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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