, they had a local Elvis band open the show. The dude doing Elvis really thought he was Elvis- he had jet black/blue hair in the Elvis poofed style, we saw him outside in the daylight as he was trying to show some of the DamesAFlame how to enter the Variety properly. The opening Elvis was pretty cool he kept kneeling and singing to some chicks in the front row while the two chicks attempted some sort of rythmic movement to the Elvis tunes he was belting out.

Mike came out to a full audience it seemed like- the best part was his almost humble comment/thanks to the audience for coming out. Apparently he was worried about the actual numbers of people that would show. But, he needn't have worried, the Dames did a lot of promotioning all over the place before the show; they were @ Mary's and @ a bunch of other places handing out tiny flyers to anyone who'd take 'em.

It was a great show. Mike was his usual superstar self, the band was really having a good time while playing, the white dude palying the piano seemed possessed by some outer force as he moved his hands over the keys and the girl- the recently married girl- that sings along with Mike is superstar material herself. That and she had an Elvis face plastered on her super-sparkly-shiny dress.

And then the dames came out. Chinita's my personal favorite, it used to be I liked Luna, but now it is Chinita who's the queen of the Dames as far as I'm concerned. Chico was pretty cool too- he's been a great addition to the group.

The funniest part about the set-up was the VIP areas. That was a waste as the view wasn't that great since people piled-up at the front of the stage. It was filled with lots of interesting characters though, mostly from some geriatric ward from around town it looked like.

Next year, when the next show comes around, go see Mike and the Dames- surely he'll have other surprises to celebrate Elvis' legacy on planet Earth. As a matter of fact, go catch Mike and the Dames at one of their many intown performances, they're worth the time and money mostly every time.

Mountain Lions and stuff.......

Boulder is amazing- does not have a job market or anything, but I guess you don't go there for the jobs. A short week is definitely not nearly enough time to take it all in, just barely enough to leave you wanting more. It helps out to have recommendations from people that actually live there and enjoy the outdoors as finding the coolest trails doesn't come easy for the hikingchallenged. Luckily GH's* brother and his girlfriend live there and gave us enough info and overall help- we got to do lots and see lots given the limited amount of time.

While we were in the Boulder Park we saw a sign alerting hikers about Mountain Lion "activity" in the area. The sign simply said that if you hiked around there you should be familiar with how to handle Mt. Lions? WTF? What does that entail I wondered- does one get down on one knee and beg the illustrious Mt. Lion not to eat one? Does one run and scream like a madman? Does one growl in response to his/her growl? Does one jump on it before he/she jumps on one? Really; I musta skipped this class in highschool or something.

A little too late I learned that among the locals it is unacceptable to slow down anybody's process driving either up or down the mountains. Apparently the local etiquette is to pull into the pullout areas along the sides of the roads to let people pass. I figured I was driving way too fast, while trying to look over the edges, down the mountain already with the wet roads and all, and the asshole tailing me would just have to suffer- guess I didn't subscribe to the acceptable behavior. GH's brother said that the locals are really sick and tired of all the tourists and stuff to which GH replied that the tourists are probably a big part of the local economy so the locals should just suck it up.

The Rockies were busy while we were there, lots of people on the trails, breeders, Germans, old people...... We were supposed to make it to Sky Pond but ended up going in the opposite direction and making it to some lakes along the way- saw an elk bathing though. GH had to severely cut back on his smoking habit, he can't hike and smoke very well at the same time apparently, although he did perform quite admirably considering this trip was probably the most physically taxing event he has encountered since having to draw milk from his mother's breasts. It was raining cold, cold rain when we got there and then the rain suddenly vanished and it warmed up again.

The most amazing thing about being there hiking was the everpresent possibility of accidents- the danger, the closeness to steep falls, the rocky inclines. One false move and you're, well, trailkill. There was a tragic accident in the Rockies the week before we were there. A trained ranger died from a fall and head injuries, he is the first death in 90 years according to National Park Services news. It must've been his time to go like his mother said. Each night when we got home, I was awed that we'd made it back in one piece. Considering the crappy vehicle we rented, the closeness of the roads to steep enbankments, the lack of rails alongside the roads, the tiredness that slinks into one's body the further one gets from the parked car.

Colorado simply brought me back to the very real fact that I'm merely a minicule speck in the grand scheme of things if that. I can't wait to go back there- this time I'll bring the right equipment- the right shoes, jackets and a decent camera- oh, and someone who can actually keep up on steep hikes......

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*GH= Gay Husband