Karshner triplets! Karshner triplets!! Karshner triplets!!!
(see, I figured I'd say it THREE times....because, see, they're TRIPLETS....eeeyeah.)
Okay, anyone who ended up here solely on the basis of having searched for "Karshner triplets" or "Cingular commercial", and who are now quite-likely pissed beyond all reason.....it was Anonyboy's idea. Go kick HIS blog's ass. :)
Goodnight, Gladys.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
What a Mess
Well, I have gone and made an ass of myself again.
Yesterday, I came home from work and called my mom. She wanted me to look up something on the Internet, so I sat down at the computer.
A window was minimized. When I opened it, this is what I found:
"Hi miss lady. U is a hottie. Can I get to know u better sweety? What's your name? Mine is L______. Talk to u soon, i hope."
This was in a "send message" window, next to a picture and a personal ad from a 31-year-old redhead.
My heart started pounding. I mean, I could hear it in my ears. Uh-uh--I'm not going through THAT again, I thought.
I picked up the phone and dialled LJ's cell number. When he answered (obviously just waking up from a nap--he was at his mom's house), I read exactly what was on the screen in front of me. I waited for a moment, and when he said nothing, I hung up the phone.
A couple of minutes later, he called back. "Now what was all that?" he asked. "I just woke up."
I read it to him again. "Now, that's almost EXACTLY word-for-word a copy of the first message you sent me...with that in mind, you wanna tell me it was Raj wrote that?" I asked him.
"No, it wasn't Raj--it was Marcus and John this time. They was on the computer, but then I had to get out here and they gave me a ride to the El, and they must have left that open. So what did dude say about the car?"
Oh no you don't, thinks Gladys. I am NOT going to let him derail the rage train. "He said if we can get out there tomorrow he'll give us another loaner. I mean, I can take care of that....if I know I'm not getting PLAYED...."
"You still on THAT? I told you, it was Marcus! I ain't even ON that computer like that. I mean, I might get on there to check some NBA stuff, but I ain't on there like Marcus, to holler at bitches..."
I choke back some well-placed feminist sarcasm to focus on the matter at hand.
"Yeah, well, what about the name?"
"What you mean?"
"They used your name. I mean, your NAME name."
"What, you mean L____? Girl, that ain't my name..."
I looked. He was right. It was close, but it was definitely not his name. But when I saw it, as pissed as I was, apparently my brain wasn't making little distinctions like THAT.
"Goddamn. You're right," I told him. "See, THIS is what happens when I panic. I turn into an idiot."
Actually, it was a good thing, in the end. Apparently seeing me make an ass of myself freed LJ up to say a few things that had been on his mind, about my style of communication: basically, when something bothers me I say nothing, but then he comes home after a hard day and finds a note bitching about whatever-it-is. (In my defense: the notes are FAR from bitchy, and not as frequent as he claims--but I totally see his point. As he said, "Here I am, coming home where everything's supposed to be all good, and I walk in the door and find a note and I'm like 'awwww, shit.'" Which, when I think about it from his point of view, makes perfect sense.)
This afternoon, when he finally came home, I said to him, "In case I didn't make myself perfectly clear last night: I'm sorry about yesterday. I made a total ass of myself."
He laughed. "I ain't even studyin' that," he said.
For the record, in case this comes back to bite me in the ass: I am not entirely sure I believe him. I would LIKE to believe him; I'm just not sure I do. Every time a man has told me to believe something that contradicts the evidence, it's turned out that I've been right and he's been lying. I have never yet caught LJ in a lie, however, and so I'm inclined to let myself believe. Time will tell, and in the meantime I'm going to be a little more cautious than usual with my feelings.
Yesterday, I came home from work and called my mom. She wanted me to look up something on the Internet, so I sat down at the computer.
A window was minimized. When I opened it, this is what I found:
"Hi miss lady. U is a hottie. Can I get to know u better sweety? What's your name? Mine is L______. Talk to u soon, i hope."
This was in a "send message" window, next to a picture and a personal ad from a 31-year-old redhead.
My heart started pounding. I mean, I could hear it in my ears. Uh-uh--I'm not going through THAT again, I thought.
I picked up the phone and dialled LJ's cell number. When he answered (obviously just waking up from a nap--he was at his mom's house), I read exactly what was on the screen in front of me. I waited for a moment, and when he said nothing, I hung up the phone.
A couple of minutes later, he called back. "Now what was all that?" he asked. "I just woke up."
I read it to him again. "Now, that's almost EXACTLY word-for-word a copy of the first message you sent me...with that in mind, you wanna tell me it was Raj wrote that?" I asked him.
"No, it wasn't Raj--it was Marcus and John this time. They was on the computer, but then I had to get out here and they gave me a ride to the El, and they must have left that open. So what did dude say about the car?"
Oh no you don't, thinks Gladys. I am NOT going to let him derail the rage train. "He said if we can get out there tomorrow he'll give us another loaner. I mean, I can take care of that....if I know I'm not getting PLAYED...."
"You still on THAT? I told you, it was Marcus! I ain't even ON that computer like that. I mean, I might get on there to check some NBA stuff, but I ain't on there like Marcus, to holler at bitches..."
I choke back some well-placed feminist sarcasm to focus on the matter at hand.
"Yeah, well, what about the name?"
"What you mean?"
"They used your name. I mean, your NAME name."
"What, you mean L____? Girl, that ain't my name..."
I looked. He was right. It was close, but it was definitely not his name. But when I saw it, as pissed as I was, apparently my brain wasn't making little distinctions like THAT.
"Goddamn. You're right," I told him. "See, THIS is what happens when I panic. I turn into an idiot."
Actually, it was a good thing, in the end. Apparently seeing me make an ass of myself freed LJ up to say a few things that had been on his mind, about my style of communication: basically, when something bothers me I say nothing, but then he comes home after a hard day and finds a note bitching about whatever-it-is. (In my defense: the notes are FAR from bitchy, and not as frequent as he claims--but I totally see his point. As he said, "Here I am, coming home where everything's supposed to be all good, and I walk in the door and find a note and I'm like 'awwww, shit.'" Which, when I think about it from his point of view, makes perfect sense.)
This afternoon, when he finally came home, I said to him, "In case I didn't make myself perfectly clear last night: I'm sorry about yesterday. I made a total ass of myself."
He laughed. "I ain't even studyin' that," he said.
For the record, in case this comes back to bite me in the ass: I am not entirely sure I believe him. I would LIKE to believe him; I'm just not sure I do. Every time a man has told me to believe something that contradicts the evidence, it's turned out that I've been right and he's been lying. I have never yet caught LJ in a lie, however, and so I'm inclined to let myself believe. Time will tell, and in the meantime I'm going to be a little more cautious than usual with my feelings.
Everybody Out Of The Pool
And this afternoon, the sky opened up, the sun beamed down, and choirs of angels sang, to the tune of Handel's Messiah:
"BOB the Plumber! BOB the Plumber!"
That's right, folks: he was actually HERE.
And he brought Dave, who is now my new best friend.
Dave is a retired carpenter. Dave not only EXACTLY endorsed my plan of how to fix the bad joists, but then spent the better part of an hour telling me all the things that were wrong with my house and how easy it would be to fix all of them...and THEN giving me decorating advice. And it was GOOD decorating advice--not the sort of thing you would expect from a mid-50's biker-looking dude from Albany Park.
Before he left, he even told me: "Yeah, you've got some problems here--but they're all repairable. Your structure is solid, and once we get this problem upstairs fixed, you'll never have to worry about THAT again. So don't be discouraged."
That, above all else, was what I needed to hear.
"BOB the Plumber! BOB the Plumber!"
That's right, folks: he was actually HERE.
And he brought Dave, who is now my new best friend.
Dave is a retired carpenter. Dave not only EXACTLY endorsed my plan of how to fix the bad joists, but then spent the better part of an hour telling me all the things that were wrong with my house and how easy it would be to fix all of them...and THEN giving me decorating advice. And it was GOOD decorating advice--not the sort of thing you would expect from a mid-50's biker-looking dude from Albany Park.
Before he left, he even told me: "Yeah, you've got some problems here--but they're all repairable. Your structure is solid, and once we get this problem upstairs fixed, you'll never have to worry about THAT again. So don't be discouraged."
That, above all else, was what I needed to hear.
Licked
Things have come to a pretty pass when a grown-ass woman can't eat an ice-cream cone in a public street without being subjected to the seamier side of human nature.
This morning was my monthly trip to the methadone clinic. Since the loaner van hadn't magically self-repaired, it was public trans for good ol' Gladys. I didn't mind too much, actually; that trip is pretty painless, just a Blue Line and a Red Line.
After my appointment, I did what I usually do when I go to the clinic on a Saturday morning; I go and get myself a soft-serve cone from Jake's, over by Montrose and Sheridan. It's a habit I got into when I lived with CR; I'd get my ice cream, then I would walk home, or as much of the way home as I felt like walking. It was my one peaceful time of day.
So today, I'm walking up Sheridan, with the object of getting back to the Wilson El stop and heading back south in time for the tow-truck driver to get the van. And as I am walking, I am eating my ice-cream.
I have walked less than a block when this young guy, walking in the opposite direction, grins at me and says "Damn--I wish I was that ice-cream cone!!"
Now, I'll admit it--it was kinda funny. I'm not a particularly lascivious ice-cream licker, but there's still a definite sexual undertone to the very act of licking. So yeah, I laughed. And kept walking.
Half a block down, I realize: This guy is FOLLOWING me.
"Why you laughin'?" he asked. "Is it that funny?"
"Something like that."
"So...you in school around here?? Truman???"
"Nope...I'm a looooong time out of school."
"Well, all I'm sayin' is, I wanna be that ice cream cone, but you won't let me..."
"I think my boyfriend would have a problem with that," I say.
"I won't tell him!"
"I think he'll figure it out," I let him know.
Apparently that convinced him. (The weirdest thing about the whole experience: it was a WHITE guy. They almost NEVER look at me.)
Then, as I'm waiting to cross Broadway, this little teeny African-American woman comes up to me--I'm not sure if maybe she was homeless, or maybe had some developmental thing going on--but then SHE starts.
"Ice cream good?" she asks me.
"Oh yeah," I say.
"What is that--chocolate and vanilla?"
"Mm-hmm," I say, around a bite of cone.
"I looove vanilla," she tells me.
I am not sure what I am meant to do with this information, but fortunately the light changes at that point, and I just smile and walk on.
I'm thinking of switching to some less-Freudian treat.
This morning was my monthly trip to the methadone clinic. Since the loaner van hadn't magically self-repaired, it was public trans for good ol' Gladys. I didn't mind too much, actually; that trip is pretty painless, just a Blue Line and a Red Line.
After my appointment, I did what I usually do when I go to the clinic on a Saturday morning; I go and get myself a soft-serve cone from Jake's, over by Montrose and Sheridan. It's a habit I got into when I lived with CR; I'd get my ice cream, then I would walk home, or as much of the way home as I felt like walking. It was my one peaceful time of day.
So today, I'm walking up Sheridan, with the object of getting back to the Wilson El stop and heading back south in time for the tow-truck driver to get the van. And as I am walking, I am eating my ice-cream.
I have walked less than a block when this young guy, walking in the opposite direction, grins at me and says "Damn--I wish I was that ice-cream cone!!"
Now, I'll admit it--it was kinda funny. I'm not a particularly lascivious ice-cream licker, but there's still a definite sexual undertone to the very act of licking. So yeah, I laughed. And kept walking.
Half a block down, I realize: This guy is FOLLOWING me.
"Why you laughin'?" he asked. "Is it that funny?"
"Something like that."
"So...you in school around here?? Truman???"
"Nope...I'm a looooong time out of school."
"Well, all I'm sayin' is, I wanna be that ice cream cone, but you won't let me..."
"I think my boyfriend would have a problem with that," I say.
"I won't tell him!"
"I think he'll figure it out," I let him know.
Apparently that convinced him. (The weirdest thing about the whole experience: it was a WHITE guy. They almost NEVER look at me.)
Then, as I'm waiting to cross Broadway, this little teeny African-American woman comes up to me--I'm not sure if maybe she was homeless, or maybe had some developmental thing going on--but then SHE starts.
"Ice cream good?" she asks me.
"Oh yeah," I say.
"What is that--chocolate and vanilla?"
"Mm-hmm," I say, around a bite of cone.
"I looove vanilla," she tells me.
I am not sure what I am meant to do with this information, but fortunately the light changes at that point, and I just smile and walk on.
I'm thinking of switching to some less-Freudian treat.
Friday, July 30, 2004
"Bob the Plumber" Update
Yesterday: "Well, see, Dave called me and he said 'Seriously, I ain't tryin' to jerk you around or anything' and he PROMISED that i can pick him up around noon tomorrow and we can go out there...I mean, I'm not even WORKING right now, I've got nothing else to do, but I don't want to go in there and fuck up your house--'scuse my language--because I know YOU don't want that and besides, I've only got fifty grand worth of insurance. So I have to wait on him....but we will definitely be out there tomorrow and I'll call you when I get there."
Today: "I called Dave and he says we can go out there tomorrow, around 10 or 11...What time do you get up??"
I think, in the world of Bob the Plumber, the week has exactly one day. That day is "tomorrow".
(Do you know what a force of will it is taking me, at this moment, not to make an egregious "Annie" reference??? Well DO you??)
No takers, yet, on my Bob the Plumber when's-he-gonna-show-up pool. Maybe if I throw in a bonus--if you can name the excuse for a given day, you get double your money....
Maybe this weekend I'll go home and build something. That sounds like fun.
Today: "I called Dave and he says we can go out there tomorrow, around 10 or 11...What time do you get up??"
I think, in the world of Bob the Plumber, the week has exactly one day. That day is "tomorrow".
(Do you know what a force of will it is taking me, at this moment, not to make an egregious "Annie" reference??? Well DO you??)
No takers, yet, on my Bob the Plumber when's-he-gonna-show-up pool. Maybe if I throw in a bonus--if you can name the excuse for a given day, you get double your money....
Maybe this weekend I'll go home and build something. That sounds like fun.
Still More Fun With Trains
Today was supposed to be my car day. (I get Mondays and Fridays, LJ gets Tuesdays and Thursdays, we alternate Wednesdays, and weekends go to whoever needs it more or is awake earlier.) Anyway, at 2 AM, I am prodded awake by LJ, who informs me "You need to call dude tomorrow about that van, because I was tryin' to park it just now and it died. I can't get it started and it's parked all bogus and shit...I think it's the alternator or the battery or somethin'." (This is the loaner, a 1993 Chevy Astro with all the horsepower of a sick mealworm. The 'Ho is in the shop, apparently getting its wires pulled.)
Well, I reset my alarm to compensate for the twenty minutes' sleep I was going to lose by taking the train; then this morning I got up and left at my usual public-transportation-day time.
"Parked all bogus and shit" was actually a bit of an understatement--the van was not only askew as though it was in the process of being parked, but the windows on both sides were also open. Not a cool thing, in my neighborhood; I mean, I don't subscribe to the media illusion of the "murder capital of Chicago", but there's some shit you just don't do here--and on that list, if you plan to keep your radio, is "leave your car windows open."
Anyway, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it at 6:30 AM, so I left for work.
And once again, the Train Gods came out with the Wacky Stick.
I am sitting, as this scene opens, on a bench at the Quincy stop. The Quincy stop is at the southwest corner of the Loop, and serves the Brown line from one platform, the Purple and Orange lines from the other. I am waiting for the 7:18 Purple Line train.
At about 7:12, as I am sitting there trying to stay awake, I become aware that One Of Those Things You Really Don't Expect To See is occurring across the platform.
An African-American man, about 5'7" or 5'8", is on the opposite platform. Two things about this gentleman make him stand out from the crowd, however:
1) He is not standing on the platform, but sitting on the edge, lowering himself down onto the tracks; and
2) He is wearing a ski mask.
Casually, he high-steps over the rails, making his way across both sets of tracks, and arrives at the other side safely. He boosts himself up and commences to pacing the platform, mumbling to himself. Meanwhile, I'm looking towards the station itself, wondering if any CTA staff had seen what happened, or whether they were going to do anything about it if they had.
They hadn't, or weren't, and didn't. The next train--an Orange line--pulled in, and Ski-Mask Man got on and sat down, still wearing his mask. I was glad it was the Purple Line I was waiting for.
"And that's the end, right?"
Yeah, right.
I'm on the train, finally, with no ski-maskers in sight, so I do what I normally do on trains: put in my earplugs and go to sleep. Around Loyola, however, I am awakened by a familiar, distinctive, and much-despised sound: the "BLIRRRP!" of a Nextel walkie-talkie phone.
Immediately following the "BLIRRRP!", a static-clotted voice is heard, and then the response of the phone-owner. He's a young, professionally-dressed African-American male, and it is SO OBVIOUS that he wants us all to be impressed by the importance of his position. After all, if he wasn't important, no one would be "BLIRRRP!"-ing him at such an early hour. I mean, no one is "BLIRRRRP!"-ing anyone ELSE on that train car; so CLEARLY that makes him the most important guy there.
Now, mind you, I still have my earplugs in. And these are pretty solid earplugs; they silence the noise in the street below my window at night, and they once blocked out Jay-my-plumber's-kid's "so-loud-your-ears-will-bleed" whistle. But apparently, one thing they will NOT block out is high-pitched phone chirping and low-pitched Extremely Important Conversations.
The next fifteen minutes of my life:
"BLIRRRRRP!"
" :::static static, barely audible word, static::::"
"mumble mumble, audible word or phrase, mumble mumble"
"BLIRRRRP!"
I open one eye and look at the guy sitting sideways nearest me; he is watching Walkie-Talkie guy with a palpable loathing. He glanced at me, commiserating, with a look that says some people!.
My sleepy euphoria, inspired by having found an ally in this situation, was short-lived.
No sooner had Walkie J. Talkie gotten off the train at Howard, than my supposed ally's left hip started ringing. "Hello?" he said, again loudly enough to overwhelm the capabilities of earplugs or the mind of mortal woman.
Mr. With-Friends-Like-These continued his conversation for the rest of my ride, and probably beyond. And all I have to say, to those who feel that the world is their phone-booth:
"BLIRRRRP" you.
Well, I reset my alarm to compensate for the twenty minutes' sleep I was going to lose by taking the train; then this morning I got up and left at my usual public-transportation-day time.
"Parked all bogus and shit" was actually a bit of an understatement--the van was not only askew as though it was in the process of being parked, but the windows on both sides were also open. Not a cool thing, in my neighborhood; I mean, I don't subscribe to the media illusion of the "murder capital of Chicago", but there's some shit you just don't do here--and on that list, if you plan to keep your radio, is "leave your car windows open."
Anyway, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it at 6:30 AM, so I left for work.
And once again, the Train Gods came out with the Wacky Stick.
I am sitting, as this scene opens, on a bench at the Quincy stop. The Quincy stop is at the southwest corner of the Loop, and serves the Brown line from one platform, the Purple and Orange lines from the other. I am waiting for the 7:18 Purple Line train.
At about 7:12, as I am sitting there trying to stay awake, I become aware that One Of Those Things You Really Don't Expect To See is occurring across the platform.
An African-American man, about 5'7" or 5'8", is on the opposite platform. Two things about this gentleman make him stand out from the crowd, however:
1) He is not standing on the platform, but sitting on the edge, lowering himself down onto the tracks; and
2) He is wearing a ski mask.
Casually, he high-steps over the rails, making his way across both sets of tracks, and arrives at the other side safely. He boosts himself up and commences to pacing the platform, mumbling to himself. Meanwhile, I'm looking towards the station itself, wondering if any CTA staff had seen what happened, or whether they were going to do anything about it if they had.
They hadn't, or weren't, and didn't. The next train--an Orange line--pulled in, and Ski-Mask Man got on and sat down, still wearing his mask. I was glad it was the Purple Line I was waiting for.
"And that's the end, right?"
Yeah, right.
I'm on the train, finally, with no ski-maskers in sight, so I do what I normally do on trains: put in my earplugs and go to sleep. Around Loyola, however, I am awakened by a familiar, distinctive, and much-despised sound: the "BLIRRRP!" of a Nextel walkie-talkie phone.
Immediately following the "BLIRRRP!", a static-clotted voice is heard, and then the response of the phone-owner. He's a young, professionally-dressed African-American male, and it is SO OBVIOUS that he wants us all to be impressed by the importance of his position. After all, if he wasn't important, no one would be "BLIRRRP!"-ing him at such an early hour. I mean, no one is "BLIRRRRP!"-ing anyone ELSE on that train car; so CLEARLY that makes him the most important guy there.
Now, mind you, I still have my earplugs in. And these are pretty solid earplugs; they silence the noise in the street below my window at night, and they once blocked out Jay-my-plumber's-kid's "so-loud-your-ears-will-bleed" whistle. But apparently, one thing they will NOT block out is high-pitched phone chirping and low-pitched Extremely Important Conversations.
The next fifteen minutes of my life:
"BLIRRRRRP!"
" :::static static, barely audible word, static::::"
"mumble mumble, audible word or phrase, mumble mumble"
"BLIRRRRP!"
I open one eye and look at the guy sitting sideways nearest me; he is watching Walkie-Talkie guy with a palpable loathing. He glanced at me, commiserating, with a look that says some people!.
My sleepy euphoria, inspired by having found an ally in this situation, was short-lived.
No sooner had Walkie J. Talkie gotten off the train at Howard, than my supposed ally's left hip started ringing. "Hello?" he said, again loudly enough to overwhelm the capabilities of earplugs or the mind of mortal woman.
Mr. With-Friends-Like-These continued his conversation for the rest of my ride, and probably beyond. And all I have to say, to those who feel that the world is their phone-booth:
"BLIRRRRP" you.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Train Thoughts
Sitting on the southbound Purple Line today, it hit me: I really, really, more than anything, want to be able to text-message JP.
This would be an amazing age to be with him, I think; the constant ability to be in contact with someone. Our cell bills would have been just HUGE.
God, I miss him. I miss him so much I sometimes wish I could get this life overwith--just to get to wherever he is, or at the very least, to stop missing him. By all reasonable standards, I've "turned my life around"--what a fucking cliche--but what none of those people know, those people who are so proud of me, is this: Okay, fine--maybe I'm not in the mess I was in back then; maybe I've moved forward some....but right back in the middle of my life, whenever I try to look back for even the most innocuous reason, there's this huge, raw, bleeding, gaping, festering wound. And it's not going anywhere.
This would be an amazing age to be with him, I think; the constant ability to be in contact with someone. Our cell bills would have been just HUGE.
God, I miss him. I miss him so much I sometimes wish I could get this life overwith--just to get to wherever he is, or at the very least, to stop missing him. By all reasonable standards, I've "turned my life around"--what a fucking cliche--but what none of those people know, those people who are so proud of me, is this: Okay, fine--maybe I'm not in the mess I was in back then; maybe I've moved forward some....but right back in the middle of my life, whenever I try to look back for even the most innocuous reason, there's this huge, raw, bleeding, gaping, festering wound. And it's not going anywhere.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
A Short Note To The Gods Of Dessert
I want some freakin' ICE CREAM, and there isn't any in the freezer.
And LJ has the truck, or else I'd go get some.
I am waiting hopefully for the sound of the GOOD ice-cream man in the distance. (There are several teams of roving ice-cream men in this neighborhood. The good ice-cream man has soft-serve cones. The bad ice-cream man only has those overpriced Good Humor novelties. I saw one of those trucks close-up one day when I was driving home from work one day and was just aghast at the number of licensed-character ice-cream novelties. And what the HELL is a Yu-Gi-Oh anyway?)
What I would do right now for a bowl of Breyers' Heath Bar ice cream, would scandalize most of my family.
And LJ has the truck, or else I'd go get some.
I am waiting hopefully for the sound of the GOOD ice-cream man in the distance. (There are several teams of roving ice-cream men in this neighborhood. The good ice-cream man has soft-serve cones. The bad ice-cream man only has those overpriced Good Humor novelties. I saw one of those trucks close-up one day when I was driving home from work one day and was just aghast at the number of licensed-character ice-cream novelties. And what the HELL is a Yu-Gi-Oh anyway?)
What I would do right now for a bowl of Breyers' Heath Bar ice cream, would scandalize most of my family.
Real Mature, Guys.
Apparently some place in Crawhole, Texas has decided to send Michael Moore a ton or so of manure to protest _Farenheit 9/11_.
Yeah, gotta love political discourse in America.
Today at work I was telling Beverly and RuthAnne about the whole dust-up with Coulter and USA Today...so of course Beverly, who has a stronger stomach than I do, decided to read it. Out loud.
I feigned interest in something in my office shortly after she got to the part about how "our allies are the ones wearing crosses and American flags" and talking about how only the pretty girls were on the correct side. I mean, fucking SERIOUSLY. I wanted to heave. If anyone could tell me what the FUCK that has to do with reality, I'd be glad to hear it. (Actually, what I'd REALLY be glad to do in THAT case is to write you off as yet another delusional neocon. But my first way sounds better.)
Beverly said "Oh, Gladys, you've GOT to read it! It's TERRIBLE! It's like...It doesn't even make SENSE!" (My considered response to THAT was "well DUH".) I have no problems whatsoever with well-reasoned arguments. I actually would LOVE to hear a well-reasoned argument coming from that side of the fence. But they don't put people with well-reasoned arguments on TV...not sexy enough, I guess.
Whatever, I'm NOT going to be reading the results of Coulter's latest round of verbal vomiting. Car wrecks don't make me laugh, either.
Yeah, gotta love political discourse in America.
Today at work I was telling Beverly and RuthAnne about the whole dust-up with Coulter and USA Today...so of course Beverly, who has a stronger stomach than I do, decided to read it. Out loud.
I feigned interest in something in my office shortly after she got to the part about how "our allies are the ones wearing crosses and American flags" and talking about how only the pretty girls were on the correct side. I mean, fucking SERIOUSLY. I wanted to heave. If anyone could tell me what the FUCK that has to do with reality, I'd be glad to hear it. (Actually, what I'd REALLY be glad to do in THAT case is to write you off as yet another delusional neocon. But my first way sounds better.)
Beverly said "Oh, Gladys, you've GOT to read it! It's TERRIBLE! It's like...It doesn't even make SENSE!" (My considered response to THAT was "well DUH".) I have no problems whatsoever with well-reasoned arguments. I actually would LOVE to hear a well-reasoned argument coming from that side of the fence. But they don't put people with well-reasoned arguments on TV...not sexy enough, I guess.
Whatever, I'm NOT going to be reading the results of Coulter's latest round of verbal vomiting. Car wrecks don't make me laugh, either.
"Bob The Plumber" Watch
Sunday: "I'll be there tomorrow, me and Norm."
Monday: "Me and Norm will definitely be there tomorrow around noon."
Tuesday: "Okay, so Norm kinda hemmed me up, and so I went and talked to a couple of other guys, and there's this guy Dave? He's a retired carpenter, got his papers and everything, been doin' this 30 years...Anyway, we'll be out there tomorrow...he's an early bird, so we're gonna be out there early."
Today: "See, Dave kinda cancelled out on me...But he promised we'll be out there tomorrow morni....Okay, I'm not gonna say 'morning' but he wants to be out of there before rush hour, so we'll be there kinda early."
I will be glad to take any and all bets in a pool as to when, exactly, Bob and Dave will show up.
Monday: "Me and Norm will definitely be there tomorrow around noon."
Tuesday: "Okay, so Norm kinda hemmed me up, and so I went and talked to a couple of other guys, and there's this guy Dave? He's a retired carpenter, got his papers and everything, been doin' this 30 years...Anyway, we'll be out there tomorrow...he's an early bird, so we're gonna be out there early."
Today: "See, Dave kinda cancelled out on me...But he promised we'll be out there tomorrow morni....Okay, I'm not gonna say 'morning' but he wants to be out of there before rush hour, so we'll be there kinda early."
I will be glad to take any and all bets in a pool as to when, exactly, Bob and Dave will show up.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Okay. :::Deep Breath:::
I didn't go to work today, which is at least in part the cause of my improved state of mind. I woke up at about 2 AM with bad stomach cramps--I don't know whether it was the chicken, methadone withdrawal, or stress, but I was nauseous as hell. I got up and took a little more methadone, and munched a few Rolaids, but by the time I got back to sleep for real, it was almost 4 and there was just no way I was going in. I got up and e-mailed work that I wasn't going to be in, then went back to bed.
I woke up just before noon because my phone was ringing: Bob the Plumber, who's apparently STILL in St. Louis, but who promised to be here tomorrow. I will believe THAT if and when it happens.
I figured I could get a few things done, being home from work, and one of the main things that needed to be taken care of was the car. They've been putting me off for nearly a month now, on the excuse that their mechanic hadn't yet come back from Mexico--but meanwhile, the car wasn't getting fixed, and the first payment is due. I knew the finance company wouldn't look kindly on that--so I got their number, but then on a hunch I decided to be merciful, and called the dealership instead.
Well, lo and behold: the mechanic is allegedly back from Mexico and will allegedly be in to work later today, they tell me. I wait for them to call back to let me know whether or not they have a loaner to give us.
Meanwhile, I find a job app online and fill it out. I doubt anything will come of it--I'm not strictly qualified--but what the hell, right? Anything's possible, and it's downtown (I think) and THAT alone would be a HUGE relief.
So the time comes to go to the dealership, and just on a whim I ask LJ "You wanna go with me?" And to my surprise, he actually says yes!
This is the point at which things improved quite drastically.
As we're getting ready to leave, I say something about some bill or another--probably the car note, I'm thinking.
"Are you still stressin' about all that?" he asks me. "Why?"
"Why?" I ask him. "Because they're not going AWAY, THAT's why. Once they're gone, I'll stop stressing about them...believe me, I'd be more than happy NOT to worry, but as long as they're here to worry about...."
He doesn't say anything further til we're in the car. We end up taking the long way to the dealer--the Eisenhower was just a mob scene, so he takes us through alll the suburbs via side-streets and everything else. But as we're driving, he's laying out his plan, which is substantially better than I would have guessed it to be. (Among the highlights--he admitted that he sorta felt bad about putting down much less money on the car than I did, and that for the first couple of months he plans to pay the car note and the insurance to "even things up" as he put it.)
There was a lot more to it than that, of course--but the end result was that I felt a LOT better, about almost everything.
As I told him: I consistently underestimate him. There are a couple of reasons for this; one, very simply, is my history, particularly what I went through with CR. The other reason, though, is that most of what he does, even if it's to improve our situation, is done so far under my radar that I often don't know about it til I've worried myself into a stomachache.
But, as I also told him: he's a good influence on me. ("I bet nobody ever told you THAT before," I said immediately after.) But he is--he's got exactly the right outlook on the world to counter my worrying and occasional catastrophizing. "I don't even study that shit," as he put it, "because I know everything will turn out all right."
And--though I'm still not EXACTLY sure of how it'll happen--I suppose he's right. I mean, the worst that can happen--whatever it is--would be a far sight better than how I -was- living!
I woke up just before noon because my phone was ringing: Bob the Plumber, who's apparently STILL in St. Louis, but who promised to be here tomorrow. I will believe THAT if and when it happens.
I figured I could get a few things done, being home from work, and one of the main things that needed to be taken care of was the car. They've been putting me off for nearly a month now, on the excuse that their mechanic hadn't yet come back from Mexico--but meanwhile, the car wasn't getting fixed, and the first payment is due. I knew the finance company wouldn't look kindly on that--so I got their number, but then on a hunch I decided to be merciful, and called the dealership instead.
Well, lo and behold: the mechanic is allegedly back from Mexico and will allegedly be in to work later today, they tell me. I wait for them to call back to let me know whether or not they have a loaner to give us.
Meanwhile, I find a job app online and fill it out. I doubt anything will come of it--I'm not strictly qualified--but what the hell, right? Anything's possible, and it's downtown (I think) and THAT alone would be a HUGE relief.
So the time comes to go to the dealership, and just on a whim I ask LJ "You wanna go with me?" And to my surprise, he actually says yes!
This is the point at which things improved quite drastically.
As we're getting ready to leave, I say something about some bill or another--probably the car note, I'm thinking.
"Are you still stressin' about all that?" he asks me. "Why?"
"Why?" I ask him. "Because they're not going AWAY, THAT's why. Once they're gone, I'll stop stressing about them...believe me, I'd be more than happy NOT to worry, but as long as they're here to worry about...."
He doesn't say anything further til we're in the car. We end up taking the long way to the dealer--the Eisenhower was just a mob scene, so he takes us through alll the suburbs via side-streets and everything else. But as we're driving, he's laying out his plan, which is substantially better than I would have guessed it to be. (Among the highlights--he admitted that he sorta felt bad about putting down much less money on the car than I did, and that for the first couple of months he plans to pay the car note and the insurance to "even things up" as he put it.)
There was a lot more to it than that, of course--but the end result was that I felt a LOT better, about almost everything.
As I told him: I consistently underestimate him. There are a couple of reasons for this; one, very simply, is my history, particularly what I went through with CR. The other reason, though, is that most of what he does, even if it's to improve our situation, is done so far under my radar that I often don't know about it til I've worried myself into a stomachache.
But, as I also told him: he's a good influence on me. ("I bet nobody ever told you THAT before," I said immediately after.) But he is--he's got exactly the right outlook on the world to counter my worrying and occasional catastrophizing. "I don't even study that shit," as he put it, "because I know everything will turn out all right."
And--though I'm still not EXACTLY sure of how it'll happen--I suppose he's right. I mean, the worst that can happen--whatever it is--would be a far sight better than how I -was- living!
Next Day...
For full comedic effect, it's best to read the previous post before viewing this.
I don't often make the snort noise when I laugh; this was an exception.
I don't often make the snort noise when I laugh; this was an exception.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Bad Idea
Call it the effects of withdrawal; call it loneliness, or maybe what me and my old NC roomie T used to call "the Monday bus"; or maybe the effects of not getting any in quite a while; or maybe the bullshit details and annoyances of my life all converging on me at once...
Whatever you want to call it, I am having one of those nights where the main thought in my mind is clear and repetitive:
What a fucking mess I've made of my life.
I did the bills last night and I'm SO not going to make it this month. LJ's income has dried up, as the Maywood police are riding down hard and making life uncomfortable for everyone. Meanwhile, I can see clear signs of deterioration in the kitchen ceiling, where the drywall has been off for 6 months now as part of the repairs--and Bob the plumber, who has been "going to come tomorrow and work on that" now since April, isn't answering his phone. I would be fine with that--after all, I could get someone else--IF he hadn't guilt-tripped me into paying in advance!!
A bit of history seems to be in order: Bob had a partner, see, and he and his partner were trying to start a business together. Then suddenly some "rich guy" they'd done work for allegedly stiffed them on a check, and Bob told me they couldn't finish doing my work unless I paid for materials. Now, I'd been paying labor and materials all along, in what seemed to me to be fairly exorbitant amounts, but if it came down to paying them more or not getting the work done, I reasoned, it would be better to pay. Shortly thereafter, with only about 15% of the agreed-upon work done, their partnership fell apart when the other guy started stealing work from under Bob's nose, and the situation deteriorated further when it was discovered that the other guy was also back on the dope. THEN Bob got those kidney stones; then Jay, his son, did some of the work, but he fucked it up--I KNEW he was fucking it up, and I tried to call Bob to have him deal with it, but Bob was too busy. Then Bob's wife put Jay out of the house, and so now it's only Bob doing the work. So Bob was supposed to come out Friday, with some other guy who apparently knows about situations like this. Friday comes--nothing. I call, Friday evening, and am told that Bob is in St. Louis where his brother's gallstone surgery has just gone horribly wrong, leaving him on life support. But--I am told--his wife will bring the Other Guy Who Knows About These Things on Saturday. Saturday afternoon is waning when I call and am told "I didn't want to bring this guy over without Bob, after all the other stuff you've been through with people other than Bob." (I manage NOT to say "The main stuff I've been through has been Bob repeatedly blowing me off and not calling!" but I was sorely tempted.) Anyway, she tells me "I'll call you tomorrow morning around 11 and let you know what's going on." Around 2, I call--and get Bob, clearly asleep. "Let me call you back in a while," he says. It is now nearly 11 PM, and despite several calls and messages on MY part, I have heard nothing.
Needless to say, I'm fed up; also needless to say, I very much doubt I would get a dime of my money back, even if I asked. So I am forced to remain on their schedule, or lack thereof. So I feel like a total dumbass.
Then there's the whole work thing. I DREAD going back tomorrow.
In fact, that's the whole thing in a nutshell: I dread EVERYTHING right now. There is literally not a single area of my life with which I'm satisfied. And I am NOT normally a malcontent. I am one of those people who can generally find some sort of positive outcome in everything--but right now I feel like not a single thing is going right. And it just flat-out sucks. I can't get my house fixed because I have no money. I can't get any more money because I'm stuck in this miserable dysfunctional job environment and I have too many obligations to make a change. I can't get the training to move to a different career because I don't have the money. My guy is great in basically-practical ways, but as far as moral support, affection, or pulling his own weight--not so much. I've made financial decisions based on his assurances which are now leaving me in a bad situation because he's not able to hold up his end of the bargain. I love him but he's totally indifferent to me, it seems, and I'm afraid to leave him because...well, let's face facts here: I'm 34 years old, pretty unattractive and not really willing to change; most of the guys who WOULD want me, wouldn't want me for ME, just for what I've got. (In other words--more of the same, seems like. I don't THINK LJ is using me--but then again, the net effect is the same.) And I have this hell-hole of a house, which is beginning to symbolize in my mind every single misjudgement, deficiency, and mistake I've ever made. Every time I look at this house, which is supposed to be my prized possession, I feel like a failure and an idiot. I did everything that common sense and research said I should do: I had an inspector, I listened to his recommendations, I made my wishes very clear, and demanded verification of everything I knew to verify--and I STILL got fucked over!!! If I could get it FIXED--if I could just have a sense that actual PROGRESS is being made--then I would feel better...but I can't even get THAT right!! I pick someone out--from the phone book--listen to them talk about all the things they can do, and pay them to do those things--and then for months I get fucked around because he "needs to put food on the table" with other projects that HAVEN't already paid them. And then he assures me "oh, I'm not pushing you to the back of the list"---Dumbass, that's EXACTLY what you just admitted that you WERE doing!!
I look back into my life, and I wonder where, exactly, things went wrong. I look back at who I was in high school, dating Chris, with his life all planned out already--a life that included me--but I had to go and see what else was out there. I used to think I had made the right decisions, or at least, the decisions that were right for ME--leaving Chris, leaving Dave when I realized what a mistake that was, getting together with JP; after losing JP, I thought I was at least doing my best to salvage things--changing careers, getting this job--then once CR came along, I knew I was back on the wrong track but I couldn't quite bring myself to change it because I thought he needed me, that I could help him. Once he left for the last time, I was doing so well--got my credit straight, got approved for a mortgage, met LJ (who seemed so different)...
Every time I think I'm doing the right thing, every time I do ANYTHING that seems to be right for me--it generally turns out to be a cataclysmic fuck-up. And I wonder: Where will it end? Because frankly, as strong as I am and as strong as I've tried to be, I'm running out of resources here. I no longer know why the hell I'm trying so hard. I don't know why I get up and go to work every day--since it doesn't give me any satisfaction, and it doesn't pay me enough to make my bills AND afford the things I'd enjoy. I don't know why I go out of my way to do things for LJ, because he doesn't seem to notice, and it certainly doesn't make him love me...(He said he does. Once. In April. That's the first--and last--I've heard of it.)
It's all enough to make me wonder if maybe the shallow, superficial people have it right--don't fall in love, just go for what you can get out of someone. Get some man with a high-paying job and then you won't have to pay your own bills anymore--spend all your money on yourself. Train your man to do everything you tell him, and act like a bitch whenever you want....Those women never seem to get used; those women never seem to get cheated on; those women never sleep alone, and when one man leaves them they always seem to get another. And when they go to work, people respect them--nobody fucks with them, and they can suck up with impunity. (I'm thinking of Nancy, for one.)
Of course, I'm operating at a deficit anyway; to get away with THAT, I'd have to be thin and pretty and fashionable. And there aren't enough diets, personal trainers, fashion consultants, plastic surgeons, or miracles in the world to get me to THAT point. Psychologists, maybe--or hypnotists, or brainwashers. I just don't CARE. I have NEVER cared. I went through a brief hair-and-makeup stage in high school, because I wanted to fit in; the only person who ever made me care about clothes was JP, because he made it so clear that it didn't matter to him HOW I looked, that he'd love me anyway (but that he'd be more than happy to play stylist, if I'd be the Barbie doll). LJ, on the other hand--he doesn't give a shit WHAT I wear, or if I wear ANYTHING. He's got more important things to do. And what's the point of trying to look good, if I never get to go anywhere but work?
I really, REALLY want to take tomorrow off--but then I'm sure I'd get some snotty phone call, or some nasty remark from Beverly when I went back. And honestly, in the state of mind I'm currently in, one more snotty Beverly remark might just be enough to put me over the top, to make me quit once and for all. And then--if it's even POSSIBLE--I'd be more fucked than I am right now.
I'm going to bed. I can't handle being awake anymore right now.
Whatever you want to call it, I am having one of those nights where the main thought in my mind is clear and repetitive:
What a fucking mess I've made of my life.
I did the bills last night and I'm SO not going to make it this month. LJ's income has dried up, as the Maywood police are riding down hard and making life uncomfortable for everyone. Meanwhile, I can see clear signs of deterioration in the kitchen ceiling, where the drywall has been off for 6 months now as part of the repairs--and Bob the plumber, who has been "going to come tomorrow and work on that" now since April, isn't answering his phone. I would be fine with that--after all, I could get someone else--IF he hadn't guilt-tripped me into paying in advance!!
A bit of history seems to be in order: Bob had a partner, see, and he and his partner were trying to start a business together. Then suddenly some "rich guy" they'd done work for allegedly stiffed them on a check, and Bob told me they couldn't finish doing my work unless I paid for materials. Now, I'd been paying labor and materials all along, in what seemed to me to be fairly exorbitant amounts, but if it came down to paying them more or not getting the work done, I reasoned, it would be better to pay. Shortly thereafter, with only about 15% of the agreed-upon work done, their partnership fell apart when the other guy started stealing work from under Bob's nose, and the situation deteriorated further when it was discovered that the other guy was also back on the dope. THEN Bob got those kidney stones; then Jay, his son, did some of the work, but he fucked it up--I KNEW he was fucking it up, and I tried to call Bob to have him deal with it, but Bob was too busy. Then Bob's wife put Jay out of the house, and so now it's only Bob doing the work. So Bob was supposed to come out Friday, with some other guy who apparently knows about situations like this. Friday comes--nothing. I call, Friday evening, and am told that Bob is in St. Louis where his brother's gallstone surgery has just gone horribly wrong, leaving him on life support. But--I am told--his wife will bring the Other Guy Who Knows About These Things on Saturday. Saturday afternoon is waning when I call and am told "I didn't want to bring this guy over without Bob, after all the other stuff you've been through with people other than Bob." (I manage NOT to say "The main stuff I've been through has been Bob repeatedly blowing me off and not calling!" but I was sorely tempted.) Anyway, she tells me "I'll call you tomorrow morning around 11 and let you know what's going on." Around 2, I call--and get Bob, clearly asleep. "Let me call you back in a while," he says. It is now nearly 11 PM, and despite several calls and messages on MY part, I have heard nothing.
Needless to say, I'm fed up; also needless to say, I very much doubt I would get a dime of my money back, even if I asked. So I am forced to remain on their schedule, or lack thereof. So I feel like a total dumbass.
Then there's the whole work thing. I DREAD going back tomorrow.
In fact, that's the whole thing in a nutshell: I dread EVERYTHING right now. There is literally not a single area of my life with which I'm satisfied. And I am NOT normally a malcontent. I am one of those people who can generally find some sort of positive outcome in everything--but right now I feel like not a single thing is going right. And it just flat-out sucks. I can't get my house fixed because I have no money. I can't get any more money because I'm stuck in this miserable dysfunctional job environment and I have too many obligations to make a change. I can't get the training to move to a different career because I don't have the money. My guy is great in basically-practical ways, but as far as moral support, affection, or pulling his own weight--not so much. I've made financial decisions based on his assurances which are now leaving me in a bad situation because he's not able to hold up his end of the bargain. I love him but he's totally indifferent to me, it seems, and I'm afraid to leave him because...well, let's face facts here: I'm 34 years old, pretty unattractive and not really willing to change; most of the guys who WOULD want me, wouldn't want me for ME, just for what I've got. (In other words--more of the same, seems like. I don't THINK LJ is using me--but then again, the net effect is the same.) And I have this hell-hole of a house, which is beginning to symbolize in my mind every single misjudgement, deficiency, and mistake I've ever made. Every time I look at this house, which is supposed to be my prized possession, I feel like a failure and an idiot. I did everything that common sense and research said I should do: I had an inspector, I listened to his recommendations, I made my wishes very clear, and demanded verification of everything I knew to verify--and I STILL got fucked over!!! If I could get it FIXED--if I could just have a sense that actual PROGRESS is being made--then I would feel better...but I can't even get THAT right!! I pick someone out--from the phone book--listen to them talk about all the things they can do, and pay them to do those things--and then for months I get fucked around because he "needs to put food on the table" with other projects that HAVEN't already paid them. And then he assures me "oh, I'm not pushing you to the back of the list"---Dumbass, that's EXACTLY what you just admitted that you WERE doing!!
I look back into my life, and I wonder where, exactly, things went wrong. I look back at who I was in high school, dating Chris, with his life all planned out already--a life that included me--but I had to go and see what else was out there. I used to think I had made the right decisions, or at least, the decisions that were right for ME--leaving Chris, leaving Dave when I realized what a mistake that was, getting together with JP; after losing JP, I thought I was at least doing my best to salvage things--changing careers, getting this job--then once CR came along, I knew I was back on the wrong track but I couldn't quite bring myself to change it because I thought he needed me, that I could help him. Once he left for the last time, I was doing so well--got my credit straight, got approved for a mortgage, met LJ (who seemed so different)...
Every time I think I'm doing the right thing, every time I do ANYTHING that seems to be right for me--it generally turns out to be a cataclysmic fuck-up. And I wonder: Where will it end? Because frankly, as strong as I am and as strong as I've tried to be, I'm running out of resources here. I no longer know why the hell I'm trying so hard. I don't know why I get up and go to work every day--since it doesn't give me any satisfaction, and it doesn't pay me enough to make my bills AND afford the things I'd enjoy. I don't know why I go out of my way to do things for LJ, because he doesn't seem to notice, and it certainly doesn't make him love me...(He said he does. Once. In April. That's the first--and last--I've heard of it.)
It's all enough to make me wonder if maybe the shallow, superficial people have it right--don't fall in love, just go for what you can get out of someone. Get some man with a high-paying job and then you won't have to pay your own bills anymore--spend all your money on yourself. Train your man to do everything you tell him, and act like a bitch whenever you want....Those women never seem to get used; those women never seem to get cheated on; those women never sleep alone, and when one man leaves them they always seem to get another. And when they go to work, people respect them--nobody fucks with them, and they can suck up with impunity. (I'm thinking of Nancy, for one.)
Of course, I'm operating at a deficit anyway; to get away with THAT, I'd have to be thin and pretty and fashionable. And there aren't enough diets, personal trainers, fashion consultants, plastic surgeons, or miracles in the world to get me to THAT point. Psychologists, maybe--or hypnotists, or brainwashers. I just don't CARE. I have NEVER cared. I went through a brief hair-and-makeup stage in high school, because I wanted to fit in; the only person who ever made me care about clothes was JP, because he made it so clear that it didn't matter to him HOW I looked, that he'd love me anyway (but that he'd be more than happy to play stylist, if I'd be the Barbie doll). LJ, on the other hand--he doesn't give a shit WHAT I wear, or if I wear ANYTHING. He's got more important things to do. And what's the point of trying to look good, if I never get to go anywhere but work?
I really, REALLY want to take tomorrow off--but then I'm sure I'd get some snotty phone call, or some nasty remark from Beverly when I went back. And honestly, in the state of mind I'm currently in, one more snotty Beverly remark might just be enough to put me over the top, to make me quit once and for all. And then--if it's even POSSIBLE--I'd be more fucked than I am right now.
I'm going to bed. I can't handle being awake anymore right now.
Friday, July 23, 2004
House Party
This morning when I walked out the door, I was greeted by two familiar, yet incongruous-for-6:30-AM items of sensory input:
1) unidentifiable gospel music
2) the intoxicating, stomach-growlingly delicious scent of barbecue.
From the backyard of the house directly to the east of mine--Len and Phoebe's house--a cloud of smoke poured forth--carrying, as aforementioned, the unmistakeable tang of woodsmoke and yumminess. So I knew SOMETHING had to be up--for a moment, I wondered if maybe this was the weekend of the block party. (It isn't, but we can't be far from it.)
By the time I got home, a full 12 hours later, the cloud of smoke was still going. (Though since I'd had lunch, it wasn't quite so awe-inspiringly delicious.)
I'm pretty sure it's someone's birthday, or a family reunion--lots of kids, lots of strange faces, lots and LOTS of food!!! Regardless--within an hour of my arrival, the music had started.
Now, understand--I love this music, truly I do. But as of 10 PM, I have now been regaled twice with "Booty Hop"--a guaranteed earworm for some day next week--twice with "Saltshaker" by Lil' Jon, the East Side Boyz, and the Ying-Yang Twins--and with at least three variations on "The Casper Slide". (I shouldn't complain; for a while there, the DJ was playing all sorts of dusties, and at one point I even took a moment to pause and e-mail CR; they were playing "Housequake" as part of one of the mixes, and that reminded me of him more than just about anything else. If I miss anything about him, his music is that thing; honestly, though, I miss his company too. Not enough to ever, ever forget what a howling, outrageous asshole he was--but enough to not hate him for the rest of my life.
Mostly I'm just lonely, I guess. It's a mark of regression, if you ask me, that most of my social life in recent days has been conducted in a technological medium--I've made contact with several other bloggers, among them Anonyboy, Standing Bear, and Kevin at the CTA Tattler (all of which are really-freakin'-cool blogs which I highly recommend to everyone reading this) and that's been the far edge of my horizons lately. Generally when the only place I'm meeting people is online, things ain't goin' well (exhibit A--North Carolina, 1996-1997. What a fucked-up time that was for me--JP not gone even a year, and here's good ol' Gladys in her resolutely FINE mode--working 2 jobs, forcing myself to write 8 pages on the novel every night before going to bed--and on AOL just CONSTANTLY. I thought I was fine after 6 months--it's now almost 9 YEARS and I'm still not over it.)
I'm just at the end of my rope, is all, with about 75% of the major components of my life. The job--sucks immortal ass. The house--I still LOVE the house but the process of getting it taken care of, getting things fixed, is just fuckin' KILLING me. My plumber has the WORST luck of any human being on planet Earth--in fact, that constitutes a blog post all its own. Money---holy shit, could I HAVE any less money?? I'm really scared that we won't make all the bills this month, and I don't know how to make it better--yeah, I know, "spend less or earn more". Ha ha ha. If I could get everfucking Peoples' Energy off my ass, with their $350/month bill, things would be sooooooOOOOOoooo much easier. I want to know--who are these "People", anyway? Because they're some very RICH "People" and I'm just about tired of them crawling into my wallet every month and sucking out all my money. And the $220/month to the clinic will be nice, once it's no longer going out--but I've done as much cutting-back as I can in THAT regard. I went down from 15 mg to 12.5 mg, and then the night before last, down to 10 mg. Today I noticed some beginning withdrawal symptoms, which means "stop where you are and let the body adjust." I know I have to be patient, but I've been on methadone for 6 years and at $220/month x 72 months, that's nearly $16,000 I've spent. I'd like it back....but then again, I'd like the money back that I spent on 5 years worth of heroin, too. And I know for a flat-out FACT that I spent MUCH more than $220 a month on THAT...
The only thing that's not making me insane--and it's an on-and-off sort of peace--is LJ. If he would just talk to me more and tell me what the hell is going on that's making him so distant and hard to get close to--if he would just TELL me that, he would be absolutely the perfect boyfriend. (I mean, not PERFECT perfect, but perfect in terms of "doesn't do anything that pisses me off and does LOTS of things that make me happy.") Today I came home and he'd cleaned the kitchen, stacked the mail, and shovelled the dead mouse out of the basement. (White Cat apparently had a little fun the other night; I went downstairs last night to do laundry, and there was...the corpse. I was squicked beyond repair; it was apparent that this rodent had died a death neither natural nor peaceful. As LJ so beautifully put it: "I -think- it was the mouse...I mean, the cat had already fucked him UP!" )
I really do love LJ; I've just been through so much bullshit with men who said one thing and did another, who lied and cheated and hurt me...and then, behind those memories are my memories of JP, and how happy I was. I just want to be treated in a certain way, and sometimes circumstances are such that I can't have what I want when I want it--but because it's been so long since I WAS treated that way, it's hard to be patient. Plus, he's Mr. Totally Pragmatic, Non-Affectionate, The-Only-Way-You'll-Ever-Know-I-Love-You-Is-That-I-Haven't-Left-You--and I'm a little bit more needy than his personality will accomodate. It's just a matter of adjustment, and of remembering: I'm only Girlfriend #3. He's never had to deal with someone like me before--so what I take for granted he should KNOW, he's never even considered, nor had to.
It's now midnight, and the music is still going strong. I'm jealous, actually--too much fun within my hearing.
1) unidentifiable gospel music
2) the intoxicating, stomach-growlingly delicious scent of barbecue.
From the backyard of the house directly to the east of mine--Len and Phoebe's house--a cloud of smoke poured forth--carrying, as aforementioned, the unmistakeable tang of woodsmoke and yumminess. So I knew SOMETHING had to be up--for a moment, I wondered if maybe this was the weekend of the block party. (It isn't, but we can't be far from it.)
By the time I got home, a full 12 hours later, the cloud of smoke was still going. (Though since I'd had lunch, it wasn't quite so awe-inspiringly delicious.)
I'm pretty sure it's someone's birthday, or a family reunion--lots of kids, lots of strange faces, lots and LOTS of food!!! Regardless--within an hour of my arrival, the music had started.
Now, understand--I love this music, truly I do. But as of 10 PM, I have now been regaled twice with "Booty Hop"--a guaranteed earworm for some day next week--twice with "Saltshaker" by Lil' Jon, the East Side Boyz, and the Ying-Yang Twins--and with at least three variations on "The Casper Slide". (I shouldn't complain; for a while there, the DJ was playing all sorts of dusties, and at one point I even took a moment to pause and e-mail CR; they were playing "Housequake" as part of one of the mixes, and that reminded me of him more than just about anything else. If I miss anything about him, his music is that thing; honestly, though, I miss his company too. Not enough to ever, ever forget what a howling, outrageous asshole he was--but enough to not hate him for the rest of my life.
Mostly I'm just lonely, I guess. It's a mark of regression, if you ask me, that most of my social life in recent days has been conducted in a technological medium--I've made contact with several other bloggers, among them Anonyboy, Standing Bear, and Kevin at the CTA Tattler (all of which are really-freakin'-cool blogs which I highly recommend to everyone reading this) and that's been the far edge of my horizons lately. Generally when the only place I'm meeting people is online, things ain't goin' well (exhibit A--North Carolina, 1996-1997. What a fucked-up time that was for me--JP not gone even a year, and here's good ol' Gladys in her resolutely FINE mode--working 2 jobs, forcing myself to write 8 pages on the novel every night before going to bed--and on AOL just CONSTANTLY. I thought I was fine after 6 months--it's now almost 9 YEARS and I'm still not over it.)
I'm just at the end of my rope, is all, with about 75% of the major components of my life. The job--sucks immortal ass. The house--I still LOVE the house but the process of getting it taken care of, getting things fixed, is just fuckin' KILLING me. My plumber has the WORST luck of any human being on planet Earth--in fact, that constitutes a blog post all its own. Money---holy shit, could I HAVE any less money?? I'm really scared that we won't make all the bills this month, and I don't know how to make it better--yeah, I know, "spend less or earn more". Ha ha ha. If I could get everfucking Peoples' Energy off my ass, with their $350/month bill, things would be sooooooOOOOOoooo much easier. I want to know--who are these "People", anyway? Because they're some very RICH "People" and I'm just about tired of them crawling into my wallet every month and sucking out all my money. And the $220/month to the clinic will be nice, once it's no longer going out--but I've done as much cutting-back as I can in THAT regard. I went down from 15 mg to 12.5 mg, and then the night before last, down to 10 mg. Today I noticed some beginning withdrawal symptoms, which means "stop where you are and let the body adjust." I know I have to be patient, but I've been on methadone for 6 years and at $220/month x 72 months, that's nearly $16,000 I've spent. I'd like it back....but then again, I'd like the money back that I spent on 5 years worth of heroin, too. And I know for a flat-out FACT that I spent MUCH more than $220 a month on THAT...
The only thing that's not making me insane--and it's an on-and-off sort of peace--is LJ. If he would just talk to me more and tell me what the hell is going on that's making him so distant and hard to get close to--if he would just TELL me that, he would be absolutely the perfect boyfriend. (I mean, not PERFECT perfect, but perfect in terms of "doesn't do anything that pisses me off and does LOTS of things that make me happy.") Today I came home and he'd cleaned the kitchen, stacked the mail, and shovelled the dead mouse out of the basement. (White Cat apparently had a little fun the other night; I went downstairs last night to do laundry, and there was...the corpse. I was squicked beyond repair; it was apparent that this rodent had died a death neither natural nor peaceful. As LJ so beautifully put it: "I -think- it was the mouse...I mean, the cat had already fucked him UP!" )
I really do love LJ; I've just been through so much bullshit with men who said one thing and did another, who lied and cheated and hurt me...and then, behind those memories are my memories of JP, and how happy I was. I just want to be treated in a certain way, and sometimes circumstances are such that I can't have what I want when I want it--but because it's been so long since I WAS treated that way, it's hard to be patient. Plus, he's Mr. Totally Pragmatic, Non-Affectionate, The-Only-Way-You'll-Ever-Know-I-Love-You-Is-That-I-Haven't-Left-You--and I'm a little bit more needy than his personality will accomodate. It's just a matter of adjustment, and of remembering: I'm only Girlfriend #3. He's never had to deal with someone like me before--so what I take for granted he should KNOW, he's never even considered, nor had to.
It's now midnight, and the music is still going strong. I'm jealous, actually--too much fun within my hearing.
And The Neocons Say The GAYS Are Devaluing Marriage?
Apparently, talk of two men or two women marrying--even if they love each other, even if they're willing to accept all the responsibilities of marriage--is going to undermine the institution of marriage.
Conversations like this one , however, are just satire, right? just part of marketing?
Yeesh.
Conversations like this one , however, are just satire, right? just part of marketing?
Yeesh.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Here--Now Dissect Me
I updated this post with my iTunes playlist, in response to this article on a new form of snobbery: "playlistism".
What a seething, sulfurous, gurgling crock of shit. Anyone who thinks their taste in music is in any way superior to anyone else's is hereby advised to bite the hell out of me.
What a seething, sulfurous, gurgling crock of shit. Anyone who thinks their taste in music is in any way superior to anyone else's is hereby advised to bite the hell out of me.
Jaysus.
An exercise: Go here. Then come back.
http://www.velocity.net/~acekc/index.htm
Very "street". right? I mean, I guess it's good that the Web can help you to find a gang-sign dictionary when you need one...and obviously the creator of this site has some kind of street cred, right? I have a great deal of respect for the life of the streets and those who live it--as you can probably tell by various other things I've said in other entries.
But somehow, that credibility is lessened when you find out that the thug in question is this guy. (Honey, I have some advice for you. Ready? Here it is: Don't EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER EVER come to my neighborhood. Because--sweetie?--I don't know if you've noticed....but neither you, nor any of your "gangsta" friends, are in any way "thugz 4 life". Just because you own a 2Pac record mixed in with all your Eminem and Jay-Z, that does not--no, really!--make you an "O.G". And the first time you even THOUGHT about calling somebody "n***a", the guys in my neighborhood--including the one I live with and all his friends--would wrap your testicles around your neck and make you wear your own sphincter as a nose-ring. Now. Why don't you go listen to some Limp Bizkit and Staind until you've processed that image, 'kay? Thanks, asshat.)
Fat Joe said it best:
"Even Lil' Bow Wow throwin' it up/B2K Crip-walkin' like that's whazzup...."
Joe, my good man, now you know how I felt when everybody and his dog started wearing flannel shirts and Doc Martens. We kill our artists and then shit on their art. And then we wonder why all the REAL things get corrupted. (The only difference between what happened then and what Fat Joe sees is this: Kurt Cobain was an average-size man. If Big Pun started spinning in HIS grave, there'd be a disturbance in the gravitational field of the Earth.)
http://www.velocity.net/~acekc/index.htm
Very "street". right? I mean, I guess it's good that the Web can help you to find a gang-sign dictionary when you need one...and obviously the creator of this site has some kind of street cred, right? I have a great deal of respect for the life of the streets and those who live it--as you can probably tell by various other things I've said in other entries.
But somehow, that credibility is lessened when you find out that the thug in question is this guy. (Honey, I have some advice for you. Ready? Here it is: Don't EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER EVER come to my neighborhood. Because--sweetie?--I don't know if you've noticed....but neither you, nor any of your "gangsta" friends, are in any way "thugz 4 life". Just because you own a 2Pac record mixed in with all your Eminem and Jay-Z, that does not--no, really!--make you an "O.G". And the first time you even THOUGHT about calling somebody "n***a", the guys in my neighborhood--including the one I live with and all his friends--would wrap your testicles around your neck and make you wear your own sphincter as a nose-ring. Now. Why don't you go listen to some Limp Bizkit and Staind until you've processed that image, 'kay? Thanks, asshat.)
Fat Joe said it best:
"Even Lil' Bow Wow throwin' it up/B2K Crip-walkin' like that's whazzup...."
Joe, my good man, now you know how I felt when everybody and his dog started wearing flannel shirts and Doc Martens. We kill our artists and then shit on their art. And then we wonder why all the REAL things get corrupted. (The only difference between what happened then and what Fat Joe sees is this: Kurt Cobain was an average-size man. If Big Pun started spinning in HIS grave, there'd be a disturbance in the gravitational field of the Earth.)
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Duelling Weirdos--Part One
For some reason, the Gods Of Weird hit my train-car with the wacky-stick today.
It was my own fault; I usually get on the last car, but today I saw one of those chatty couples about to get on my car, and so I ducked into #3. Little did I know.
I sit in the back, in the forward-facing seat near the sideways seats, near the window. At Davis, three people sit near me. In the sideways seat directly in front of me, a little African-American lady in her 70's. Across the aisle from her, an African-American guy in his late 20's. Across the aisle from me, facing backwards, a mid-20's redheaded Lincoln-Park Trixie type with a PIERCING voice and a cell-phone in one hand. I've got Slipknot on my headphones--it was a Slipknot kind of day--and STILL I can hear Trixie yarpin' and barpin' away. Ms. Lady next to me smiles at me, listening to Trixie.
"Well, I mean, SERIOUSLY, I mean, as the fifth child in the family I'm sure he didn't get his share of maternal affection...."
Mr. Late-20's busts out laughing--I don't mean a low chuckle, I mean BUSTS out laughing. I turn off the headphones. Cellphone Sally yaks on, oblivious.
"Of course, I have NO clue about the FACTS of the situation, and I KNOW we're never going to get the TRUE facts from anyone actually INVOLVED in the situation...yeah, there was a fight and Christy started talking about 'diaper heads' and how much he hates Mexicans..."
I glance over at Late-20's, who's about to blow an artery; I take off the headphones, dig out my notepad and pen, and say "this is just too good to miss." He laughs again.
"I think Byron walked out in the middle of it.."
There's a long silence from her court; apparently the other party is even chattier than she is. But Late-20's is still laughing; halfway across the train we have some earnest mid-40's North-Shore wannabe-matron type, nearly as loud as Cell-Phone Sally.
"I mean, NO ONE wants to be alone--am I just supposed to sit at home and talk to MYSELF?"
Then Sally cuts back in. For a while, the only comparison that keeps recurring to me is from _Deliverance_--that "Duelling Banjos" thing. (Hum along if you know the tune...)
"Wait--her OTHER wrist?"
"I mean, that's why I have a cell phone."
::::loud giggle::: "Wooooooowwwww!"
"I generated five thousand dollars worth of sales last month, and..."
"I can KINDA do the apple tobacco--but that STILL trips me out! I mean, it's so VILE!"
"....a special show on the radio...."
"Are we still on Gramma's wrist?"
This brings us to Howard. Earnest North-Shore Wannabe gets off the train, and since Cellphone Sally is hearing about Gramma's wrist, Late-20's decides to be sociable. He starts talking to Ms. Lady, asking her all sorts of questions.
"So do you have any kids? Grandkids? Any of them in college? Hey, at least none of them are in jail...Are you retired? What year were you born?"
Gramma's wrist is apparently resolved. "Well, if you send it through the Post Office, they'll notify me IN my box, as opposed to UPS who's really HORRIBLE about leaving NOTES, and then they want you to call them to reschedule but..."
"Hey, you like hip-hop music?" Late-20's is trying to sell me a disk. "Here, listen to it--if you like it it's only $5." I take the disk.
"What's your name? I'm Brian.." He was a nice guy, so I won't comment on the quality of the music.
I listen for a polite interval, then hand him back the disk, tell him "Yeah,that's pretty good! But I don't have $5--in fact, I've got about fifty cents."
He gives me his phone number, just in case I change my mind. "Where are you from, anyway?"
"West Side," I tell him.
"REALLY!" he says. Then his eyes narrow a bit. "Where from on the West Side?"
Since he obviously expects me to say something like Ukranian Village or Tri-Taylor or Wicker Park, I enjoy my answer even more: "Near Jackson and Cicero," I tell him.
"Straight up?" Now he's really thrown off. "You Hispanic?" I shake my head, no. "Polish?" "Nope." "Just...white?"
"Something like that, yeah," I say.
Meanwhile, Sally: "Yeah, it was kinda funny--my dad said all these things about this big political fight, and meanwhile my mom is having heart surgery the same day..."
Brian, speaking now to Ms Lady: "What was it like in the 60's? What about the 30's--what was it like then?"
"Terrible! Poverty....depression...."
"What does your generation think of us people in our late 20's and early 30's--do you think we be actin' stupid?"
I chime in. "My mom is 75--she was born in '29--and I can answer this question: Yes. Yes, they DO think we act stupid."
For the next few minutes, I am treated to some of the best dialogue I can remember hearing on the train in QUITE some time. Brian, apparently a student of the human condition, is asking Ms. Lady her life story and her opinions on everything under the sun. It's so much fun to listen to that I miss out on Sally's convo for a while.
"Are you from Jamaica? West Africa? America? Oh, Mississippi...Would your friends say you're very spiritual?"
"Spiritual?" Ms. Lady looks half-perplexed. "I'm an Apostolic Pentecostal," she says.
His reply is one I will treasure til my dying day: "Oh--so you can see things before they happen??"
Her look is equally priceless. "Do you read the Bible?" she asks him.
"Oh, I'm reading it right now...." (If the material on his CD is any indication, I'm thinking a little more time spent with the Bible and a little less time spent at the clubs might benefit him. But that's just me.)
As is typical for me, the mention of the word "Bible" sends me into a momentary loss of attention; however, a few sentences later I come back to this:
"So where did you go to college?" he asks her.
Ms. Lady is clearly not sure how to answer that, or whether he's even serious. "Why do you ask?" she asks, for the first time in the entire dialogue.
"Well, you sound very well-educated," Brian says. "You sound like you have a double degree, like you could be a professor....maybe an astrologist??"
By this time, we're pulling past Addison, nearing the transfer point at Belmont.
Sally: "Oooh...no, I'm on the train and we're just going past Wrigley Field and I realized that the Cubs game is just getting out, and that means I've gotta deal with all sorts of drunk Cub fans....Yeah, it's like 4 blocks from where I live, and.....this one time some GUY comes right up to me and GROPES me, thinking I was INTO that? So I kicked him RIGHT in the groin and ran away...."
And with that, as we are now at Belmont, Sally and her cellphone stand up and get off the train, not before announcing her address into the phone for all to hear. (In the interest of preserving wackiness in the world, I will NOT publish her address, though in the interest of preserving civil behavior on public transportation, I am sorely tempted.) Brian, after telling both Ms. Lady and myself that it was nice to meet us, follows her out the door shortly thereafter.
The weirdness just didn't stop, though. More tomorrow.
It was my own fault; I usually get on the last car, but today I saw one of those chatty couples about to get on my car, and so I ducked into #3. Little did I know.
I sit in the back, in the forward-facing seat near the sideways seats, near the window. At Davis, three people sit near me. In the sideways seat directly in front of me, a little African-American lady in her 70's. Across the aisle from her, an African-American guy in his late 20's. Across the aisle from me, facing backwards, a mid-20's redheaded Lincoln-Park Trixie type with a PIERCING voice and a cell-phone in one hand. I've got Slipknot on my headphones--it was a Slipknot kind of day--and STILL I can hear Trixie yarpin' and barpin' away. Ms. Lady next to me smiles at me, listening to Trixie.
"Well, I mean, SERIOUSLY, I mean, as the fifth child in the family I'm sure he didn't get his share of maternal affection...."
Mr. Late-20's busts out laughing--I don't mean a low chuckle, I mean BUSTS out laughing. I turn off the headphones. Cellphone Sally yaks on, oblivious.
"Of course, I have NO clue about the FACTS of the situation, and I KNOW we're never going to get the TRUE facts from anyone actually INVOLVED in the situation...yeah, there was a fight and Christy started talking about 'diaper heads' and how much he hates Mexicans..."
I glance over at Late-20's, who's about to blow an artery; I take off the headphones, dig out my notepad and pen, and say "this is just too good to miss." He laughs again.
"I think Byron walked out in the middle of it.."
There's a long silence from her court; apparently the other party is even chattier than she is. But Late-20's is still laughing; halfway across the train we have some earnest mid-40's North-Shore wannabe-matron type, nearly as loud as Cell-Phone Sally.
"I mean, NO ONE wants to be alone--am I just supposed to sit at home and talk to MYSELF?"
Then Sally cuts back in. For a while, the only comparison that keeps recurring to me is from _Deliverance_--that "Duelling Banjos" thing. (Hum along if you know the tune...)
"Wait--her OTHER wrist?"
"I mean, that's why I have a cell phone."
::::loud giggle::: "Wooooooowwwww!"
"I generated five thousand dollars worth of sales last month, and..."
"I can KINDA do the apple tobacco--but that STILL trips me out! I mean, it's so VILE!"
"....a special show on the radio...."
"Are we still on Gramma's wrist?"
This brings us to Howard. Earnest North-Shore Wannabe gets off the train, and since Cellphone Sally is hearing about Gramma's wrist, Late-20's decides to be sociable. He starts talking to Ms. Lady, asking her all sorts of questions.
"So do you have any kids? Grandkids? Any of them in college? Hey, at least none of them are in jail...Are you retired? What year were you born?"
Gramma's wrist is apparently resolved. "Well, if you send it through the Post Office, they'll notify me IN my box, as opposed to UPS who's really HORRIBLE about leaving NOTES, and then they want you to call them to reschedule but..."
"Hey, you like hip-hop music?" Late-20's is trying to sell me a disk. "Here, listen to it--if you like it it's only $5." I take the disk.
"What's your name? I'm Brian.." He was a nice guy, so I won't comment on the quality of the music.
I listen for a polite interval, then hand him back the disk, tell him "Yeah,that's pretty good! But I don't have $5--in fact, I've got about fifty cents."
He gives me his phone number, just in case I change my mind. "Where are you from, anyway?"
"West Side," I tell him.
"REALLY!" he says. Then his eyes narrow a bit. "Where from on the West Side?"
Since he obviously expects me to say something like Ukranian Village or Tri-Taylor or Wicker Park, I enjoy my answer even more: "Near Jackson and Cicero," I tell him.
"Straight up?" Now he's really thrown off. "You Hispanic?" I shake my head, no. "Polish?" "Nope." "Just...white?"
"Something like that, yeah," I say.
Meanwhile, Sally: "Yeah, it was kinda funny--my dad said all these things about this big political fight, and meanwhile my mom is having heart surgery the same day..."
Brian, speaking now to Ms Lady: "What was it like in the 60's? What about the 30's--what was it like then?"
"Terrible! Poverty....depression...."
"What does your generation think of us people in our late 20's and early 30's--do you think we be actin' stupid?"
I chime in. "My mom is 75--she was born in '29--and I can answer this question: Yes. Yes, they DO think we act stupid."
For the next few minutes, I am treated to some of the best dialogue I can remember hearing on the train in QUITE some time. Brian, apparently a student of the human condition, is asking Ms. Lady her life story and her opinions on everything under the sun. It's so much fun to listen to that I miss out on Sally's convo for a while.
"Are you from Jamaica? West Africa? America? Oh, Mississippi...Would your friends say you're very spiritual?"
"Spiritual?" Ms. Lady looks half-perplexed. "I'm an Apostolic Pentecostal," she says.
His reply is one I will treasure til my dying day: "Oh--so you can see things before they happen??"
Her look is equally priceless. "Do you read the Bible?" she asks him.
"Oh, I'm reading it right now...." (If the material on his CD is any indication, I'm thinking a little more time spent with the Bible and a little less time spent at the clubs might benefit him. But that's just me.)
As is typical for me, the mention of the word "Bible" sends me into a momentary loss of attention; however, a few sentences later I come back to this:
"So where did you go to college?" he asks her.
Ms. Lady is clearly not sure how to answer that, or whether he's even serious. "Why do you ask?" she asks, for the first time in the entire dialogue.
"Well, you sound very well-educated," Brian says. "You sound like you have a double degree, like you could be a professor....maybe an astrologist??"
By this time, we're pulling past Addison, nearing the transfer point at Belmont.
Sally: "Oooh...no, I'm on the train and we're just going past Wrigley Field and I realized that the Cubs game is just getting out, and that means I've gotta deal with all sorts of drunk Cub fans....Yeah, it's like 4 blocks from where I live, and.....this one time some GUY comes right up to me and GROPES me, thinking I was INTO that? So I kicked him RIGHT in the groin and ran away...."
And with that, as we are now at Belmont, Sally and her cellphone stand up and get off the train, not before announcing her address into the phone for all to hear. (In the interest of preserving wackiness in the world, I will NOT publish her address, though in the interest of preserving civil behavior on public transportation, I am sorely tempted.) Brian, after telling both Ms. Lady and myself that it was nice to meet us, follows her out the door shortly thereafter.
The weirdness just didn't stop, though. More tomorrow.
We're A Pack of Sick Bastards and We All Need Help
Guess what, guys? According to RuthAnne and Stella, blogging is "a cry for help" and a sign that someone has a problem!!! Yay for us sick fucks!!!!
The whole conversation started because we had to put a couple of kids out of our program for inappropriate 'net use. Apparently one girl was chronicling her camp experience on her Xanga--using real names, which if you ask me was her big mistake--but describing her fellow campers, activities. thoughts, things that were going on behind the scenes. RuthAnne was telling us a little bit of the story when Stella chimed in, with a very concerned look on her face, saying "That's the sign of some real problems--seeking out attention like that."
(So apparently every public personality, every autobiographer since the history of time, has mental problems. Oh, wait--no, they don't---it's just "this generation" that has them, apparently.)
And so the two of them go back and forth about the scourge of blogging, how "these kids think they're just putting their thoughts on 'paper' for their FRIENDS, so they don't have to individually e-mail their friends, but don't make the connection that ten million people can read them..." (Um, hello--does anyone think kids are really THAT stupid?? Especially THESE kids??? This is an entire generation raised on reality shows and Jerry Springer. They've come up seeing that "exposure=esteem of others". What in the world would make you think they WEREN'T trying to put themselves out there?? Putting your life out there for all to see is practically a rocket-sled to fame and fortune, as this culture sees things--and make no mistake, these are children of our culture!)
After the first sentence or two, I made a weak protest against their "something must be wrong with them" stance--I said "Blogging??? that's like one of the most common forms of communication for their generation--a whole LOT of kids have blogs..." But--as is usual with both of them, even Stella who I love to death--they had their minds made up and they weren't going to hear anything that didn't agree with them. So I stopped talking and started listening to them sum up bloggers--and, by extension, me.
So why AM I doing this? Am I looking for fame? Am I so naive that I don't realize that someone could take all the little bits of data I've put here, glue them together, and figure out who I am? What's my freakin' deal, anyway???
Answers, in order:1-- I'm doing this a) for philosophical reasons, b) to help me clear my mind and deal with all the garbage that I can't otherwise seem to process effectively; c) just in case someone might be interested enough to offer me a book deal and thus make me famous. (Hey, at least I admit it); and d) to articulate a belief system and the circumstances of a place that doesn't often get heard from in this medium. (How many blogs are there on the West Side? Of those, how many come from the 'hood--even if they ARE written by a college-educated white chick?) 2--Yes, I am, as articulated above, looking for fame, yes. But only a little, and I don't think I'd like it much if I DID get it. 3--I am nowhere near that naive. And I don't believe my readers are so naive that they don't realize that though the facts and stories of this blog are absolutely real, the details have almost certainly been changed. I'm assuming you all just take that as an article of faith. 4--My freakin' deal right now, if we're going to be perfectly blunt, is that I haven't been laid in weeks and it's starting to affect my thought processes. THAT's my freakin DEAL, buster, and if you don't like it.... Oh. Sorry. Crabbiness, you know....from the not-getting-laid....)
If anything, though, this has reinforced my notion that I'm on an entirely different wavelength than almost everyone I know. The things they want are different from the things I want; the things they fear are different from the things I fear. Things I take for granted as a part of my daily routine are entirely foreign to them, and strange. It's a very lonely feeling, really, when you come down to it.
The whole conversation started because we had to put a couple of kids out of our program for inappropriate 'net use. Apparently one girl was chronicling her camp experience on her Xanga--using real names, which if you ask me was her big mistake--but describing her fellow campers, activities. thoughts, things that were going on behind the scenes. RuthAnne was telling us a little bit of the story when Stella chimed in, with a very concerned look on her face, saying "That's the sign of some real problems--seeking out attention like that."
(So apparently every public personality, every autobiographer since the history of time, has mental problems. Oh, wait--no, they don't---it's just "this generation" that has them, apparently.)
And so the two of them go back and forth about the scourge of blogging, how "these kids think they're just putting their thoughts on 'paper' for their FRIENDS, so they don't have to individually e-mail their friends, but don't make the connection that ten million people can read them..." (Um, hello--does anyone think kids are really THAT stupid?? Especially THESE kids??? This is an entire generation raised on reality shows and Jerry Springer. They've come up seeing that "exposure=esteem of others". What in the world would make you think they WEREN'T trying to put themselves out there?? Putting your life out there for all to see is practically a rocket-sled to fame and fortune, as this culture sees things--and make no mistake, these are children of our culture!)
After the first sentence or two, I made a weak protest against their "something must be wrong with them" stance--I said "Blogging??? that's like one of the most common forms of communication for their generation--a whole LOT of kids have blogs..." But--as is usual with both of them, even Stella who I love to death--they had their minds made up and they weren't going to hear anything that didn't agree with them. So I stopped talking and started listening to them sum up bloggers--and, by extension, me.
So why AM I doing this? Am I looking for fame? Am I so naive that I don't realize that someone could take all the little bits of data I've put here, glue them together, and figure out who I am? What's my freakin' deal, anyway???
Answers, in order:1-- I'm doing this a) for philosophical reasons, b) to help me clear my mind and deal with all the garbage that I can't otherwise seem to process effectively; c) just in case someone might be interested enough to offer me a book deal and thus make me famous. (Hey, at least I admit it); and d) to articulate a belief system and the circumstances of a place that doesn't often get heard from in this medium. (How many blogs are there on the West Side? Of those, how many come from the 'hood--even if they ARE written by a college-educated white chick?) 2--Yes, I am, as articulated above, looking for fame, yes. But only a little, and I don't think I'd like it much if I DID get it. 3--I am nowhere near that naive. And I don't believe my readers are so naive that they don't realize that though the facts and stories of this blog are absolutely real, the details have almost certainly been changed. I'm assuming you all just take that as an article of faith. 4--My freakin' deal right now, if we're going to be perfectly blunt, is that I haven't been laid in weeks and it's starting to affect my thought processes. THAT's my freakin DEAL, buster, and if you don't like it.... Oh. Sorry. Crabbiness, you know....from the not-getting-laid....)
If anything, though, this has reinforced my notion that I'm on an entirely different wavelength than almost everyone I know. The things they want are different from the things I want; the things they fear are different from the things I fear. Things I take for granted as a part of my daily routine are entirely foreign to them, and strange. It's a very lonely feeling, really, when you come down to it.
Wubbidy??
From the Chicago Tribune, 7/20/04 (emphasis mine):
LOUISVILLE, Ky. --
A Republican lawmaker says it was inappropriate for a GOP office to display a bumper sticker declaring: "Kerry is bin Laden's Man. Bush is Mine."
Kentucky Rep. Anne Northup said she found out about the stickers over the weekend and doesn't want any more distributed. "What campaigns need to center on, debates need to center on and the party needs to focus on are ideas," she said.
Jefferson County GOP chairman Jack Richardson IV said the stickers were so popular that GOP headquarters ran out Friday. He won't distribute more, but is trying to locate their source for those who want them. "I believe in the question this bumper sticker raises," Richardson said.
Now: What question was that, exactly?????
LOUISVILLE, Ky. --
A Republican lawmaker says it was inappropriate for a GOP office to display a bumper sticker declaring: "Kerry is bin Laden's Man. Bush is Mine."
Kentucky Rep. Anne Northup said she found out about the stickers over the weekend and doesn't want any more distributed. "What campaigns need to center on, debates need to center on and the party needs to focus on are ideas," she said.
Jefferson County GOP chairman Jack Richardson IV said the stickers were so popular that GOP headquarters ran out Friday. He won't distribute more, but is trying to locate their source for those who want them. "I believe in the question this bumper sticker raises," Richardson said.
Now: What question was that, exactly?????
Sunday, July 18, 2004
Sick Of The Pink--On Several Levels.
I got tired of that girly-girl color scheme. so here I am in peach/orange/whatever.
I'm sitting here watching "Bowling for Columbine" again--we're back at the Marilyn Manson sequence. As much as I hate MM's music, I would LOVE to be that same kind of lightning-rod for conservative outrage. I would love to say something--anything--and mean it, and have my words resonate with those people enough to SCARE them and make them speak out against me.
One thing Michael Moore didn't exactly cover (not exactly) during the discussion of "why is America so much more violent than other countries?" is this: the gap between the richest and poorest is so freakin' HUGE. When the whole goal of the society is to accumulate and keep as much as possible, the people who have >whatever< are going to be constantly afraid of those who DON'T have it--or the resources to get it. And those who don't have the valued things, when they've been constantly imbued with the notion that their own value as a human being depends on GETTING those things--they often WILL do anything to get them!
What kills me, though, is that people (of ALL races) make it out to be SOLELY a race thing. I'm not saying that it has nothing to do with race--but I think it has a hell of a lot more to do with socioeconomics. I think of Lou (my old redneck roomie/lover/drug-buddy) and Jay (my plumber's kid). They're white, young, male--and poor. And both of them are resolutely criminal. Not large-scale, not murder or violent crimes--but crimes which, at their core, were geared towards getting the material things they didn't have. Lou's dad was the same way, and I get the impression that Jay's dad used to be semi-criminal before he got his shit together. Does that make them bad people? Not to me--hell, I like all of 'em (except Lou's dad, and that was only because he called me a n****r-lover).
That's why I don't have a problem with the guys who work the dope spot from out in front of the Catastrophe. They're just doing what everybody else is doing--trying to get ahead, trying to get the things they haven't got. If their last name was Bush and they lived in Texas, or Kennedy and they lived in Massachusetts, they wouldn't have to struggle for the things they want--shit would be handed to them, and to their children in perpetuity. If their last name was Cortez and they came from a one-child family on the Southwest Side, and had parents who waited til late in life to marry and have kids, and who thus got sent to private school and elite high-schools and had their college paid for--again, if that was the case, they wouldn't have to stand on the corner taking penitentiary chances for the price of a sack of groceries or a pair of Air Forces.
But people make it about something it's not--that they don't care about "right" and "wrong" because they don't KNOW to care--they're just lazy, they don't want to work...all the old stupid backward ideas that always come up along with issues of race.
Tell me this: Given the choice between making money at a job (not burger-flipping or Wal-Mart greeter--I mean a REAL job, where you could make a living wage and be treated with respect). or standing on a corner where at any moment, you could be pounced upon by police and locked up--which would you choose? Do you think that these guys on the corners are so different? Do you think that what they want, what they hope for, what they wish for is so different than what you want?
I don't think so. In fact, I so much don't think so, that I might even go out into the front yard one of these days and ask them.
I'm sitting here watching "Bowling for Columbine" again--we're back at the Marilyn Manson sequence. As much as I hate MM's music, I would LOVE to be that same kind of lightning-rod for conservative outrage. I would love to say something--anything--and mean it, and have my words resonate with those people enough to SCARE them and make them speak out against me.
One thing Michael Moore didn't exactly cover (not exactly) during the discussion of "why is America so much more violent than other countries?" is this: the gap between the richest and poorest is so freakin' HUGE. When the whole goal of the society is to accumulate and keep as much as possible, the people who have >whatever< are going to be constantly afraid of those who DON'T have it--or the resources to get it. And those who don't have the valued things, when they've been constantly imbued with the notion that their own value as a human being depends on GETTING those things--they often WILL do anything to get them!
What kills me, though, is that people (of ALL races) make it out to be SOLELY a race thing. I'm not saying that it has nothing to do with race--but I think it has a hell of a lot more to do with socioeconomics. I think of Lou (my old redneck roomie/lover/drug-buddy) and Jay (my plumber's kid). They're white, young, male--and poor. And both of them are resolutely criminal. Not large-scale, not murder or violent crimes--but crimes which, at their core, were geared towards getting the material things they didn't have. Lou's dad was the same way, and I get the impression that Jay's dad used to be semi-criminal before he got his shit together. Does that make them bad people? Not to me--hell, I like all of 'em (except Lou's dad, and that was only because he called me a n****r-lover).
That's why I don't have a problem with the guys who work the dope spot from out in front of the Catastrophe. They're just doing what everybody else is doing--trying to get ahead, trying to get the things they haven't got. If their last name was Bush and they lived in Texas, or Kennedy and they lived in Massachusetts, they wouldn't have to struggle for the things they want--shit would be handed to them, and to their children in perpetuity. If their last name was Cortez and they came from a one-child family on the Southwest Side, and had parents who waited til late in life to marry and have kids, and who thus got sent to private school and elite high-schools and had their college paid for--again, if that was the case, they wouldn't have to stand on the corner taking penitentiary chances for the price of a sack of groceries or a pair of Air Forces.
But people make it about something it's not--that they don't care about "right" and "wrong" because they don't KNOW to care--they're just lazy, they don't want to work...all the old stupid backward ideas that always come up along with issues of race.
Tell me this: Given the choice between making money at a job (not burger-flipping or Wal-Mart greeter--I mean a REAL job, where you could make a living wage and be treated with respect). or standing on a corner where at any moment, you could be pounced upon by police and locked up--which would you choose? Do you think that these guys on the corners are so different? Do you think that what they want, what they hope for, what they wish for is so different than what you want?
I don't think so. In fact, I so much don't think so, that I might even go out into the front yard one of these days and ask them.
Fuck You, Fuck You, Fuck You.
This article makes me physically ill. (And physically ill, just at the moment, would be a VERY bad thing, since I just ate a metric ton of Uncle Remus wings with mild sauce. Don't let that "mild" thing fool you--this is "mild sauce" only to people who are accustomed to chugging the juice out of the habanero-pepper can.)
But--as usual!--I digress.
Spurred by this article and the utter and thorough dumbass-ness of the people about whom it is written, I will be publishing my iTunes list within the week, for all to judge. The entire fucking pack of elitist, music-snob idiots must be drowned like unwanted kittens in the hands of an inbred squirrel-eating Strom Thurmond devotee.
UPDATE: 7/21/04 As promised: my iTunes playlist. If you have criticisms of my taste in music, you are cordially invited to cram them sideways. Praise and buttkissing will be accepted happily.
Name Artist
Moses-----Coldplay
Volcano-----Damien Rice
Fell in Love with a Girl-----The White Stripes
Mrs. Potter's Lullaby-----Counting Crows
Rosa Parks-----OutKast
Cochise-----Audioslave
Settled Down Like Rain-----The Jayhawks
My My-----Seven Mary Three
16 Days-----Whiskeytown
Trip Like I Do-----The Crystal Method
Negasonic Teenage Warhead-----Monster Magnet
Poem-----Taproot
Bright As Yellow-----The Innocence Mission
Space Lord-----Monster Magnet
Are You Gonna Be My Girl-----Jet
Anything but Down-----Sheryl Crow
I Love You Goodbye-----Thomas Dolby
Mono (Explicit)-----Courtney Love
Molly's Chambers-----Kings of Leon
Snakedriver-----The Jesus & Mary Chain
Go with the Flow-----Queens of the Stone Age
The Way You Move-----OutKast & Sleepy Brown
Sister Surround-----Soundtrack of Our Lives
My Umbrella-----Tripping Daisy
Tones of Home-----Blind Melon
Sodajerk-----Buffalo Tom
Mockingbirds-----Grant Lee Buffalo
Milquetoast-----Helmet
Coming Down (Drug Tongue)-----The Cult
Here Comes Your Man-----Pixies
Big Sky Country-----Chris Whitley
Born Too Slow-----The Crystal Method
B.O.B.-----OutKast
Still Remains-----Stone Temple Pilots
Quiet Storm (Remix)-----Mobb Deep & Lil' Kim
Down with the Sickness------Disturbed
Prophecy-----Remy Zero
Show Me Mary-----Catherine Wheel
Crank-----Catherine Wheel
Chrome-----Catherine Wheel
Rock Anthem… -----SMILE
Staring At The Sun...SMILE
Dickeye-----Jerry Cantrell
Cut You In-----Jerry Cantrell
Uptown Again-----The Afghan Whigs
John The Baptist-----The Afghan Whigs
Galaxie-----Blind Melon
StratfordOnGuy-----Liz Phair
The Outsider-----A Perfect Circle
Never Said-----Liz Phair
Clint -----Gorillaz
Heroes-----David Bowie
The Globe-----Big Audio Dynamite II
If I Can't-----50 Cent
Barrel of a Gun-----Guster
Cities in Dust (Single)-----Siouxsie and The Banshees
Safe Home-----Anthrax
The Choice Is Yours -----Black Sheep
Gimme Some More-----Busta Rhymes
Put Your Hands… -----Busta Rhymes
Summertime in the LBC-----Dove Shack
Still D.R.E.-----Dr. Dre
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised-----Gil ScottHeron
Gossip Folks-----Missy Elliott
Pass That Dutch-----Missy Elliott
Country Grammar (Hot...)-----Nelly
Regulate-----Warren G
The Gas Face-----3rd Bass
Slam-----Onyx
I'm a Thug-----Trick Daddy
Gone Till November -----Wyclef Jean & Canibus
Bonny-----PreFab Sprout
Appetite-----PreFab Sprout
It's Only Natural-----Crowded House
Physical (You're So)-----Nine Inch Nails
Faded Love-----Pre)Thing
All My Life-----Foo Fighters
No One Knows-----Queens of the Stone Age
Straight Out of Line-----Godsmack
ReAlign-----Godsmack
ChCheck It Out-----Beastie Boys
California Songs-----Local H
Careful-----Guster
The Middle-----Jimmy Eat World
Clocks-----Coldplay
Iron Clad Lou-----Hum
24's-----T.I.
I'll Do 4 U-----Father MC
What Happened To That Boy-----Baby & Clipse
Fine Again-----Seether
Stupify-----Disturbed
Idiot-----Catherine
Sullivan Street-----Counting Crows
Grind-----Alice In Chains
Again-----Alice In Chains
Glynis-----Smashing Pumpkins
Hold On-----Sarah McLachlan
Stupid Car (Tinnitus Mix)-----Radiohead
Elevate My Mind (Live)-----Stereo MC's
Frail and Bedazzled-----Smashing Pumpkins
Starla-----Smashing Pumpkins
Hello Kitty Kat-----Smashing Pumpkins
Bluster-----Salt
Saint Joe On The School Bus-----Marcy Playground
Stamp -----Hagfish
Soul City-----Southern Culture On the Skids
Girl U Want-----Soundgarden
High-----Jimmie's Chicken Shack
Supernaut-----Ministry
Name of the Game-----The Crystal Method
Setting Sun-----The Chemical Brothers
But--as usual!--I digress.
Spurred by this article and the utter and thorough dumbass-ness of the people about whom it is written, I will be publishing my iTunes list within the week, for all to judge. The entire fucking pack of elitist, music-snob idiots must be drowned like unwanted kittens in the hands of an inbred squirrel-eating Strom Thurmond devotee.
UPDATE: 7/21/04 As promised: my iTunes playlist. If you have criticisms of my taste in music, you are cordially invited to cram them sideways. Praise and buttkissing will be accepted happily.
Name Artist
Moses-----Coldplay
Volcano-----Damien Rice
Fell in Love with a Girl-----The White Stripes
Mrs. Potter's Lullaby-----Counting Crows
Rosa Parks-----OutKast
Cochise-----Audioslave
Settled Down Like Rain-----The Jayhawks
My My-----Seven Mary Three
16 Days-----Whiskeytown
Trip Like I Do-----The Crystal Method
Negasonic Teenage Warhead-----Monster Magnet
Poem-----Taproot
Bright As Yellow-----The Innocence Mission
Space Lord-----Monster Magnet
Are You Gonna Be My Girl-----Jet
Anything but Down-----Sheryl Crow
I Love You Goodbye-----Thomas Dolby
Mono (Explicit)-----Courtney Love
Molly's Chambers-----Kings of Leon
Snakedriver-----The Jesus & Mary Chain
Go with the Flow-----Queens of the Stone Age
The Way You Move-----OutKast & Sleepy Brown
Sister Surround-----Soundtrack of Our Lives
My Umbrella-----Tripping Daisy
Tones of Home-----Blind Melon
Sodajerk-----Buffalo Tom
Mockingbirds-----Grant Lee Buffalo
Milquetoast-----Helmet
Coming Down (Drug Tongue)-----The Cult
Here Comes Your Man-----Pixies
Big Sky Country-----Chris Whitley
Born Too Slow-----The Crystal Method
B.O.B.-----OutKast
Still Remains-----Stone Temple Pilots
Quiet Storm (Remix)-----Mobb Deep & Lil' Kim
Down with the Sickness------Disturbed
Prophecy-----Remy Zero
Show Me Mary-----Catherine Wheel
Crank-----Catherine Wheel
Chrome-----Catherine Wheel
Rock Anthem… -----SMILE
Staring At The Sun...SMILE
Dickeye-----Jerry Cantrell
Cut You In-----Jerry Cantrell
Uptown Again-----The Afghan Whigs
John The Baptist-----The Afghan Whigs
Galaxie-----Blind Melon
StratfordOnGuy-----Liz Phair
The Outsider-----A Perfect Circle
Never Said-----Liz Phair
Clint -----Gorillaz
Heroes-----David Bowie
The Globe-----Big Audio Dynamite II
If I Can't-----50 Cent
Barrel of a Gun-----Guster
Cities in Dust (Single)-----Siouxsie and The Banshees
Safe Home-----Anthrax
The Choice Is Yours -----Black Sheep
Gimme Some More-----Busta Rhymes
Put Your Hands… -----Busta Rhymes
Summertime in the LBC-----Dove Shack
Still D.R.E.-----Dr. Dre
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised-----Gil ScottHeron
Gossip Folks-----Missy Elliott
Pass That Dutch-----Missy Elliott
Country Grammar (Hot...)-----Nelly
Regulate-----Warren G
The Gas Face-----3rd Bass
Slam-----Onyx
I'm a Thug-----Trick Daddy
Gone Till November -----Wyclef Jean & Canibus
Bonny-----PreFab Sprout
Appetite-----PreFab Sprout
It's Only Natural-----Crowded House
Physical (You're So)-----Nine Inch Nails
Faded Love-----Pre)Thing
All My Life-----Foo Fighters
No One Knows-----Queens of the Stone Age
Straight Out of Line-----Godsmack
ReAlign-----Godsmack
ChCheck It Out-----Beastie Boys
California Songs-----Local H
Careful-----Guster
The Middle-----Jimmy Eat World
Clocks-----Coldplay
Iron Clad Lou-----Hum
24's-----T.I.
I'll Do 4 U-----Father MC
What Happened To That Boy-----Baby & Clipse
Fine Again-----Seether
Stupify-----Disturbed
Idiot-----Catherine
Sullivan Street-----Counting Crows
Grind-----Alice In Chains
Again-----Alice In Chains
Glynis-----Smashing Pumpkins
Hold On-----Sarah McLachlan
Stupid Car (Tinnitus Mix)-----Radiohead
Elevate My Mind (Live)-----Stereo MC's
Frail and Bedazzled-----Smashing Pumpkins
Starla-----Smashing Pumpkins
Hello Kitty Kat-----Smashing Pumpkins
Bluster-----Salt
Saint Joe On The School Bus-----Marcy Playground
Stamp -----Hagfish
Soul City-----Southern Culture On the Skids
Girl U Want-----Soundgarden
High-----Jimmie's Chicken Shack
Supernaut-----Ministry
Name of the Game-----The Crystal Method
Setting Sun-----The Chemical Brothers
The "Cluelessness" Department Is Open For Business
LJ didn't come home at all last night.
(Now, to those of you who just stumbled into this blog, that might seem like a massive transgression--but if you keep reading, you'll realize it's fairly normal. I -know- where he is; at least, I'm pretty sure I know where he is. And it's not what you would imagine.)
What's unusual, though, is that he didn't call -at all-. I didn't hear from him til about 5 minutes ago, when he called (sleepy, so he must be at his mother's house) asking if I wanted him to bring me any food. I told him yes--the fridge is nearly empty, and will be for a few more days at least.
I'm glad he's not locked up...but he's gonna have some serious sucking-up to do when he gets home, for making me worry like that!!!!!!! One little sandwich isn't gonna make up for THAT--not even Italian Beef, dipped, with fries.
(Now, to those of you who just stumbled into this blog, that might seem like a massive transgression--but if you keep reading, you'll realize it's fairly normal. I -know- where he is; at least, I'm pretty sure I know where he is. And it's not what you would imagine.)
What's unusual, though, is that he didn't call -at all-. I didn't hear from him til about 5 minutes ago, when he called (sleepy, so he must be at his mother's house) asking if I wanted him to bring me any food. I told him yes--the fridge is nearly empty, and will be for a few more days at least.
I'm glad he's not locked up...but he's gonna have some serious sucking-up to do when he gets home, for making me worry like that!!!!!!! One little sandwich isn't gonna make up for THAT--not even Italian Beef, dipped, with fries.
Milestone
For the first time in nearly nine years, I have a mosquito bite. Several of them, in fact.
Since the summer of 1995, mosquitoes have refused to bite me. I remember watching one try it once, back in the middle of that summer--then watching it die almost instantly after pulling out its stinger. I didn't realize until then that mosquitoes could have a heroin overdose.
Since then, I haven't had a single mosquito bite, except for the time when I was in Charlotte and had been clean for 18 months. Once I got back to Chicago, that was it for me and the mosquitoes--in the beginning because of the heroin, and then for the past 6 years because of the methadone. I'm pretty sure there's some pheromone that gets disrupted by the opiates; I remember a couple of times, when I was in withdrawal, that I smelled different. (Yeah, I know--TMI--but it's true. Withdrawal has a very distinct smell to it.)
Whatever that pheromone is, or whatever the reason was that mosquitoes wouldn't bite me, apparently the cause is no longer in effect now that I'm down to 12 mg/day of methadone. I'm proud of myself, sorta; I was up as high as 150, back when I was double-dipping (getting my methadone in the morning, then going out and scoring some heroin later on) and now I should be off completely by the end of this year. More than anything else, I'm looking forward to the extra $220 a month that I won't have to pay the clinic!
However, I'd forgotten exactly how much I hate mosquito bites--and how badly I welt up when I get them!! It looks like I've got a second kneecap.
Since the summer of 1995, mosquitoes have refused to bite me. I remember watching one try it once, back in the middle of that summer--then watching it die almost instantly after pulling out its stinger. I didn't realize until then that mosquitoes could have a heroin overdose.
Since then, I haven't had a single mosquito bite, except for the time when I was in Charlotte and had been clean for 18 months. Once I got back to Chicago, that was it for me and the mosquitoes--in the beginning because of the heroin, and then for the past 6 years because of the methadone. I'm pretty sure there's some pheromone that gets disrupted by the opiates; I remember a couple of times, when I was in withdrawal, that I smelled different. (Yeah, I know--TMI--but it's true. Withdrawal has a very distinct smell to it.)
Whatever that pheromone is, or whatever the reason was that mosquitoes wouldn't bite me, apparently the cause is no longer in effect now that I'm down to 12 mg/day of methadone. I'm proud of myself, sorta; I was up as high as 150, back when I was double-dipping (getting my methadone in the morning, then going out and scoring some heroin later on) and now I should be off completely by the end of this year. More than anything else, I'm looking forward to the extra $220 a month that I won't have to pay the clinic!
However, I'd forgotten exactly how much I hate mosquito bites--and how badly I welt up when I get them!! It looks like I've got a second kneecap.
Things On My BlogRoll Which You Really Oughtta Look At
CTA Tattler: This blog has become near and dear to my heart, simply because I spend so much time on the CTA myself. The buses and trains are among the most fertile grounds for people-watching; my problem is, I can't stand 99% of people. But you still hear some funny stuff.
Anonyboy: My first mention in someone else's blog!! His is a blog sort of along the lines of my own, and it's NEW, so everybody should go visit it and support fledgling bloggers everywhere.
My Cat Hates You: Not strictly a blog, yet it still rocks my lame ass.
The Pits: The best NASCAR cartoon I've ever seen. (Also the only NASCAR cartoon I've ever seen--but that's not the point.)
Anonyboy: My first mention in someone else's blog!! His is a blog sort of along the lines of my own, and it's NEW, so everybody should go visit it and support fledgling bloggers everywhere.
My Cat Hates You: Not strictly a blog, yet it still rocks my lame ass.
The Pits: The best NASCAR cartoon I've ever seen. (Also the only NASCAR cartoon I've ever seen--but that's not the point.)
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Disgusting Quote of the Day
"The thing that's hardest for white-collar criminals, people like Martha Stewart, is that in prison they have to get used to taking orders from people who they would NEVER have had to pay attention to otherwise."
--Paraphrase of a white-collar crime expert, on a segment on Fox News Chicago, 7/16/04
As Weekends Go
I have to say, this may be the most gruelingly-mediocre weekend in recent memory. It has almost nothing to recommend it at all. I have been flipping channels, while doing assorted other things, for several hours, and the only thing I can find to watch is The Gangs Of New York, which I've seen so many times that I can damn-near recite the dialogue verbatim.
Meanwhile, I've been working--finally--on a definitive, final sketch of my kitchen remodel. I haven't decided on color or anything--that's for another day--but I'm coming close to a structure, at least. Though I must admit, I'm leaning to one of those little alcove things, lined with brick, where the cooktop would go.
Other than that, I didn't do much of consequence...took up the carpet in the back bedroom, to reveal a floor so gross as to defy description. Apparently once, long ago, it was covered with a light-colored linoleum with a GOLD--metallic gold!--fleck in it. Then someone scraped that up and Asshole Tom Slaughter's men laid down the cheap padding and cheaper carpet--without first bothering to sweep up the floor, just like they did it in the rest of the house. So there were all sorts of tile-bits and nails and grime under the carpet pad, including about seven pennies in various states of corrosion. I don't think I'll carpet that room, not til I can get some foundation work done in the basement--I suspect that room is directly above the dampest part of the basement.
But THAT is going to be my creative haven. It's the one room I already know EXACTLY what I'm going to do with, decor-wise: bright yellow-orange paint, with my quilt on the wall, and my fabric squares. I have a really brilliant idea for the floor, but I'm not sure I can carry it off. I want to get a whole mess of those Armstrong vinyl tile squares, like the ones on my kitchen and hallway floor--but in different colors, oranges and reds and yellows and black, and then I want to do a mosaic on the floor of this back room--a big sunburst. If I could do it, it would be the coolest thing in the world. I want to put a futon back there, too, so when T comes to visit me she can sleep in my happy-room instead of in LJ's guy-cave.
Speaking of LJ, my text message to him today says it all.
He called me immediately and promised to spend time with me. I'll believe it when it happens.
Tweed: "You killed an elected official?"
Cutting: "Who elected him?"
Tweed: "You don't know what you've done to yourself."
Cutting: :::taps glass eye:::: "I know your works. You are neither cold nor hot. So because you are lukewarm, I shall spew you out of my mouth. You can build your filthy world without me. I took the father--I'll take the son. You tell young Vallon I'm going to paint Paradise Square with his blood. TWO coats! I'll festoon my bedchamber with his guts. As for you, mister Tammany-Fucking-Hall, you come down to the Points again and you will be dispatched by mine own hand. Now get back to your celebration and leave me eat in peace. I paid you fair."
Meanwhile, I've been working--finally--on a definitive, final sketch of my kitchen remodel. I haven't decided on color or anything--that's for another day--but I'm coming close to a structure, at least. Though I must admit, I'm leaning to one of those little alcove things, lined with brick, where the cooktop would go.
Other than that, I didn't do much of consequence...took up the carpet in the back bedroom, to reveal a floor so gross as to defy description. Apparently once, long ago, it was covered with a light-colored linoleum with a GOLD--metallic gold!--fleck in it. Then someone scraped that up and Asshole Tom Slaughter's men laid down the cheap padding and cheaper carpet--without first bothering to sweep up the floor, just like they did it in the rest of the house. So there were all sorts of tile-bits and nails and grime under the carpet pad, including about seven pennies in various states of corrosion. I don't think I'll carpet that room, not til I can get some foundation work done in the basement--I suspect that room is directly above the dampest part of the basement.
But THAT is going to be my creative haven. It's the one room I already know EXACTLY what I'm going to do with, decor-wise: bright yellow-orange paint, with my quilt on the wall, and my fabric squares. I have a really brilliant idea for the floor, but I'm not sure I can carry it off. I want to get a whole mess of those Armstrong vinyl tile squares, like the ones on my kitchen and hallway floor--but in different colors, oranges and reds and yellows and black, and then I want to do a mosaic on the floor of this back room--a big sunburst. If I could do it, it would be the coolest thing in the world. I want to put a futon back there, too, so when T comes to visit me she can sleep in my happy-room instead of in LJ's guy-cave.
Speaking of LJ, my text message to him today says it all.
"I think we have different ideas of how much time we should spend together. More than zero would be a good start."
He called me immediately and promised to spend time with me. I'll believe it when it happens.
Picture--Cheap Artwork!
These fabric squares hung in the living room of my old apartment. I have to admit, I sorta miss that place.
Friday, July 16, 2004
R.I.P: OneWord
Reluctantly, I am removing oneword.com from my blogroll; it's now been down for the better part of two weeks, and no one seems to know why. It's a shame--that was a cool site.
If I Don't Do Something Dumb It'll Be A Miracle.
I think I picked the wrong decade to quit heroin.
(I'm sitting here watching "Days of Thunder". My considered opinion is that they fucked up a perfectly-good racin' movie with a dumb-ass love story and a dumb-ass buddy subplot. But the first 40 minutes is a good time...)
Let's see--what's making me want to kill someone today? Work, the ride home (the roads are just frothing with idiots today), Mom (who will NEVER get another gift from me that plugs into a wall--EVER--after what it's taken just to show her how to turn on the VCR and play a tape), LJ--gone, as usual, within minutes of me walking in --and the fucking credit card company which just suddenly decided that yesterday's $70 of available credit is today's $9 overlimit--which is funny since I only spent $25 at the most...
Did I mention that LJ is gone again?
Look, I am making a concerted effort not to be clingy, not to be awful, not to be needy. I give him all the space it's possible to give another human being in the same house. I don't demand to know where he's been or who he's seen or what he's done; I've allowed myself to take for granted that what he tells me, when he tells me anything, is the truth. I can afford to do this because he hasn't yet lied to me and been caught. So in light of that, I have tried very hard not to crowd or stifle him.
But this is ridiculous. I'm lonely. I'm lonely enough that I'm wishing for some other man, just to get some attention. I miss JP more than I can even talk about, more than I can even think about without crying. But I think about him all the same.
I don't expect LJ to live up to anything, to outshine any memory. But god, I want him to CARE whether we're together or not, to maybe miss me when we're not together, to act like maybe he's glad to see me or maybe wishes he could spend more time with me. The impression I get now is that he wishes I wasn't here, that he would be able to live here without the nuisance of having to see me or talk to me or spend time with me. I don't know if that's actually how he feels, but it's the attitude he projects. If I didn't know why he was doing it, I would REALLY be upset--but I know he's just trying to make money, to get his life the way he wants it. I wish he would focus less on the material end of our life and more on just enjoying ourselves--but then again, I don't see too many things he does enjoy, other than music, drinking, smoking, and hanging with his friends. I wouldn't mind it so much if I was INCLUDED!
I don't know how much longer I can keep going if things don't change. I am patient--but I'm also human, and I'm not spending the rest of my life like this--alone on a Friday night, watching TV, eating soup, no one to touch me.
(I'm sitting here watching "Days of Thunder". My considered opinion is that they fucked up a perfectly-good racin' movie with a dumb-ass love story and a dumb-ass buddy subplot. But the first 40 minutes is a good time...)
Let's see--what's making me want to kill someone today? Work, the ride home (the roads are just frothing with idiots today), Mom (who will NEVER get another gift from me that plugs into a wall--EVER--after what it's taken just to show her how to turn on the VCR and play a tape), LJ--gone, as usual, within minutes of me walking in --and the fucking credit card company which just suddenly decided that yesterday's $70 of available credit is today's $9 overlimit--which is funny since I only spent $25 at the most...
Did I mention that LJ is gone again?
Look, I am making a concerted effort not to be clingy, not to be awful, not to be needy. I give him all the space it's possible to give another human being in the same house. I don't demand to know where he's been or who he's seen or what he's done; I've allowed myself to take for granted that what he tells me, when he tells me anything, is the truth. I can afford to do this because he hasn't yet lied to me and been caught. So in light of that, I have tried very hard not to crowd or stifle him.
But this is ridiculous. I'm lonely. I'm lonely enough that I'm wishing for some other man, just to get some attention. I miss JP more than I can even talk about, more than I can even think about without crying. But I think about him all the same.
I don't expect LJ to live up to anything, to outshine any memory. But god, I want him to CARE whether we're together or not, to maybe miss me when we're not together, to act like maybe he's glad to see me or maybe wishes he could spend more time with me. The impression I get now is that he wishes I wasn't here, that he would be able to live here without the nuisance of having to see me or talk to me or spend time with me. I don't know if that's actually how he feels, but it's the attitude he projects. If I didn't know why he was doing it, I would REALLY be upset--but I know he's just trying to make money, to get his life the way he wants it. I wish he would focus less on the material end of our life and more on just enjoying ourselves--but then again, I don't see too many things he does enjoy, other than music, drinking, smoking, and hanging with his friends. I wouldn't mind it so much if I was INCLUDED!
I don't know how much longer I can keep going if things don't change. I am patient--but I'm also human, and I'm not spending the rest of my life like this--alone on a Friday night, watching TV, eating soup, no one to touch me.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Scenes From The Sidewalk
At 5:45 AM this morning, I woke up for reasons (at that moment) unknown.
A word of background is in order: I sleep like the dead. What with the fans both running on high, and the noises from the street that last most of the night, I've gone back to my habit of sleeping with my earplugs in. The other day, Jay--my plumber's kid--showed up while LJ and I were still asleep. About an hour later, I woke up and went into the room he was working on and startled him. "I was outside yellin' and screamin' and your neighbors were lookin' at me--I have a whistle that could make your ears bleed, and you SLEPT through that??" he asked.
But this morning, earplugs and all, I woke up a good 25 minutes before my alarm was scheduled to go off. Now THAT, in and of itself, is a horror nearly too great to bear. Those last few minutes are sacred, and so I was not kindly disposed toward whatever woke me. I pulled out my earplugs to hear better.
Then I got up and looked out the bedroom window to watch, because there was clearly about to be an ass-whuppin' administered.
I could only hear bits of what was being said--the fan was running behind me, and if I turned it off I was going to wake LJ--but it was clear that the female, who was wielding a 40-oz beer bottle, felt herself to have been wronged by the male half of the argument. Apparently she, too, is ignorant of the theorem: If you don't think you want to know, don't ask. She, from what I could gather, had found evidence of some other woman in the male's room. She accused him of fucking someone else; he didn't deny it; and the beer-bottle was launched in a rather tight arc in the general direction of the male.
Now all of this would have been an entertaining diversion, even despite the earliness of the hour, but for one important factor:
All this yelling, cussing, bitching, threatening, and bottle-throwing was taking place within inches of our beloved Tahoe. I watched for a minute and saw no improvement--the girl, especially, looked like she was about to become overly-familiar with the truck. So I did what anyone else would have done: I woke LJ. "Um, babe? There's some drama going on over by our car--you might wanna get up and look at this..."
He mumbled, got up, watched out the window for a few minutes--mumbled something else, then crawled back into the blankets. The argument, though--that went on for another fifteen-twenty minutes, til I was leaving for work. Finally the girl walked back to wherever she came from, and the guy was working the spot as I walked to the bus. The car was fine, anyway.
A word of background is in order: I sleep like the dead. What with the fans both running on high, and the noises from the street that last most of the night, I've gone back to my habit of sleeping with my earplugs in. The other day, Jay--my plumber's kid--showed up while LJ and I were still asleep. About an hour later, I woke up and went into the room he was working on and startled him. "I was outside yellin' and screamin' and your neighbors were lookin' at me--I have a whistle that could make your ears bleed, and you SLEPT through that??" he asked.
But this morning, earplugs and all, I woke up a good 25 minutes before my alarm was scheduled to go off. Now THAT, in and of itself, is a horror nearly too great to bear. Those last few minutes are sacred, and so I was not kindly disposed toward whatever woke me. I pulled out my earplugs to hear better.
Then I got up and looked out the bedroom window to watch, because there was clearly about to be an ass-whuppin' administered.
I could only hear bits of what was being said--the fan was running behind me, and if I turned it off I was going to wake LJ--but it was clear that the female, who was wielding a 40-oz beer bottle, felt herself to have been wronged by the male half of the argument. Apparently she, too, is ignorant of the theorem: If you don't think you want to know, don't ask. She, from what I could gather, had found evidence of some other woman in the male's room. She accused him of fucking someone else; he didn't deny it; and the beer-bottle was launched in a rather tight arc in the general direction of the male.
Now all of this would have been an entertaining diversion, even despite the earliness of the hour, but for one important factor:
All this yelling, cussing, bitching, threatening, and bottle-throwing was taking place within inches of our beloved Tahoe. I watched for a minute and saw no improvement--the girl, especially, looked like she was about to become overly-familiar with the truck. So I did what anyone else would have done: I woke LJ. "Um, babe? There's some drama going on over by our car--you might wanna get up and look at this..."
He mumbled, got up, watched out the window for a few minutes--mumbled something else, then crawled back into the blankets. The argument, though--that went on for another fifteen-twenty minutes, til I was leaving for work. Finally the girl walked back to wherever she came from, and the guy was working the spot as I walked to the bus. The car was fine, anyway.
Dualities
The other day I was told that I would make "a really good mother".
Of all the people in the world, Martin and Ruby should know better. They share an office with me for more than half the day; they hear me muttering obscenities under my breath and holding long monologues against the treachery of inanimate objects. Martin is often the sole auditor of my more cockamamie political diatribes--if anything, he's more liberal even than I--and they've heard my side of conversations with LJ, cryptic and laced with non-standard dialects.
And yet, there was Martin, telling me "Every time I see that picture hanging over there I think to myself 'She would make such a good mother!'" (The picture in question was taken at the behest of Noreen, during one of our yearly award convocations for the kids. I'm sitting in between two little bitty third- or fourth-graders--teeny little things--with a big grin on my face. (Of course I blinked. I ALWAYS blink. There's barely a picture of me in the last ten years in which I'm not freakin' BLINKing.) And I look fatter than usual, truth to tell. But everyone thinks I look cute, apparently. If that's cute, then I can't imagine what I must look like to them the rest of the time!)
I wonder what, besides the picture, would make anyone--anyone!--think I'd be a good mother. I am in no way maternal. I have no patience, no nurturing ways (okay, maybe that's not ENTIRELY accurate, but it's close.) I can do the little domestic things--cook, crochet, quilt, decorate--all that stuff--but I absolutely do not want another human being to be completely dependent on me.
More than that, though, I know I wouldn't be a suitable mother because of what I'm carrying with me. Apparently I'm fooling at least some of the people some of the time--but I don't think anyone knows what I'm really like, how angry and how dangerous (to myself, if not to anyone else.)
How could I possibly bring a child into this world when, at least three times a week, I contemplate how best to leave it myself? How could I raise a kid to be functional in the world--to be polite but assertive, to keep his or her own best interests in mind while never forgetting the rights and feelings of others--when most days it takes an effort of will to keep from screaming at someone who deserves it? How can I raise a child to be a good citizen and to question authority when I've seen the futility of trying to do right? I know too much about the way the world can crush the hope out of you--how could I look a child in the face and tell them that this is a fundamentally good life? I've been happy only for brief moments--and I know I'm no different from the norm in THAT regard, though I don't think this chronic unhappiness is the human condition so much as a symptom of a sick society --so how in all good conscience could I condemn a child to live in that same sick society--the same one I have no idea of how to fix? This is a society that rewards wrongdoers and punishes virtue and effort. The sad fact of the matter is, LJ is far more likely to make a good living out on the block than as a gym teacher; hell, he's likely to make more money in a year, doing what he does, than I make fixing computers!
What I really want out of life--if I have to live it--is this: I want the right to live without a constant guilt trip. I am tired of the constant implication that I've somehow "redeemed" myself by "turning away" from my old ways--drugs, irresponsibility, big dreams of a wild and beautiful future. The fact of the matter is, I haven't turned away from SHIT. The big dreams are only no longer a part of me because the person who I had those dreams with is dead. I would rather spend my last days on this earth as a wild-eyed junkie with no job, living off anyone who'll be kind enough to help me, than what I'm doing now. The life I'm living now is fundamentally without a soul. I can get through entire days without thinking about anything REAL to me. Were it not for the fact that I would lose this house, I would go back to my old life in a heartbeat.
I don't believe in the things of this world. That sounds, in writing, like some spiritual confession, some God-thing waiting to happen--but I mean it like this: I am aghast at the way this world has changed even in the past 10 years. Suddenly mercy is weakness; tolerance is the mark of a coward or an idiot. The Coulters and the O'Reilly's have taken over the world, and they name-call anyone who dares to mention peace or compromise. The whole world has regressed, we have become a nation of schoolyard bullies. Q101--the station that benefitted most from Kurt Cobain's rejection of the hatefulness of the jocks and cheerleaders and lugnuts of the world--now has 8 hours a day where the reigning "personalities" are intolerant jerks. M*nc*w (I'll be goddamned if I'll put that name in my blog and have one of his dumbass listeners find me by using it as a search term--I'd prefer the "canine-human sex" people!)--anyway, after 9/11, I heard a show where M*nc*w said we (the "true Americans", I guess) should "take back Devon Avenue"--the main street in the North Side's Arab neighborhood. But from him, I expect idiocy. Now they've got these three new afternoon-drive idiots, who think they're so liberal because they hate George W, yet these same three routinely use "gay" as a pejorative. They sound like a bunch of fifth-graders. Kurt Cobain had the right idea--he got the hell out before he could see the re-ascendancy of Jackass Nation--but before he went he wrote this:
And yet Q-101 plays Nirvana all the time. "He's the one/Who likes all our pretty songs/And he likes to sing along/And he loves to shoot his gun/But he don't know what it means/Don't know what it means..." They play it as though they themselves are neither guilty nor even complicit. It's exactly THAT sort of hypocrisy, of co-opting things that are real and polluting them in the name of the overarching corporate conforming mentality--it's THAT which makes me want to leave this life.
Today at work I was asked to do some work on a project for Nancy in marketing--to open a file for her and match the names with the names in our database. I opened the file and there were all these weird phrases in there instead, all with numbers after them. "Country Squires", "Bluebloods", "Pools and Patios", "Kids and Cul-De-Sacs"--stuff like that.
"Nancy? What is this?" I asked her.
"Oh--those are the marketing research company's designations for all the target subgroups people can be a part of." She seemed nonchalant.
In searching for the data for her project, she sent me another file. This one turned out to be a full list of their 62 subcategories. The categories were arranged in order of decreasing income--and the further down you got, the more condescending the names became: "Shotguns and Pickups"and "Hardscrabble" were two of the ones I remember--and I think I've consciously blocked out the "urban" permutations.
After spending five minutes with this file, I really, really wanted to take a shower. And these people make millions of dollars--billions, if you look at all the companies just like them. (Jake and I spent a moment idly wondering which categories we fell into....though I think I probably come under the "unmarketable" category, since I am swayed not at all by ads or marketing ploys. The things I like, I like either because they're cheap, useful to me, tasty, or other qualities based on some individual preference not shared by many others. I'm an iconoclast, and there aren't any categories for us...I don't think.) (Update, 7/16/04: I just looked at this file again and it skeeved me even WORSE, if that's a possibility. I mean, read this:
Here's the thing: There are millions of unemployed steelworkers, craftsmen who can't feed their families, artists forced to abandon their art--and all of those people MAKE something, create something tangible and lasting. Marketing people make nothing lasting--they spend their life and their talents and their intelligence on acts of manipulation and the excavation of the human psyche for personal gain--and yet they are paid more than teachers, more than nurses, more than writers, more than social workers. In my own neighborhood I see thousands of people struggling just to get by, to feed their children, to make ends meet. Yet the people who have the talent to direct the workings of peoples' minds--are they pointing people in the direction of self-improvement, or leading the society in the direction of equality, justice, and opportunity for everyone? No--they're using their talent to convince everyone else that they need to buy more, get more, have more--that they need Air Force Ones or Prada bags or Lexus cars to validate them, to show that they're successful--no matter what they have to do to get them, or whose toes they have to step on. The less they have now, the more they're told how much they absolutely need these things. And the people who are being duped by this miserably-successful manipulation, for the most part, don't realize they're being duped. For the most part they believe that these material possessions actually -mean- something, that they actually say something important about the value of the owner as a human being.
I'm not immune, myself; for how many years did I convince myself that in order to consider myself successful, I had to have a house of my own? It was genetic, the influence of my grandmother operating within me, that made me believe that, though, I think--not the marketing juggernaut--and yet when I look around, there are so many material things I want. Not because of the way they're marketed, I assure myself; and yet, how can I be sure? I mean, I know I don't drink Pepsi because of its commercials--I drink Pepsi because I like the taste better than the taste of Coke or RC. When I buy a different brand of shampoo, it's because it's on sale, not because of the commercials full of shiny-haired women having orgasms in the shower. (Though occasionally I'm sucked in by a promise of smoother or less-frizzy hair--wait, that's NOT my point!) But I wonder sometimes how much I really am influenced, in ways I don't even know, by the constant media barrage. I don't even dare to trust my own motives and perceptions, in a world so full of manipulation and deceit.
This is the world I live in. These are the thoughts I encounter every day, and--when I combine them with my memories of what once was, and my half-recollections of what might have been--they leave me filled with a nearly-constant anger, strong enough to make me fear the moment it finally breaks through. Yet there are people in my life who find me competent to bring a child into this chaos--a child who will ask questions I can't even answer for myself. That, to me, would be an intolerable cruelty, and I won't ever purposefully do it--but it proves that I'm evidently doing a good job of hiding my private madness from the world.
Of all the people in the world, Martin and Ruby should know better. They share an office with me for more than half the day; they hear me muttering obscenities under my breath and holding long monologues against the treachery of inanimate objects. Martin is often the sole auditor of my more cockamamie political diatribes--if anything, he's more liberal even than I--and they've heard my side of conversations with LJ, cryptic and laced with non-standard dialects.
And yet, there was Martin, telling me "Every time I see that picture hanging over there I think to myself 'She would make such a good mother!'" (The picture in question was taken at the behest of Noreen, during one of our yearly award convocations for the kids. I'm sitting in between two little bitty third- or fourth-graders--teeny little things--with a big grin on my face. (Of course I blinked. I ALWAYS blink. There's barely a picture of me in the last ten years in which I'm not freakin' BLINKing.) And I look fatter than usual, truth to tell. But everyone thinks I look cute, apparently. If that's cute, then I can't imagine what I must look like to them the rest of the time!)
I wonder what, besides the picture, would make anyone--anyone!--think I'd be a good mother. I am in no way maternal. I have no patience, no nurturing ways (okay, maybe that's not ENTIRELY accurate, but it's close.) I can do the little domestic things--cook, crochet, quilt, decorate--all that stuff--but I absolutely do not want another human being to be completely dependent on me.
More than that, though, I know I wouldn't be a suitable mother because of what I'm carrying with me. Apparently I'm fooling at least some of the people some of the time--but I don't think anyone knows what I'm really like, how angry and how dangerous (to myself, if not to anyone else.)
How could I possibly bring a child into this world when, at least three times a week, I contemplate how best to leave it myself? How could I raise a kid to be functional in the world--to be polite but assertive, to keep his or her own best interests in mind while never forgetting the rights and feelings of others--when most days it takes an effort of will to keep from screaming at someone who deserves it? How can I raise a child to be a good citizen and to question authority when I've seen the futility of trying to do right? I know too much about the way the world can crush the hope out of you--how could I look a child in the face and tell them that this is a fundamentally good life? I've been happy only for brief moments--and I know I'm no different from the norm in THAT regard, though I don't think this chronic unhappiness is the human condition so much as a symptom of a sick society --so how in all good conscience could I condemn a child to live in that same sick society--the same one I have no idea of how to fix? This is a society that rewards wrongdoers and punishes virtue and effort. The sad fact of the matter is, LJ is far more likely to make a good living out on the block than as a gym teacher; hell, he's likely to make more money in a year, doing what he does, than I make fixing computers!
What I really want out of life--if I have to live it--is this: I want the right to live without a constant guilt trip. I am tired of the constant implication that I've somehow "redeemed" myself by "turning away" from my old ways--drugs, irresponsibility, big dreams of a wild and beautiful future. The fact of the matter is, I haven't turned away from SHIT. The big dreams are only no longer a part of me because the person who I had those dreams with is dead. I would rather spend my last days on this earth as a wild-eyed junkie with no job, living off anyone who'll be kind enough to help me, than what I'm doing now. The life I'm living now is fundamentally without a soul. I can get through entire days without thinking about anything REAL to me. Were it not for the fact that I would lose this house, I would go back to my old life in a heartbeat.
I don't believe in the things of this world. That sounds, in writing, like some spiritual confession, some God-thing waiting to happen--but I mean it like this: I am aghast at the way this world has changed even in the past 10 years. Suddenly mercy is weakness; tolerance is the mark of a coward or an idiot. The Coulters and the O'Reilly's have taken over the world, and they name-call anyone who dares to mention peace or compromise. The whole world has regressed, we have become a nation of schoolyard bullies. Q101--the station that benefitted most from Kurt Cobain's rejection of the hatefulness of the jocks and cheerleaders and lugnuts of the world--now has 8 hours a day where the reigning "personalities" are intolerant jerks. M*nc*w (I'll be goddamned if I'll put that name in my blog and have one of his dumbass listeners find me by using it as a search term--I'd prefer the "canine-human sex" people!)--anyway, after 9/11, I heard a show where M*nc*w said we (the "true Americans", I guess) should "take back Devon Avenue"--the main street in the North Side's Arab neighborhood. But from him, I expect idiocy. Now they've got these three new afternoon-drive idiots, who think they're so liberal because they hate George W, yet these same three routinely use "gay" as a pejorative. They sound like a bunch of fifth-graders. Kurt Cobain had the right idea--he got the hell out before he could see the re-ascendancy of Jackass Nation--but before he went he wrote this:
"At this point I have a request for our fans. If any of you in any way hate homosexuals, people of different color, or women, please do this one favor for us--leave us the fuck alone! Don't come to our shows and don't buy our records. Last year a girl was raped by two wastes of sperm and eggs while they sang the lyrics to our song 'Polly'. I have a hard time carrying on knowing that there are plankton like that in our audience." (Kurt Cobain, from the liner notes of Incesticide)
And yet Q-101 plays Nirvana all the time. "He's the one/Who likes all our pretty songs/And he likes to sing along/And he loves to shoot his gun/But he don't know what it means/Don't know what it means..." They play it as though they themselves are neither guilty nor even complicit. It's exactly THAT sort of hypocrisy, of co-opting things that are real and polluting them in the name of the overarching corporate conforming mentality--it's THAT which makes me want to leave this life.
Today at work I was asked to do some work on a project for Nancy in marketing--to open a file for her and match the names with the names in our database. I opened the file and there were all these weird phrases in there instead, all with numbers after them. "Country Squires", "Bluebloods", "Pools and Patios", "Kids and Cul-De-Sacs"--stuff like that.
"Nancy? What is this?" I asked her.
"Oh--those are the marketing research company's designations for all the target subgroups people can be a part of." She seemed nonchalant.
In searching for the data for her project, she sent me another file. This one turned out to be a full list of their 62 subcategories. The categories were arranged in order of decreasing income--and the further down you got, the more condescending the names became: "Shotguns and Pickups"and "Hardscrabble" were two of the ones I remember--and I think I've consciously blocked out the "urban" permutations.
After spending five minutes with this file, I really, really wanted to take a shower. And these people make millions of dollars--billions, if you look at all the companies just like them. (Jake and I spent a moment idly wondering which categories we fell into....though I think I probably come under the "unmarketable" category, since I am swayed not at all by ads or marketing ploys. The things I like, I like either because they're cheap, useful to me, tasty, or other qualities based on some individual preference not shared by many others. I'm an iconoclast, and there aren't any categories for us...I don't think.) (Update, 7/16/04: I just looked at this file again and it skeeved me even WORSE, if that's a possibility. I mean, read this:
(Hey! There I am!!!) The descriptions of the lower-income demographics have the details that just kill me. "Hooked on Christian and country music"...."bears all the scars of poverty"....."loves camping, bowling, and attending tractor pulls." If I bought into the prevailing belief system, I would be SO PISSED to hear myself summed up in these little blurbs. Fortunately, I don't.)"The neighborhoods of social group U3's three clusters are highly concentrated. Over 60% of the total households are in the top 25 TV markets and over 99% in the top 50. With one cluster in the ninth affluence decile, and two in the tenth, and with the nation's lowest incomes and highest poverty ratios, U3 has the nation's lowest incomes and highest poverty ratios. Its clusters share multi-racial, multi-lingual communities densely populated with rented rowhouses and highrises. U3 shows high indices for singles, solo parents with pre-school children, and perennial unemployment.
45 Single City Blues Ethnically-Mixed Urban Singles
Cluster 45, found in most Eastern megacities and in the new West, contains the third highest concentration of singles in America. Often found near urban universities, Cluster 45 hosts a fair number of students and very few children. "Single City Blues" offers a mixture of races, transients, and night trades, and is best described as a "poor man's Bohemia."
Lower Middle (51) Age Groups:
Here's the thing: There are millions of unemployed steelworkers, craftsmen who can't feed their families, artists forced to abandon their art--and all of those people MAKE something, create something tangible and lasting. Marketing people make nothing lasting--they spend their life and their talents and their intelligence on acts of manipulation and the excavation of the human psyche for personal gain--and yet they are paid more than teachers, more than nurses, more than writers, more than social workers. In my own neighborhood I see thousands of people struggling just to get by, to feed their children, to make ends meet. Yet the people who have the talent to direct the workings of peoples' minds--are they pointing people in the direction of self-improvement, or leading the society in the direction of equality, justice, and opportunity for everyone? No--they're using their talent to convince everyone else that they need to buy more, get more, have more--that they need Air Force Ones or Prada bags or Lexus cars to validate them, to show that they're successful--no matter what they have to do to get them, or whose toes they have to step on. The less they have now, the more they're told how much they absolutely need these things. And the people who are being duped by this miserably-successful manipulation, for the most part, don't realize they're being duped. For the most part they believe that these material possessions actually -mean- something, that they actually say something important about the value of the owner as a human being.
I'm not immune, myself; for how many years did I convince myself that in order to consider myself successful, I had to have a house of my own? It was genetic, the influence of my grandmother operating within me, that made me believe that, though, I think--not the marketing juggernaut--and yet when I look around, there are so many material things I want. Not because of the way they're marketed, I assure myself; and yet, how can I be sure? I mean, I know I don't drink Pepsi because of its commercials--I drink Pepsi because I like the taste better than the taste of Coke or RC. When I buy a different brand of shampoo, it's because it's on sale, not because of the commercials full of shiny-haired women having orgasms in the shower. (Though occasionally I'm sucked in by a promise of smoother or less-frizzy hair--wait, that's NOT my point!) But I wonder sometimes how much I really am influenced, in ways I don't even know, by the constant media barrage. I don't even dare to trust my own motives and perceptions, in a world so full of manipulation and deceit.
This is the world I live in. These are the thoughts I encounter every day, and--when I combine them with my memories of what once was, and my half-recollections of what might have been--they leave me filled with a nearly-constant anger, strong enough to make me fear the moment it finally breaks through. Yet there are people in my life who find me competent to bring a child into this chaos--a child who will ask questions I can't even answer for myself. That, to me, would be an intolerable cruelty, and I won't ever purposefully do it--but it proves that I'm evidently doing a good job of hiding my private madness from the world.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Missing: OneWord.com
If anyone knows what happened to oneword.com, would you please post a comment?? It's been down for at least a week now, with no warning and no explanation, just a "this site cannot be found" error. Which sucks.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Tony Stewart Needs His Ass Whupped Righteously
Forgive me, reader; another NASCAR post.
So of course I was psyched about the race being in Chi this weekend--even though it was only NOMINALLY in Chicago. Anyone who thinks Joliet is part of Chicago...must be a Tony Stewart fan!
I'm getting ahead of myself.
I THOUGHT about going to the race, truly I did. But then I saw the weather forecast. See, here's the thing:
1. I don't tolerate heat well. Anyone who's ever had to share space with me would agree--I tend to turn my officemates into air-conditioned popsicles.
2. I'm allergic to crowds
3. I am broke, broke, broke--my checking account is now overdrawn by $31.75. (The $0.75 was the actual amount of the overdraft; the $31 is fees. How much bullshit is THAT?)
So obviously, I decided against making the trip to Joliet. And after watching, I'm glad!!!
Kasey Kahne was leading on a restart and Tony was fourth. Tony cut over to the outside to pass, and Kasey was ahead of him--so instead of just waiting til Kasey got out of the way, Tony gets all under his back bumper. Kasey was on four old tires--Tony was on four new tires after the caution pit stop--and so Kasey had less traction, got sideways and took out a whole mess of cars. Needless to say, that was the end of the day for him--but Tony got away clean and ended up winning the race.
Now, if Tony was Mr. Clean--somebody like, say, Greg Biffle or Mark Martin or someone like that--if he didn't have a long and checkered history of being a total jerk--then I would have had no problem at all, would have said "That's just racin'" and been done with it. But Tony Stewart has been the biggest jerk in the world, almost since Day One.
(I went to do a little research, as I wrote this, and found that apparently I am not the only person who thinks Smoke needs an ass-kickin'. No, seriously--apparently even if THAT article had never been written, I would STILL not be the only person who thinks Tony-boy needs his clock cleaned.)
What makes it worse, of course, is that it was KASEY he took out. I swear, if that boy doesn't make the Top Ten before the cutoff point, I'm gonna put a hex on Tony Stewart's head--because today was Kasey's best chance to FINALLY win one, after all those 2nd-place finishes. And Tony screwed him out of it...
What was really funny, though, is that I seem to have gotten Mom hooked on NASCAR! I was over there yesterday (she had cataract surgery on Thursday, so I figured I'd better go see how she was doing for real) and we were watching the Busch race, and she was asking me all kinds of questions about the whys and wherefores of NASCAR. So today, as soon as the race was over, I picked up the phone for my daily call to her, and she was laughing--"You got me," she said. And then we went through the post-race interviews, so I could tell her who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. When I told her what Tony Stewart had done to "MY" driver, she immediately decided--rightfully, if you ask me!--that Tony is the villain. Talking about him, she sounded like she was talking about some shady character out of "Days of our Lives"--Stefano, maybe. And that's when I realized something about NASCAR:
Unless you're a total gearhead, one of the main appeals of NASCAR is this--it's kinda like a soap opera, sometimes, only with tires.
So of course I was psyched about the race being in Chi this weekend--even though it was only NOMINALLY in Chicago. Anyone who thinks Joliet is part of Chicago...must be a Tony Stewart fan!
I'm getting ahead of myself.
I THOUGHT about going to the race, truly I did. But then I saw the weather forecast. See, here's the thing:
1. I don't tolerate heat well. Anyone who's ever had to share space with me would agree--I tend to turn my officemates into air-conditioned popsicles.
2. I'm allergic to crowds
3. I am broke, broke, broke--my checking account is now overdrawn by $31.75. (The $0.75 was the actual amount of the overdraft; the $31 is fees. How much bullshit is THAT?)
So obviously, I decided against making the trip to Joliet. And after watching, I'm glad!!!
Kasey Kahne was leading on a restart and Tony was fourth. Tony cut over to the outside to pass, and Kasey was ahead of him--so instead of just waiting til Kasey got out of the way, Tony gets all under his back bumper. Kasey was on four old tires--Tony was on four new tires after the caution pit stop--and so Kasey had less traction, got sideways and took out a whole mess of cars. Needless to say, that was the end of the day for him--but Tony got away clean and ended up winning the race.
Now, if Tony was Mr. Clean--somebody like, say, Greg Biffle or Mark Martin or someone like that--if he didn't have a long and checkered history of being a total jerk--then I would have had no problem at all, would have said "That's just racin'" and been done with it. But Tony Stewart has been the biggest jerk in the world, almost since Day One.
(I went to do a little research, as I wrote this, and found that apparently I am not the only person who thinks Smoke needs an ass-kickin'. No, seriously--apparently even if THAT article had never been written, I would STILL not be the only person who thinks Tony-boy needs his clock cleaned.)
What makes it worse, of course, is that it was KASEY he took out. I swear, if that boy doesn't make the Top Ten before the cutoff point, I'm gonna put a hex on Tony Stewart's head--because today was Kasey's best chance to FINALLY win one, after all those 2nd-place finishes. And Tony screwed him out of it...
What was really funny, though, is that I seem to have gotten Mom hooked on NASCAR! I was over there yesterday (she had cataract surgery on Thursday, so I figured I'd better go see how she was doing for real) and we were watching the Busch race, and she was asking me all kinds of questions about the whys and wherefores of NASCAR. So today, as soon as the race was over, I picked up the phone for my daily call to her, and she was laughing--"You got me," she said. And then we went through the post-race interviews, so I could tell her who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. When I told her what Tony Stewart had done to "MY" driver, she immediately decided--rightfully, if you ask me!--that Tony is the villain. Talking about him, she sounded like she was talking about some shady character out of "Days of our Lives"--Stefano, maybe. And that's when I realized something about NASCAR:
Unless you're a total gearhead, one of the main appeals of NASCAR is this--it's kinda like a soap opera, sometimes, only with tires.
Friday, July 9, 2004
Facing the Music
It is either a sign of improvement or of regression that this week I have finally been able to transfer some of my circa-1994 CD's to iTunes.
There are several songs I have not even remotely been able to listen to since JP's death. There is a stack of CDs that has moved with me from apartment to apartment and finally to this house, carefully packed each time, each time arranged in my CD rack, left to collect dust. All the Nirvana, for example; anything by Smashing Pumpkins; Catherine, Freedy Johnston, the Alice in Chains "three-legged dog" album. Many more got sold for heroin money along the line, but the songs are still burned into my brain and inspire an immediate avoidance reaction. But over the past few months, piece by piece, I've tried to gather these songs and desensitize myself.
It is so.....damn.....hard. Listening to these songs is like sticking a spear into my belly, then yanking it up and down, left and right, in and out. Each of them has a story; each of them has a memory. All of the memories remind me: something has been lost. Someone will never be back. You will never see him again in this life, and this life could have another 60, 70 years left. No comfort; no compensation. No one will ever hear these songs with the same ears you hear them with.
Back when I was living at Mom's, back before I moved into this house, I got myself into a mindset of looking around and looking back. I tried to find Kevin, with no luck; I tried to find Sophia again. And I -did- find Carol and Paul--my old roomie and her ex. Carol was Paul's girl, and Paul was a camping buddy of Chris's. Carol and Paul had broken up just after she and I had gotten the apartment on Chase--just before we met JP.
When last I saw Carol, she was living in Wicker Park, dating some guy, talking about her career, her freedom, her life. That was about a week after JP died, and she had called me wanting to know if I was okay. We hadn't spoken since JP and I had moved in together; her attitude toward our planned madness had convinced JP that Carol might be an impediment to our dream, and so we just fell out of touch, until she called me a couple of days after he'd died.
When I found her name online, I discovered she'd gotten married and had two kids. I wrote to her and her reply was...distant, like she was speaking to someone who didn't exist, or existed on a level different from her own. Paul was married too, with a third kid on the way...And I realized something: my life, my hopes and my expectations are all frozen nine years in the past. Even when CR and I were married, I never thought about having kids with him the way I did with JP. I never think about a future with LJ--if he's here when I wake up and still here when I go to sleep, I count that as a victory. We won't get married; we won't have kids. We might grow old together, or old-ish--but probably not. Probably within a year or two, he'll get restless and take off--and when it happens I'll be hurt, yes, but it won't begin to match the pain of losing JP. I am stuck in a past I never would have given up, had I been allowed a choice. In some ways I have moved forward, and I know that if JP was magically returned to me these nine years later, he wouldn't recognize the person I've become, or the world I'm living in. This isn't how we planned it, I imagine him telling me, and no, it isn't.
But in the ways that matter, or the ways that matter to the world outside my door--marriage, kids, planning for some distant day--I have frozen in 1995, a 25-year-old woman who found the man she loved and absolutely WILL NOT relinquish that dream--no matter what reality says about it.
I think of Sophia, of Kevin, of Paul, of Carol, of Chris. I think of people I haven't seen in years, and I remember them as they were back when last I saw them. They have moved on, and I haven't.
I keep reading reviews of _Before Sunset_, the sequel to a movie I never saw. Apparently in the first movie, a young couple met in Paris and realized they were soulmates, but their paths diverged and they never met six months after, the way they'd promised. This movie picks them up nine years later, when they've met again by "chance", and traces their conversation and the choices they've made, and those they haven't.
Reading these reviews is painful to me; each one makes me think You want to see what happens to someone nine years after they lose their soulmate forever? Here I am. Here's what happens: People get older, and they get married and have kids, and they define themselves by their choices. I get older, and I define myself by MY choice: my choice to give up on the things that don't seem to matter to me anymore, or even to be possible--because it seems to me to be the only choice I have. The world moves on, and I don't.
I miss him, always. Sometimes I miss him a little less; sometimes I miss him so much that I can't actually believe he's not ever coming back. If sheer force of will and desire could bring someone back to life, or even earn a second chance for someone else--well, whatever. That way madness lies, I guess. Or maybe I'm already there.
There are several songs I have not even remotely been able to listen to since JP's death. There is a stack of CDs that has moved with me from apartment to apartment and finally to this house, carefully packed each time, each time arranged in my CD rack, left to collect dust. All the Nirvana, for example; anything by Smashing Pumpkins; Catherine, Freedy Johnston, the Alice in Chains "three-legged dog" album. Many more got sold for heroin money along the line, but the songs are still burned into my brain and inspire an immediate avoidance reaction. But over the past few months, piece by piece, I've tried to gather these songs and desensitize myself.
It is so.....damn.....hard. Listening to these songs is like sticking a spear into my belly, then yanking it up and down, left and right, in and out. Each of them has a story; each of them has a memory. All of the memories remind me: something has been lost. Someone will never be back. You will never see him again in this life, and this life could have another 60, 70 years left. No comfort; no compensation. No one will ever hear these songs with the same ears you hear them with.
Back when I was living at Mom's, back before I moved into this house, I got myself into a mindset of looking around and looking back. I tried to find Kevin, with no luck; I tried to find Sophia again. And I -did- find Carol and Paul--my old roomie and her ex. Carol was Paul's girl, and Paul was a camping buddy of Chris's. Carol and Paul had broken up just after she and I had gotten the apartment on Chase--just before we met JP.
When last I saw Carol, she was living in Wicker Park, dating some guy, talking about her career, her freedom, her life. That was about a week after JP died, and she had called me wanting to know if I was okay. We hadn't spoken since JP and I had moved in together; her attitude toward our planned madness had convinced JP that Carol might be an impediment to our dream, and so we just fell out of touch, until she called me a couple of days after he'd died.
When I found her name online, I discovered she'd gotten married and had two kids. I wrote to her and her reply was...distant, like she was speaking to someone who didn't exist, or existed on a level different from her own. Paul was married too, with a third kid on the way...And I realized something: my life, my hopes and my expectations are all frozen nine years in the past. Even when CR and I were married, I never thought about having kids with him the way I did with JP. I never think about a future with LJ--if he's here when I wake up and still here when I go to sleep, I count that as a victory. We won't get married; we won't have kids. We might grow old together, or old-ish--but probably not. Probably within a year or two, he'll get restless and take off--and when it happens I'll be hurt, yes, but it won't begin to match the pain of losing JP. I am stuck in a past I never would have given up, had I been allowed a choice. In some ways I have moved forward, and I know that if JP was magically returned to me these nine years later, he wouldn't recognize the person I've become, or the world I'm living in. This isn't how we planned it, I imagine him telling me, and no, it isn't.
But in the ways that matter, or the ways that matter to the world outside my door--marriage, kids, planning for some distant day--I have frozen in 1995, a 25-year-old woman who found the man she loved and absolutely WILL NOT relinquish that dream--no matter what reality says about it.
I think of Sophia, of Kevin, of Paul, of Carol, of Chris. I think of people I haven't seen in years, and I remember them as they were back when last I saw them. They have moved on, and I haven't.
I keep reading reviews of _Before Sunset_, the sequel to a movie I never saw. Apparently in the first movie, a young couple met in Paris and realized they were soulmates, but their paths diverged and they never met six months after, the way they'd promised. This movie picks them up nine years later, when they've met again by "chance", and traces their conversation and the choices they've made, and those they haven't.
Reading these reviews is painful to me; each one makes me think You want to see what happens to someone nine years after they lose their soulmate forever? Here I am. Here's what happens: People get older, and they get married and have kids, and they define themselves by their choices. I get older, and I define myself by MY choice: my choice to give up on the things that don't seem to matter to me anymore, or even to be possible--because it seems to me to be the only choice I have. The world moves on, and I don't.
I miss him, always. Sometimes I miss him a little less; sometimes I miss him so much that I can't actually believe he's not ever coming back. If sheer force of will and desire could bring someone back to life, or even earn a second chance for someone else--well, whatever. That way madness lies, I guess. Or maybe I'm already there.
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