No Basta

How come it seems it’s never enough? I used to think, and still do occasionally, that I wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t fulfilling my true potential. That I wasn’t enough to anyone else and that in turn no one was or would ever be enough for me. And while these thoughts aren’t obsessive- anymore- they still do visit. I don’t know why I ever thought this since it is obvious to all who know me, that not only I am enough but also much more than necessary at times. Go ahead, ask. Your first stop should probably be GH, he knows all about it.

What reminded me of this was reading a blog by this girl in N.Y. I'm guessing from the content that she is young- her early 20's perhaps. I had to laugh a little bit when I read that she thinks she’s meant for greater things, something bigger. I realized that a large portion of the population thinks that at some point or another. We all think we’re special. And for the sake of our collective sanity I think it best to sometimes gorge on the thoughts that invade our minds and make us think that we are indeed better than, destined for more, geniuses in a state of suspension, at the brink of worldwide discovery. More.

Without these thoughts, how ever would we get through the avalanche of ads and messages that say we are supposed to be more, better, bigger, richer, grander? Without these self-serving thoughts how would we climb out of bed each morning? Especially on the mornings when we are gripped by the disillusionment that comes to all regardless of their Life stature- real or perceived.

The trick, I’ve found, is to volunteer; to take your mind off of yourself and your precious worth. Volunteer with old people, the ones that light up at the sight of strangers because they are so lonely and forgotten. Volunteer with groups that make parks pretty and clean, safe for the neighborhood’s kids. Volunteer with angry little kids that may kick you in the shins –hard- if you do not agree with their behavior and dare to voice it. Volunteer in hounding your county employees to put some resources in your own neighborhood’s historic but abandoned sites. Harass your HOA officers to do their job even if they too are volunteers. They signed up of their own will, did they not? Now work! I say.

Volunteer to help out at events that you are not running to gain free entry to functions where free wine and free food will flow for you. Volunteer is all. It’ll show you sides of things you never took account of before. It will make you feel better that you are not homeless and in dirty, torn clothes. It will help others as well, that’s always nice. It will certainly make you skip thinking of yourself just long enough to gain your sanity back. But most of all, it will place many points in your cosmic karma account so that if you ever should need any of the things you are depositing you will have some to withdraw. Like a savings account of goodwill and good acts of sorts; you may never need to withdraw from it but if you do there will be planty of. And it is never enough- keep depositing.

Additional Accomplishments

So to the list of evil doings I’ve accrued, I can now add BabyKiller. I’ve been confirmed- or so I’ve been told. This month was especially tough for collections; people had all kinds of excuses for not having paid: I donated a kidney. I’m out of town. My infant daughter was in the ICU. My wife’s got cancer. The property is sold.

Really? Well, like Napoleon would say: “Was all this happening on the first of the month when your payment was due?”

Today I got a call back from someone who is 3 months behind, this is a couple that has a history of late and bounced checks, not counting several maturities on the one loan that have come and gone. We’ve lowered their interest rate, we’ve extended their loan several times, we’ve cancelled foreclosure on their loan twice and the list of trying to help them goes on. Their usual M. O. is; they stay clean for about two months and then their cycle of lates and near foreclosures begin. This means endless calling and emailing them on my part- a part of the job I do NOT like at all, especially when I do not get a call back. Not only does this portion of the job make me sick mentally, it also makes me sick physically as it raises my already crazy blood pressure numbers to unmeasureable digits. My at-home-blood-pressure-monitor goes blank, it does not go as high as the blood racing thru my arm runs, it simply reads -------. I’m no doctor, but that can’t be good, then again, I’m still here typing nonsense so ---------.

This lady finally called me back today and said she does not like to get “yelled at,” although my voice was not raised, it sounded highly annoyed I am sure but there was no “yelling.” I told her that if she answered her calls as any responsible adult would I would not have to waste my time calling her. She continued on and said that she “just didn’t want to get into” all her problems. But she did anyway. She told me that she just lost a baby they’d been trying to have for three years now, she’s about to get laid off from the phone company she works for, she had a car accident last week……

Well, what do you say to that? That has nothing to do with me or the fact that she got into a deal that she is now unable to handle. This is where the line gets confusing to say the least. While I am truly sorry -if in fact she has been going thru all that- all her problems still have no connection to her responsibilities and assumed debt. I suggested that she sit down and map a plan as to whether this investment is really what she needs to be doing since it is obvious by the lack of payments received that she cannot afford it nor properly handle it.

And you notice that I mentioned a couple, where is this husband of hers? Dodging calls and letting me know, thru his highly intelligent voicemail message that he’ll call me back “at his earliest convenience.” The times I’ve spoken with him, he has said that she "was supposed to take of that, let me call her and I’ll call you back.” That the whole thing is her responsibility and I should really be calling her not him.

So, either she’s a really good story teller and can spin a hell of a tale or she has a shitty-ass-man for a husband who doesn't make the least of efforts to help given the latest developments of her Life as told by her. Either way she’s not doing too well in my book. But that still, apparently, does not absolve me of my new charge on this job: BabyKiller.

Careers for Me

So every once in a while I get these random calls from GH in the middle of the day telling me a crazy story about his day or about a crazy "patron" call at his place of employ- the "The Best Forever Rest Mortuary." These calls, when answered by the answering service, are recorded and therefore playable for recounting at any time.

Today the funeral home answering service received a call from a woman who wanted to know what she should do since she knew she was to "die for sure by tomorrow noon." Should she pin a note on herself advising the body removal people how to bury her? OR should she simply dress herself and drive herself to the the funeral home and wait while she "died slowly" at their place of business?

She asked if there was anyone to speak with at the funeral home and when told they would have someone call her back later in the day she replied: "Groovy," which leads me to believe that her "message from God" that she was to die "tomorrow by noon," was in fact delivered by her bad batch of acid purchased from some squalid doublewide already missing the underpinning and wheels.

And I wonder if I should change careers, forget this whole bank thing and maybe work as a phone attendant at a funeral home so I can reinterpret messages "from God"to random callers and simultaneously advise them on what to wear, whether pants, or skirt, T-shirt or Tuxedo top, magenta or periwinkle undies, hair pinned up or teased out. The possibilities are endless, the career fascinating.

I'm not gonna pay that much for that muffler

I run out of books once in a while and if I’m feeling rather cheap I will not buy a new book until I see something I think I just have to read. I am at that point today and don’t have but two very uninteresting books that will do nothing but waste a few hours off my Life. The good news is I bought these books at the Goodwill for next to nothing, hardcover again. The bad news is I was probably still recycling the drinks from the night before when I made said purchases ‘cause these books suck!

I already wasted a good 6 or so hours reading the biography of Jacqueline Susann. It looked like a good idea at the time of the purchase. Don’t ask why but it did and I bought. Did I learn something from this book? Well, yeah- that some people will justify just about anything after you die, they will create good reasons for your shitty behavior in Life and gloss over every fuck up in your Life as long as you are dead.

She was crazy the woman; in denial of being Jewish ‘cause it was much cooler to be Catholic- I guess she hadn’t heard about the priests gallivanting with their underage parishioners at that point. She was a firm believer in fucking anyone other than her husband, especially glam girls and drunken comedians and short fat producers and a lot of other people that I lost track of, so many names, and so many dicks. And the rather crazy part was that the whole biography makes it sound as if good ol’ Irving, the husband, didn’t know she was fucking ½ of New York, ¾ of Hollywood and 1/8 of Philly. And reportedly she didn’t even like sex. How’s that for being proficient at something you don’t like?

I have this other book, A Very Private Woman, about one woman in DC who was rumored to be one of President Kennedy’s affairs. It said something about her being very bored throughout her Life and her alleged contacting the guy who developed LSD so she could have her private stash. I guess it’s nice to have connections. Then again, maybe not since she was murdered and her murder remains unsolved to date.

So I am left with very few options when I am up here in Charlotte during the week. I contemplate going out somewhere, maybe the pub down the street or the bar that allows you to bring your dog- I’m sure my poor, bored she-dog would much appreciate canine companionship but that means I’ll probably have to make friends with her canine companion’s owner and I’m just not up for much socializing in the Queen City y’all. I know- I need to get over that- but I have my own ways of justifying my behavior here you see, I am saving money by shutting myself in every week night- plus my liver thanks me every day Monday morning thru Friday early evening. The liver stops talking to me in friendly tones at promptly drinking time Friday nights.

Which brings me to my point for this entry, I now have access to someone’s non password wireless connection nights at home so I can check out these blogs I’ve made part of my reading every once in a while. And I am finding lately, a lot of them talking about dating and people using dating services and online sites and such. I do not understand this. I read it, I break it down mentally but I do not understand the concept of the ads and the paid dating services. I mean there are so many annoying people in your daily Life that get introduced to you live and for free so why pay for this? Why can’t you just find out that they suck and that they are not qualified to be your partner in anything live?

I was reading this one blog from a DC chick and I guess for minute there she thought she had a boyfriend and then he told her he’d been doing other people even while she was doing him. And now it’s over and she sounds surprised and hurt. Why she’s surprised I don’t know. This scenario isn’t any different from how people behave when you meet them live and or for free. Trust me I know, I think the problem comes in when people hook up and just assume that the recipient or purveyor of the penis is doing them only.

But that is so not the case. I don’t get that either but it is true. I gather that the way to circumvent that from happening is to actually have a discussion about it before getting into bed to do the actual fornication. I mean, assuming you trust the person somewhat and trust that this person with whom you are about to fornicate so that your sexual being doesn’t shrivel up and die, will tell the truth (and if you don’t somewhat trust anything coming out said person’s mouth then why in the hell are you trusting that person with your invaluable gift?) You can always skip the interview but then don’t act surprised or hurt when you find out that the person is actually more sexually exposed than you thought possible. I don’t know where these little manwhores find the time to do all these chicks but they do, they do. And vice-versa- I know, but since I actually don’t do girls like that my observations are biased to include guy’s behaviors mostly. So either the question is asked- and if the answer is “yes I am fornicating frequently and with numerous peoples” and you are not happy with that and/or you cannot “share” then- bypass the fornication and find someone else or resort to your trusty self. But you can’t be genuinely hurt, you just can’t, or you shouldn’t anyway.

Maybe I need a break from reading these blogs or maybe I need to switch to blogs with different content. Maybe I need to get back to work.

Callate!

I am so tired of everyone talking, writing and discussing the heat. Yes! I know it’s hot, thanks for pointing that out. If you hadn’t gotten yourself so used to fake cold air you wouldn’t be suffering so much. Deal with it and stop talking about it. It messed up your hairdo? That’s terrible! It made you break out like an unwashed juvenile? So sad.

I know some of you work physically demanding jobs and running around in the heat sucks. I also know wearing a suit in this weather sucks as well, but stop incessantly whining about it, it’s not gonna make the sun any less hotter. Write about something else already I’m tired of visiting my favorite blogs and reading about “oh, my a/c broke, oh I have Ass Swamp, oh it is really hot.”

Just wait ‘till winter though, then my whining begins: “It is so cold. I am freezing my balls off. Hypothermia just kicked in- I felt it on my left toe. I think I’m dead and living in Siberia.”

Old & Unnecessary?

I went on a shopping spree the other day- no; nothing that extravagant it all took place at the local Goodwill store. They had nothing I wanted except for a few books I paid cents on the dollar for- hardcover too! My Life is so exciting at times- how do I stand it all?

I had been running short on reading material and decided that rather than racking up a huge bill @ Barnes or Borders or other very expensive book stores here in lovely Charlotte I should buy used books to last me for the next month or so. So I did. Problem is- I think I read all I was really interested in reading. Some of the books I bought I bought because I thought I needed to expand my genre. I bought books such as the autobiography of Gloria Vanderbilt, five pages into it I started skipping around to see if there was going to be anything interesting in it. What the hell? So her mother sucked. She had an evil aunt and she fucked up a lot at a very young age under the guise of matrimony. Whooping fucking hoo! Am I supposed to feel sorry for her, cry for her on the inside or what? Her first husband used to call her fat or something- that’s extremely painful- I know I hate it when people call me fat even if they are right. Still- so what? Stories like that don’t grab me, they make me mad- mad that stories worth hearing/reading get published/grabbed/paid for on a much lesser scale than do these “pity-me-tell-all-stories.” I know, I know. Augusten Burroughs said that “sadly horrendous” stories are easier and better to read- like staring at a wreck. I have no time for these self-pitying fools.

I also bought the autobiography of Hillary Clinton and a book called Jewish War, neither of which I have opened yet. Instead I read When you look like your passport photo it’s time to go home. Although I have yet to start my traveling career, I liked reading Erma Bombeck; I remember hearing about her as I was growing up but her humor was beyond me as I had neither children to rear nor a husband to “take care of.” I find her funny and witty- a combination I much admire and somewhat envy. I may have to buy some of her other books to get more acquainted with her writing style. Am I getting old or what?

Not that getting older is a bad place to be or anything. Did I tell you I’m like wine? (And not the cheap kind if you were wondering). Getting older has its rewards; I now own lots of pieces for a more festive wardrobe if you will; pieces with lots of sequins, lots more loud colors. I now buy more sensible shoes too- I haven’t reached special-order-orthopedic-shoes, but give me time is all I ask. I also question my athletic abilities and no longer show up at athletically taxing events untrained and ready to go. I find myself simply skipping those and quickly justifying my absence to anyone who’ll listen. I’ve also attempted delving into the budgeting world full force lately- seems I’m too lazy to master that right now. But I’m trying to cut all unnecessary expenses, which is proving rather difficult, just today I wasted $6.75 for Talladega Nights. I did save though- I used my ancient student I.D. card.

Discovering Nothing New

My two young nieces spent the week w/ me in Charlotte- so I had to change my usual schedule somewhat. They are 9 and 11 and pretty self-sufficient- still they are kids and kids need constant supervision and food and entertainment and stuff. Good Lord! How do these people do it? Having 2-3-4-5 of them at the same time!

I don’t have a T.V. at home which they found incomprehensible beyond all things, I don’t like a/c window units which they found hotter than hell- even though the little angels can’t possibly know or imagine anything about hell- and my dog didn’t particularly like them much which they found really sad and scary since they kept wanting to feed her, pet her and play with her, but were constantly met with guttural growls that scared them silly.

Still all ‘n all they had a good time and wanted to come back this week and once more suffer the vicissitudes I imposed on them simply by their acceptance of my last minute invitation to my work week 250 miles away from my and their homes. They have already planned their next visit.

I had planned to take them on a daily afternoon walk but only made it out one time out of the 4 afternoons they spent here. One of my nieces does not particularly care to walk more than necessary to do the few things she considers absolutely essential. Besides they walked up and down the T.J. Maxx store and the Target store plenty when we went shopping.

One afternoon we made it to Discovery Place here in Charlotte. I discovered nothing; I found the displays lame, boring and irrelevant to anything you’d want a child to learn. Perhaps I am biased because I like Atlanta more than I’ll ever grow to like Charlotte, but I remember Fernbank Museum as being much better, not to mention the other places in Atlanta that actually have live creatures to examine and such. I still have not made it to the Atlanta Aquarium and after viewing the specimens trapped in miserable existence at Discovery Place I doubt I’ll like that place much when I do visit it. Perhaps I read Axolotl one too many times but I found myself trying to make a connection with a Stingray that I swear was looking back at me trying to tell me something: maybe something along the lines of “PLEASE HELP. SEND A RESCUE PARTY. NEED TO GET OUT. NOW.” Just as I was connecting with the Stingray trying to decipher his obvious message thru his confining glass wall a young kid, a volunteer patrolling the place, announced it was time to leave as they were closing shop for the day. I may have to shell out another entry fee in there- maybe next time I can crack the trapped Stingray’s call for help.

We went around the whole place except for the “Rain Forest” display- that display closed early for the “sake of” the animals in there. It was a sad impression of a half-assed rain forest recreation. It could not have looked faker had they tried. I think greasy, highway restaurants with their fake leaves and stuffed birds and plastic animals do a better job at recreating a “natural” space.

I wonder what the parallel universe looks like, the one where unsuspecting humans are just going on about their business when suddenly a huge net descends upon him/her and there goes his/her whole life condemned to existing in wretchedness behind a glass for all to see and forget about a few seconds after walking by.

The funny thing was that the girl’s favorite part of any of the exhibits was a mechanical one put together by Honda I believe. It was a system of pulleys and different stations made to resemble a factory where a bucket of sorts transports beads onto a conveyor belt which then transports the beads to another container which then somehow leads the beads back to the beginning- they spent way too much time on that one and actually had fun.

Towards the back of the aquarium exhibit we found Nemo. I am sad to report that Nemo would have been better off with the devil child with the humongous braces from the movie. Nemo did not look happy- and there’s a picture of him to prove it. Sadly we were unable to capture a picture of Dora- she was camera shy. Good thing she has short term memory loss disorder- she can constantly forget her miserable little blue life in that small crappy tank with the fake coral and fake algae.

The other thing that was worth going there for was the traveling movie exhibit; they had video of actors on make-up chairs with before and after pictures of attractive people being converted into monsters and dead bodies. They also had the models used in several movies; the buildings used for the fictional city in one of the Star Wars movies, a shoe box filled with q-tips being fanned from underneath to simulate a giant stadium filled to capacity with humans and creatures for the same movie. They also had Catwoman’s outfit and other “actual” outfits worn in several other movies. That kept the girls busy for a little while too.

I’ve always thought kids were hard work- I was right. I know-that’s not surprising.

Soup

By: TVAS

There was this old man that lived by the train tracks in this very small, semi-dilapidated house. He lived with his dog and no one else. He favored cooking his nightly meals outside in a tin coffee can over an open fire, usually a soup of some kind which he always shared with his dog since he never had enough to buy dog food and besides, dogs always prefer what humans eat- or so they say.

By day the old man roamed the area around the tracks and surrounding desolate streets collecting whatever scraps of metal he could find. Once he had exhausted himself and the day’s finds he’d trek on over to the Metal Scrap Company LTD, weighed the day’s catch, collected whatever the going rate was for the day and headed home to his small house and expecting dog. He rather liked the solitude, the quiet around the tracks- those particular tracks were no longer the veins of commerce, several lines still used it occasionally but for the most part the tracks were quiet, cold and unused.

His life went on collecting scraps, selling scraps and making his nightly soup- he thought of nothing but the moment. Until one night while sitting by the fire waiting for his soup to come to a full boil he saw a car speeding towards him, the car barely staying in control while bumping onto the tracks and off the tracks, trying desperately to stay ahead of the pursuing group of police cars. The old man barely got out of the way before getting killed. While the car flew by his side, the occupants threw out a bulky package. The cops must not have noticed, the old man thought; they never stopped and never came back his way. They weren’t very bright, the cops in St. Louis, or maybe they were just too busy with bigger and better deals than what a scrap metal collector could ever imagine.

The package contained several kittens and lots of money, so much money that at first he was too scared to think about what to do with it. He finally settled on a few things he’d like to do; buy the latest Corvette- the 1963 he’d glimpsed while scrounging for metal scraps- and the Metal Scrap Company LTD. He felt he’d spent his life haunted by the place, living for the place, eating because of the place- what better way to spend the money than to buy the Metal Scrap Company LTD?

So he bought the company and made some needed changes; made the payment for scraps fair market value for the ones bringing in the scraps, made it compliant with the latest safety regulations, made the buying and selling of bulk metal a smoother process, and cleaned up staff and warehouse for the safety of all employees. He promoted a few employees that took pride in their work and who respected those that worked for them as well as the metal scroungers.

Once he finished his realigning of the Metal Scrap Company, LTD he decided he’d spend time with his long time friend the dog and the newly added kittens. He’d take the kittens and the dog for short rides here and there on his 1963 Corvette. Eventually his old friend the dog died of old age, reluctantly the dog finally settled by the old man’s feet one night and let out its last breath. The old man was beyond sad, for he had shared his everything and nothing with his friend the dog. He collected some of the best metal scraps from the warehouse and commissioned a magnificent statue of his friend the dog and delivered it himself to his old haunts by the railroad tracks where he’d boiled so many tins of soup to feed himself and the old dog. He placed the statue next to the old train tracks with a small plaque that read, “Dog- dearest old friend.” He then fetched the kittens from the backseat of his 1963 Corvette and placed them all in the big pot he’d brought with him and proceeded to have him the last pot of soup he’d ever have- assorted kitten soup du jour.

Weird

Weirdest dream this was; I running up a rocky hill and a girl pretending to be a guy-bagpipe-player-dude was there while I was being chased by a smelly, horrible, horrible poodle...

Absolute Poison

It had been a while since… a while since I had indulged in reading- no wait, in looking at fashion magazines. It all started at Harris Teeter in Charlotte. I had run out of books and had memorized every add in the Creative Loafing, even the Back Page Adds. And there she was! I saw a People magazine with a huge picture of Angelina on the cover and I had to pay the ridiculous fee for the magazine just so I could look at it closer and see what it is that makes her so beautiful; as if I could gleam the formula off of an airbrushed, lifeless page of the secret of beauty itself. So I bought the magazine, stared at the picture for a while, leafed thru the rest of it- the whole while feeling slightly dirty, except when I was looking at the Angelina pictures- and no secrets were revealed- no alephs came in to sight. Maybe I didn’t stare long enough.

And then the real problem started, the poison was literally free and being offered in bulk and pristine condition. It begged to be taken home. Some neighbor at the condos had graciously left piles and piles of fashion magazines neatly laid out on an old desk by the corner. All I wanted was my mail so I could pay bills within a decent timeline. But the magazines kept taunting me and finally I gave in- I took about 10+ magazines: MarieClaire, Vogue, Style, Cosmopolitan and a bunch of others I can’t remember the name of. And page after page it was the same shit over and over.

“Isn’t this perfectly airbrushed celebrity awesome? Well isn’t she?” yelled the crackling pages as I kept turning them and turning them. And the next page: “Well don’t you want to do something about the wreck that is your face, and let’s not mention that thing you call your body. I mean really isn’t it time you did something about it? For goodness sake you should be shamed to be seen with that sorry excuse of your whole physical thing you insist on lugging around -torturing all those that must look at you while you’re out there!”

And more poison still: “You want to fix it right? Smart girl! Buy this cream, shave here, tweeze there, pluck your nose hairs, sew this in, put plastic there and there, zoom this, tighten that, mud-masque those, pedi that, color these, cut all those, blip the other…..bleach Where?!?” And on and on it goes. Wanna look pretty and yet powerful? “Women of the world unite.” Meaning, “buy this bullshit diamond ‘cause it’ll mean that you are your own woman, ‘cause you’ll make your own decisions.”

“You want to be hot, right? Buy this skirt, and then this brand, those jeans and then that shirt, and of course that belt and don’t forget the ‘It’ bag. And don’t dare be caught without those torturing contraptions we call shoes.”

I had stopped looking at fashion magazines a long time ago even at waiting places opting for a book or just staring into space- which is safer than looking at these pictures that have such a hold and influence on so many people, even me, the great resistor.

Magazines, or should we say marketing is such a powerful tool it manages- thru billions of dollars in hammering away the frail shell of self-esteem, self-respect, self-regard- to dictate living choices for people in a sadly enslaving, dulling way.

And the writers, sorry, contributors for the magazines? While tongue in cheek at times, way too serious at most- with one stating that she doesn’t care how painful, uncomfortable and unhealthy dehairing herself might become; she is completely taken by the illusion that the least-haired of the women are the fairest of them all. That with less hair there is on a woman’s body; the more attractive, powerful, cosmopolitan and in control she’ll be- or something like that. To whom I wonder though? I’ve always wanted to believe that there are better people out there- the ones who are not utterly consumed with counting visible body hairs, wrinkles, gray hairs and all the such that goes with “undesirable.”

I know- there are other poisons we all subscribe to, but still those other poisons aren’t constantly eroding the person you really ought to be. Sure, one poison might be scarring your liver, shrinking it to the size of a wilted lemon, but it brings some benefits while you’re at it, good friends, good times and a good roll in the hay sometimes. If you live in the country. With sheep. And cows. And maybe horses. And a barn where you might indeed need a lot of hay.

Ban Wigs From The Workplace...Please

We work with this lady. She wears a wig. All remote offices have to deal with her at some point each day. She is the epitome of everything that’s wrong within the company, with corporate America for that matter. She, as L eloquently put it, “is too busy to do anything, yet wants to touch everything.” At a moment’s notice she can produce, effortlessly, a venomous communiqué- email, memo, phone call- to tell the recipients in no uncertain terms that they are in fact worthless pieces of rat shit too stupid to live. Yet she can’t be bothered with customers’ concerns and or problems that are sitting at her desk waiting resolution because she is too busy and she is already working most weekends and can’t even ever have a real vacation because her phone rings every two minutes when she is not at the office.

I guess we should look at the bright side and give her points for consistency. Unless she happens to be in a particularly-rare good mood and feels like shooting the breeze and/or sharing how much her “staff sucks;” she is consistent at pissing people off, making them cry, and feel the uncontrollable need to quit. She hired most of her sucky staff. She continues to decrease their level of productivity by constantly berating them and stampeding through the general area while coming or going from her office. She screams often enough her staff pretends they can’t hear her. Her staff, or most of it, has taken their legitimate complaints to her boss, Napoleon, my boss. His answer? “Just ignore her. You need to grow thicker skin.”

All this in plain view and what do the other big whigs do? Let her interview and hire more people of course. Avoid confronting her about her abusive and unacceptable behavior in the office. Avoid disentangling the snare of messes and problems she has created directly and indirectly through her absurd behavior. Did you say we were going public? Great! We’re ready for the big leagues- bring it on!

Report To Deport

Listening some more to different opinions on what to do, on how to solve the “immigrant problem,” I heard this one guy, speaking for the Minute Men, say that he thinks the right and fair way to do this, is to get all the undocumented to report to the Department of Homeland Security and register. Those who report will be given a specified amount of time in which to “settle” all their affairs and “liquidate” all their assets and leave the U.S. for good. Those who do not report and register, if and when caught, will lose everything and be deported immediately.

Let me get this straight- you want people that are currently living “under the radar” to willingly come to this agency, give up everything they have and just walk away from a lifetime of work and whatever hardships they’ve overcome? I wonder what this minute man’s idea of a “fair amount of time” may be. Three months? Six? That’s probably too generous. Who would benefit from this arrangement but the people that would buy properties and life possessions at an otherwise non-available low price anyway? Let’s not forget though; the illegals shouldn’t be here to begin with: end of argument.

Let’s do forget that some of our own, long-enforced policies are the very cause of the current migration patterns. Let’s forget that some of the countries that are currently producing the largest number of migrants are the very same countries whom our policies- economic and military- irrevocably damaged.

I once spoke to this lawyer about legal status and such. His position was so irrational it left me wanting to pummel him, but hey, violence is not the way- I know. He claimed that people here illegally had no right to ask for anything regardless of their background and/or reason for being here. He said being here is akin to walking into a bank and robbing it simply because the bank did not lock their front door. “What are you talking about?!?” I managed to ask him. He continued with his ridiculous analogies further equating illegal entry to the U.S. with other crimes that had not a shred of relation to the subject then at hand.

The amusing thing is that these rather radical thinkers equate the U.S.’s position to that of Israel and their “prevention of terrorist attacks.” I won’t delve into that since I’m no Middle East expert at all nor can I pretend to be one- even for this post. I’d like to see the numbers of terrorists that have, to date, infiltrated the U.S. through the Mexican border. Fact is; most people crossing are looking for jobs and to otherwise escape unlivable conditions. Should other projects be started to cause people to stay home and make a go of it? Yes, certainly. Migration as it stands today is destroying small towns, communities and families at the core level. Without a core base there is nothing. It’s all intertwined. People want to feed their families, they need a job, and they need money. Money that is not available to them locally. Parents are leaving their children at an alarming rate. Children are venturing to the U.S. and dying along the way. Fencing the border will not work, people are desperate enough -they will find an entry point every time. Until corruption can be somewhat mitigated and the economies of these flailing countries rebuilt in some sort of meaningful way, there will be no true reduction of incoming people looking for better opportunities.

I specially like how this whole campaign to seal the border is pimped out under the guise of patriotism. Do they not see the hypocrisy of it all? Where was all this land love when they illegally, forcibly “removed” countless Mexican families from their rightfully owned land? There is too much history not taken into account here. The U.S. sits on its high moral horse when it comes to disciplining and making other nations “do the right thing,” but they continue avoiding to clearly and rightfully address their own.

Yes, let’s make Lebanon apologize and financially compensate the families of that flight. Let’s make Swedish banks distribute the confiscated wealth of the Jewish population during Hitler’s reign of terror. Let’s do all that, it is the right thing to do.

So these people that are supposed to take up the great offer of reporting for deporting? I think they’ll take their chances, don’t you?

What's Not To Love

The Queen City Rocks! You all...

Boycotting "Ceenko Duh Maio"

Since immigration policy or lack thereof has been on the news- lots of people have been talking about it incessantly; mostly around work where a lot of us spend long hours with people we wouldn’t necessarily hang out with otherwise. It’s amusing to hear some of the conversations though. Specially the part when the speaker censors him/herself depending on who is standing by the proverbial water cooler. If there are “Latinos” around then, they don’t say things like “they should all go back to where they came from”- the person abstains from giving a forceful opinion.

I was sitting at my neighborhood bar last Sunday, day of the Lord, and this guy was saying how all “they” want is free services and welfare and all that. How misinformed can you possibly be? Where do these “facts” come from? I couldn’t resist- I had to jump in and tell him that that was not in fact what these demonstrations have been about at all. All- most of the undocumented immigrants- want by and large is to be able to work without having to continually worry about whether “la migra” is coming for them that day or the next. Furthermore, what brought on these demonstrations was the passing of the bill that says that any undocumented person within the U.S is now a felon. I used to work in a Doctor’s office in a highly immigrant area of town in Atlanta. The Doctor was Chinese; his clientele was made up of Korean, Vietnamese and Spanish people, relatively new to the U.S. The majority of these people paid cash. Every time.

Granted, there are many mothers I’ve seen using the WIC program for their children born here, but there are also a large number of undocumented people paying federal, state, Medicare and social security taxes into a pot they will never collect from. This should more than cover the services other undocumented immigrants are dipping into. Speaking strictly of Mexican immigrants, I remember reading about a program between the U.S. and Mexico in the 1940’s for guest workers, where millions of dollars were placed into some sort of trust that these workers were supposed to be able to collect from after their term in the U.S. ended and those funds were never paid out. Where is that money? Where is the money these people using false documentation are paying? Where is the money employers are matching for these false documents?

Why are we only focusing on the one side of this story? Why, with all the available information out there, are we still relying on sources whose only purpose is to divide, inflame and wrongly sway public opinion? Is it really human nature I wonder?

GH’s co-worker just informed him that she is boycotting “Cinco De Mayo.” This in solidarity with all real Americans I suppose, to “show that America’s still in charge,” she said. That’s right; don’t drink any margaritas or tequila shots. Don’t get wasted at your local Mexican joint, that’ll show ‘em! Fuckin’ Messicans.

Yes, America is great, there are great people here, and it is a great country where opportunity abounds. But we didn’t get here through all good means. How we got here isn’t as simple as building a 700’ wall. It isn’t as easy as rounding them all up and placing them on outbound planes, buses and trains. It is a long, at times unpleasant history that cannot be ignored. It is, at the risk of sounding dramatic, destiny. What else did we expect to happen?

Hot Bike Messengers

Misconceptions

They’re out there. Everywhere, everyday- they are inevitable. Why do most of us fall into them, aid them and abet them? Because we’re trained to do so, relentlessly preached to- daily. Was that redundant? Good.

Like my cousin for instance: he is under the impression that riding a bike is embarrassing. He’ll drive a death-trap-jalopy-with-expired-tags-and-incontrollable-exhaust-problems (which landed him in the eslammer), but he can’t be seen riding a bike because somehow that diminishes his manhood. WTF? Apparently it is very uncool to ride a bike to places in Miami, which I find curious ‘cause I just read an article that stated that Miami is one of the listed “bike-friendly” cities in the country. How is riding a bike worse than driving a jalopy? And what exactly is “manhood” to him I wonder. Isn’t manhood the capability of handling your own business honorably to the best of your abilities? Isn’t it respecting others as you’d like to be respected? What do I know though, I don’t have a penis- remember? Some of the hottest dudes I’ve ever seen are avid bike-riders, riding to work, errands and stuff. And part of the “hotness” isn’t only the fact that they are usually in much better physical shape than your average car-driving dude (jalopy or newest released vehicle), but their seemingly relaxed outlook on Life, from the relaxed clothes to the attitude. Maybe I’ve just met the really cool guys that bike.

Like dressing for the office- in Atlanta the big-whigs do not allow anything less than “business casual” when it comes to dress policy (according to their Memos)- and business casual varies just a little bit based on the various outfit chosen by the the little people running around there. Countless times the big-whigs have sent out highly urgent memos; which are heeded for about a week after their distribution date; detailing what ladies can and cannot wear to work. Still some “ladies” insist on wearing their “club shoes” up into the Bank, and others insist on sporting their house-shoes while at the Bank- one in particular used to just go around barefoot. Ewwwwh. Noone wants to see your freaky-ass toe ring and irisdescent purple toe-paint. Please! Can’t we instate a closed-toe shoe policy in here? I mean, already it's forbidden for people to wear tank-tops, isn’t forbidding open toe shoes and sandals the next obvious move? Does it really matter what people wear in the end though? Does a suit make you a better banker? Full disclosure: I do have a soft spot for a man in an immaculate suit, down to the cufflinks and the buffed shoes- NO tassels though- ever. But realistically speaking, it seems- and again feeding my own misconceptions- that a guy that needs that much time simply to cover his nakedness EVERY morning would just be- not my type at the end of the day.

Like dating people and stuff- just ‘cause I’m sleeping with you doesn’t mean I love you, and conversely just ‘cause I love you doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with you. I mean who keeps reinforcing these misconceptions, oh yeah- I do it too. Damn! I’m gonna quit though- I swear. How does dating get so complicated? I think it’s due, in part, to all those estoopid books and “advise” out there. And then there are the people dating, reinforcing these misconceptions every step of the way. I won’t call her for a week- that’ll make her want me. Yeah? That’ll make me want to punch you next time I see you. Did I mention I’m a little bit violent? Vas once said to me; “I was told to always leave them wanting more.” That, after my observing that he wasn’t putting out enough. Who in the world would say that to him? And why? Perhaps a bitter friend or ex, trying to stunt his emotional and overall growth as a man thru copious sexcapades? If I were a guy, my motto would be to always leave them so satisfied, that they would barely keep their hands off of me the next time they saw me. Then again, I’d do so many things differently if I were a guy. Why, I could even stand over any toilet I ever encountered if I were a guy, don’t you know?

Driving Thru Carolina

Bethany's Hula Girl

At My Earliest Convenience

I usually try to disregard this portion of people’s voicemail or answering machine message. WTF does it mean really? Isn’t it self-evident that you will return the call whenever it is convenient for you? Is it really necessary for you to have this self-serving group of words on a receiving voicemail? Really. We all know you’re busy. We all know you're successful. We all know we don’t merit a second of your time due to your level of superiority in whatever market you happen to work in, really we do.

It’s usually the same people who continually try to use .50c words they can’t pronounce much less spell. It's usually the same people that try to cover up whatever shortcomings they have by attempting to sound “sophisticated.” See, I just did it- I could’ve just said, “trying to sound smart,” but attempting and sophisticated sound loftier, more important, more worthy of my status. It’s usually the girls who walk around smacking gum and being otherwise very professional in their field.

It's usually the guys who are so full of shit in business, life and everywhere else -their own mothers can hardly stand their stench. At my earliest convenience; the stench is unbearable. I don’t know exactly when it started but somehow it caught on quickly, suddenly all these voicemail messages have the signature of “At My Earliest Convenience.”

Kinda like the ear-thing with cell phones now. These thousands of peoples walking around with that thing implanted onto their earholes. Who are they waiting to hear from I wonder? The only time I’m acutely aware of my phone usually involves expecting a call from some hot dude I happen to be infatuated with at that particular point in time. Business? It can wait. There’s no deal that cannot wait a few minutes, hours or even days if the weekend is involved. However did people manage without cell phones I wonder? How did business ever get done? How did money ever get made? Traded?

It's like the people who have the "Have a Blessed Day" signoff on their messages. The rule in our main office is: if you hear that "run, the loan will go into foreclosure." While funny and nonsensical the first time I heard that, it has proven fact several times already. The preacher-bbq wing seller-investor guy with the Jesus Christ Is Lord cap stopped making payments. The lady who blesses you each time she leaves you a message and each time you leaver her a message suddenly decided Jesus no longer wanted her to service her loan. That's my guess anyway 'cause after a while even her phone bill must've been a barrier between her and the Jesus- as it is "unable to receive messages."

It's like the gaucho pants everybody has started wearing. I guess random people heard the phrase on someone else's machine or voicemail and a light shone bright in their head: "Hey! That's a smart message. Sounds Good! I'm gonna put it on my machine." And so it went until it reached pandemic proportions- I hear it all the time it seems. Whatever happened to "As Soon As Possible," or "Soon," or even nothing at all?

Long gone. If you need to get in touch with me I'll get back to you at my earliest convenience 'cause any other time will just not fit my schedule, style and/or carefully crafted persona.

And yes, other people have written about this but hey, it's my blog and you read this far.....

http://jbrooksdann.typepad.com/anecdotal/2006/01/how_convenient.html

Knight In Flashing Lights

Outta Gas. Not like in tired physically spent- more like: Out of Gas, gage pointing well below the “E.” That was me. On the side of the interstate. Sitting like a dumbass. Trying to play the dumb girl card. Calling the rental car company. On the side of the road. Car swaying as the semis flew by. Sitting in the car.

That was yesterday, and as much as I regret to say this, I am now part of that large group of idiots who have run out of gas while driving on the expressway. There is no explanation. No justification. Simply the knowledge that you are indeed a jackass who ran out of gas while driving. On the highway. Who’d’ve thunk it? Me, as smart, debonair, cosmopolitan, brilliantly brainy- sitting there with no gas in the tank.

So for all of you who’ve yet to join this moron club- here’s how it goes.

Driving down the interstate with the flow of traffic, about 75-80 mph when all of the sudden the Jeep starts slowing down even though my foot has not let off the accelerator. I pressed the accelerator even deeper, nothing. The car was still slowing down. I was in one of those alone-bubbles one sometimes gets into while on the interstate, no traffic surrounding the immediate area. I pressed the accelerator for the third time while turning off the radio and the heat to listen for the engine; complete silence- still slowing down. I looked down at the gages and the “Low Fuel” signal was staring at me brighter than the North Star.

Noooo. Never, I can’t be out of gas- I couldn’t possibly do that. Denial- always the first step when one joins any moron club of the week. But there it was, clear as the fact that I’m still not a man trapped in a girl’s body (even though I keep trying to fool myself), the gage was at least 5” below the “E” for “EMPTY.” As in “NO GAS” left in here idiot. So I rolled to a gentle stop just past the line onto the narrow right hand shoulder off I-85, 10 miles south of Greensboro, NC. What to do? I don’t know anybody anywhere near Greensboro- don’t really know anyone in NC to begin with. Well, it’s a rental, I thought; let’s see what they can do. So I called Budget and the guy answers the phone all nice and sweet like. I tell him I am experiencing car difficulties, his car difficulties. He asked what the problem was and I, still in denial, told him I thought I might be out of gas. I know he smothered a contemptuous laugh- I just know it. I probably would’ve laughed out right. He paused and then said he was sorry but that the car problem hotline for their rentals was strictly for mechanical issues. Well couldn’t you argue that the car’s mechanical parts were not functioning thus not moving me at the wanted speed to get me to my destination? Apparently not; outta gas does not qualify as reason to send out a tow truck and/or a rescue mission. He offered to give me the number to the Greensboro Budget office to see if they’d be willing to do anything. I called that office and simply said I needed a tow truck due to mechanical reasons. He didn’t ask for specifics and I didn’t offer. He took down the information and said he’d call me back. Nothing. Turned the key one more time; cough, cough, cough- no go.

I sat there trying to think of anything else to do. Since I was working, heading to a property to see an actual customer I figured maybe I could call one of them, they’re builders and stuff; drive around in big trucks with all kinds of shit on it. Maybe- just maybe one of then had a gas can full of gas just sitting around in their truck. You know, just like I have wads of cash lying around on account of I work for the bank and all. I figured it couldn’t really get any worse so I called the guy whose project I was heading to, he said he wasn’t around the area but that his contractor, Mike, was and he’d have him call me. Oh, well. I figured I’d let the tow-truck and or Mike rescue me and take it from there, when suddenly I look over to my right and there’s this shining, yellow-bright truck with flashing yellow and white lights and a knightly-looking gentleman shooting me an inquisitive look, rolling down his chivalry-laden window. After composing from the initial confusion, I rolled down my window just in time to hear him ask: “Having a problem?”

What-to-say-What-to-say-What-to-say?

“I think I’m out of gas,” came the asinine response from my reluctant mouth.

The hero got out of the flashing truck. Walked over to the back. Put on an electric orange jacket. Went to a compartment and retrieved a magical little red can. With Gas in it. I stepped out to talk to him and thanked him about a thousand times. Told him I could no longer make fun of stupids who ran out of gas while driving on the highway. He smile and poured some more gas into my tank. Yes! I’m saved. I watched him finish, feeling completely ridiculous, hoping none of the speeding semis would hit him or his truck or the Jeep or me, so we wouldn’t be crushed to death at such an anticlimactic point of both our lives. He placed the gas cap back onto my starving tank and sent me on my way. He told me to go to Exit 119, where I’d find the nearest gas station. I thanked him again and shook his hero hand. Got back into the jeep. Called Budget to cancel the tow truck, told the guy I had “gotten the car started again.” Called Mike who was supposed to be on his way but was still at Home Depot and flew over to Exit 119- where I was most excited to find a Citgo and most excited to feed the starving Jeep to get me off the stupid list.

Behind the Eightball

Do you ever feel like you’re behind the times, the works, the world? No? Well then, it must be just me then.

Thinking everything’s caught up and even ahead I leave the office after dark each weeknight I spend here in Charlotte, yet- somehow, somehow more work piles up during the few hours I am gone and when I get back it’s like I haven’t been here in months. How does that happen?

It’s the idiot customers- wait- I said I’d be nicer, more patient with the customers…. Can’t always keep those decisions I guess. Everyone has an emergency, everyone wants their deal closed yesterday. Never mind I’ve told them their lack of planning doesn’t make it my emergency. Never mind I’ve told them to forward me the deals as soon as they know they intend to buy, never mind all that- it’s unintelligible stuff to them even though they vigorously shake hands and heads while in my office. Do I not speak clear English these days?

Add to that, the nearly uncontrollable mania Napoleon harbors of wanting to know every detail every minute- even if he is in Hanoi. It gets crazy in here- unnecessarily crazy, unnecessarily hectic.

“No, you are not Trump, it really matters not if your deal closes or not in a week. Perhaps you should’ve considered your deadline while you were shopping it around for a month before you finally brought your deal to me- to be closed in a week even though you still haven’t brought me all the documents I asked for.”

Every investor thinks they’re gonna hit it big ‘cause they’re so smart and they go to investor meetings and they buy investing tapes and DVDs. But it’s not really all their fault they get to me sometimes- it is a combination of many things at once.

Add to that having to take out the piling bags of garbage from the already crowded hallway at my front door simply because Gay Husband doesn’t want to take out the garbage anymore. What’s his problem? I mean c'mon I'm only back at home two days at a time- there's barely any time for other stuff as it is! He says he’s been telling the neighbor that he refuses to take out my garbage while I have a boyfriend. He refuses to take out the garbage while I spend my time getting busy.

Thing is I don’t think I have one- a boyfirend that is. Sure, Vas and I have been hanging out a lot but does that make him my boyfriend? I mean shouldn’t he ask, send a note, sing a song, send a flower or something?

How does one know for sure when one is or isn't a boyfriend or girlfriend for that matter? I refuse to leave it in the “you-just-don’t-talk-about-it-you-just-know” category. Doesn’t that just cause more problems- or rather confusion? Isn’t easier to actually say it, ask it? Or does saying it “kill the magic?”

I don’t recall having had a boyfriend in grammar school. Wait! I’ll take that back, now that I think about it I seem to remember a little boy who lived at the end of my street who coulda been my boyfriend. He once asked my grandmother if he could be my boyfriend and I think she said yes. That must's been before all her thoughts and all she was got eaten away by the jealous love of JesusChrist her Lord. I sat on the front steps of our porch with that little boy a couple of times too- so I guess he was my boyfriend. Plus I have a picture of us at the park where we’re kinda leaning into each other- so he was definitely my boyfriend. So see? My point remains- somebody has to ask somebody for it to be official.

I can see it now, Vas will come in and with a very grave look on his face- while holding a pint of Moosehead- will have to ask GH if he can in fact be my boyfriend. Then GH will turn away very dramatic like and bite his bent index finger while desperately wrestling with the questions racing thru his fevered mind. He will turn to face Vas, they’ll squint at each other and simultaneously turn away. GH will traipse over to the balcony door, whip his head back, march out onto the deck, fumble for his lighter and a camel light (left over from his drunken stupor at the Gravity the night before) light it and inhale it deeply; a look of unspeakable torture never leaving his face.

Meanwhile, Vas will remain indoors- impatient, angry even at having to ask. “I’m a grown man,” he will think to himself. He will finish his Moosehead and reach into the fridge for the only remaining beer- the Fishizzle Snizzle the Captain brewed and gave me for Christmas.

Oooh, I can’t wait- maybe I will have a boyfriend in 2006!