THIS POST HAS BEEN REMOVED
FOR RE-EVALUATION OF APPROPRIATENESS.
Saturday, August 15
Monday, June 29
Woods of PA
I went to PA for work. Flew into Pittsburgh then rented a car, a little tiny YARIS, to drive 3 hours to St. Marys/Ridgway. It 's very pretty country, but absolutely nothing to do in the evenings... except to go to Walmart. I went twice during my 3 day trip. I bought new shorts and a dress shirt and tie, and tried on 20 pairs of jeans, mostly cuz I had nothing better to do. None of the jeans fit well enough. I'm gonna have to buy some and then get them altered.
There was also this itty, bitty, tinee-tiny chapel on the side of the road near my hotel called Decker's Chapel. I took some pics and was amazed that it was unattended, unlocked, and had things inside that were NOT nailed down!
I posted some pics of my trip. Enjoy.
The metropolis comes to the woods:
A river in Ridgway, PA near the customer site. It was a nice lunchtime walk.
There was also this itty, bitty, tinee-tiny chapel on the side of the road near my hotel called Decker's Chapel. I took some pics and was amazed that it was unattended, unlocked, and had things inside that were NOT nailed down!
I posted some pics of my trip. Enjoy.
The metropolis comes to the woods:
A river in Ridgway, PA near the customer site. It was a nice lunchtime walk.
Sunday, June 21
Snakes Everywhere
This is an older dream, but since some of you may not have seen it, I figured it was worth another showing....
Thought I’d capture this dream in ink..er…pixels… and share it. The “snake” part of the dream happens when I’m under stress. I mean to say that it is a recurring theme in my nightmares when I am stressed out. Circumstances within the dream are always different. This one was interesting cuz my mom
played a large role in the dream .
I forget how it started, but it grew into me telling my Mom about this cool party game I had created. It involved the creek behind our house
although the creek was much more robust now, being waist - and sometimes chest- deep. I took my Mom to the creek to describe the game, which involved floating sticks down the creek, but of course, being a Bradlee game, was much more convoluted than it sounds. At this point, Bernadette
makes a guest appearance and listens to my explanation, but then she fades out of the dream pretty quick, once the snakes appear.
How do they appear?
Well, OF COURSE, my mom and I were IN the creek, as I was describing the intricate path the sticks took, when I looked down and saw a snake coiled around a root, underwater, about 3 feet from me in the middle of the creek.
I try not to panic cuz I don’t want to alarm anyone, so I take a step back and tell Mom and Bernadette that they might wanna get out of the water. The snake starts to move, and I skirt around it and grab on to a tree, where I quickly realize there is a snake above water on the trunk of the tree near where I grabbed.
I change my grab to a swing to move to the next tree and work toward the creek bank. I suddenly realize there are several snakes scattered about
, and some are quite active. At this point I’m in sheer panic-mode. I do a hop skip and try to travel across the ground without touching any snakes, or the ground if I can help it, as it seems like there is scarcely room to set my foot down without stepping on a snake.
Through the magic of dreams, I am then leaving my old bedroom in my parents’ house, and at the far end of the hall I see one snake. It rears its head about 4 feet off the ground and starts traveling down the hall toward me, hissing and threatening, and obviously wanting to attack.
I somehow manage to get by it (dream magic again), and see that the living room is covered in snakes
and that the dining room is better, but not by much. I go through there, through the kitchen, and to the open door of the utility room. In the utility room between me and the other door which leads to the Family TV Room, is a large…..beast. It is very similar to an alligator
, but the flesh isn’t scaly. In fact, it looks as if it has been burnt and is red and black and tan, …and possible in pain. It is much fatter than an alligator, and is probably about 6 feet long. Its tail is toward me, but it is looking back over its body with its mouth open showing all of its razor sharp teeth. My Mom
appears in the doorway across from me, and says something like: “You have to learn to deal with these snakes, Bradlee. Cut them when you see them.” And she takes a large metal two tine meat fork
and stabs it into the exposed neck of the beast. The beast roars in pain and turns its attention to Mom. She takes a step back, but then lunges again for another stab at the side of the beast. She then slams the doors shut, locking the beast in the utility room.
Through the magic of dreams, I find myself in the room with my Mom, which looks more like it did when it used to be a bedroom. She says something like, “I know you can’t handle the snakes.” It’s said in a sort of matter-of-fact way, but there is a note of disappointment in it, but as if she has long accepted that this is just the way it is. She then says, “That’s why I wear this,” gesturing to her pants and tennis shoes. “If I thought you could handle the snakes, then I’d be able to wear this…” …and she reveals this black pleather mini skirt she has in a box
, with metal rings acting as a very revealing side seam. And then I look up and suddenly it isn’t my Mom, but Mo’Nique.
Which I guess was enough to scare me awake, heart racing and feeling sad.
Saturday, June 13
Star Trek Party
So, my friend Joshua was having a birthday party with a Star Trek theme. I hadn't a thing to wear. Thought about wearing a LOST IN SPACE t-shirt. The night before the party I flew in late to the ATL airport, returning home from a work trip. It was after midnight and the baggage was taking it's own sweet time coming out. I called a friend, and in the course of the conversation told him of the upcoming party. I jokingly asked, "You don't have a Star Trek costume, do you?" SURE he does! So, I go by, pick it up, and IT FITS!!!
But I wanted a banana clip so I could look more like Jordy LaForge, the blind guy with the visor. So, already Trekked out, on the way to the party I stop at my Kroger. Yes, I went shopping in this. There were no banana clips. Evidently they've gone out of fashion. But I did find this cool black plastic hair band that had a design that I could see thru. I thought it would look HAHA funny... but people liked it. Someone actually said it looked "hot". ..which I thought was a tad weird.
I also took this as an opportunity to shave my beard. I tried to do edgy lines, but in an effort to even them out I ended up with a basic goatee, almost. Originally meant to go edgier. Oh well.
Party was fun!
The following were some other photos of "Uhura's Bastard Son (and his shoes)" as well as a guy in mid-transporter de-materialization, and the nameless doomed crew member....
More pics here on my facebook photos:
http://www.facebook.com/editalbum.php?aid=100167#/album.php?aid=100167&id=618336401
But I wanted a banana clip so I could look more like Jordy LaForge, the blind guy with the visor. So, already Trekked out, on the way to the party I stop at my Kroger. Yes, I went shopping in this. There were no banana clips. Evidently they've gone out of fashion. But I did find this cool black plastic hair band that had a design that I could see thru. I thought it would look HAHA funny... but people liked it. Someone actually said it looked "hot". ..which I thought was a tad weird.I also took this as an opportunity to shave my beard. I tried to do edgy lines, but in an effort to even them out I ended up with a basic goatee, almost. Originally meant to go edgier. Oh well.Party was fun!
The following were some other photos of "Uhura's Bastard Son (and his shoes)" as well as a guy in mid-transporter de-materialization, and the nameless doomed crew member....
More pics here on my facebook photos:
http://www.facebook.com/editalbum.php?aid=100167#/album.php?aid=100167&id=618336401
Wednesday, June 10
Three Times the Charm
So, I had a flight out of Washington, DC last week. I was very tired as I was driving to the airport to catch my 3PM flight. It had been a long week. Everything was going fine, until I stepped up to the self check-in kiosk and saw my flight had been delayed. The new time was 4:48PM. ARGH! “That’s almost two hours!” I exclaim. The ticket agent nods sagely. “Well, at least I see you have Crown Room privileges,” he says looking at a ticket. I stay quiet, cuz normally I don’t have such privileges. I’m thinking maybe since the flight was delayed they granted me access? Or I did get something in the mail trying to get me to try it for free, but I hadn’t done anything with that, but maybe it was activated automatically on my SkyMiles account? I walk off, and I look at the tickets in my hand. One I had printed out and then the other he had handed me.
I see now that the one he handed me was for Otis Greene. Evidently Otis has Crown Room privileges. Now, I’m faced with a minor moral dilemma. Can I just present the wrong ticket and get in, pretending to be Otis? Or will they ask for ID? And will I burn in hell for pretending to be someone I’m not? It’s only 1PM or so, and I do have forever and a day until my 4:48 flight…..
I delay the dilemma by eating first. I then call my friend, Bernadette. She’s my moral compass. She said I should try to get in to the Crown Room. “What’s the worse that could happen?” So, ok… maybe she’s like a moral compass that points due South. I opt not to try it. But I sit on a bench, slouched to the max, listening to all the news from Bernadette.
The time is about 2:30PM now. I tell Bernadette I should probably go thru security and look at my gate. Security is no problem, but I can’t recall my gate, so I walk up to a display screen to see. I can’t find my flight anywhere. I see one flight is cancelled, but it’s not my number. But it was scheduled for departure at 3PM. I’m confused, and begin to have an unsettled sort of feeling, like when you eat pickles with milk. I find an agent who is working at a deserted gate. She seems to be closing a flight.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m all confused. I can’t find my flight on the screen anywhere.” She looks at my ticket and says, “It just left.”
“What!?! It’s not supposed to leave until 4:48!!”
“It is 4:48,” she responds. You can tell she hates stupid customers like me.
“Uhm..” Is it? No, it can’t be. I pull my cell phone out to see the time. “NO! It’s 2:48! Call the plane back, they left early and without me!”
She does a double take then rolls her eyes. “O. Yes, 2:48. It’s scheduled to leave now.” I think she probably hates all life on Earth.
Confusion. Anger. Disappointment. Then I think about it, and I come to a realization of what must have happened. “I think I looked at the Atlanta ARRIVAL time, not the departure time.” She confirms that the arrival time is about 4:48. And she says, “I’m laughing with you, not at you.” Which was kinda creepy, cuz really neither she or myself were laughing. She’s an unfeeling devil spawn.
I’m not really mad at this Delta creature before me. I’m just mad at myself, for two reasons. First of all, I’m mad at myself for reading the monitor wrong. Then too, I’m upset because I did not follow my tried and true procedure. I get to the airport , go thru security and go straight to my gate, no matter how early I am, to confirm that the gate is where it is supposed to be and my flight gate has not been changed.
The gate agent gets me on the next flight, which leaves at 4PM. Turning lemons to lemonade, I tell myself: “Well, at least I’m now leaving earlier than I THOUGHT I was.” I try not to think that I could be in my car on the way home by the time I’m boarding this new flight.
I then do something that I find somewhat curious. Even tho I’m feeling stupid about what I’ve done, I then proceed to call several people to tell them how stupid I am. It’s like I can’t wait to share it with everyone. I would think a normal person would keep such indiscretions to themselves. Oh well.
Then kicker number one happens. While sitting on the plane, I’m thinking about what has transpired. I realize that something does not add up. Later I confirm my suspicions. Recall that my flight was at 3PM. If it was delayed, then how am I suddenly be leaving BEFORE 3PM on a delayed flight non the less?!?!? Then I remember the mysterious 800 call that came in that morning, which I did not answer. They did not leave a message. I look it up on my cell phone, and call it back. It is DELTA airlines. So, the answer to the riddle is that MY 3PM flight was cancelled, and they put me on the 2PM flight, basically without telling me. Then, when I found out I was delayed, my brain dismissed the 2:48 time I saw on the ticket kiosk, because, well… that doesn’t add up…that would not be a delay, now would it?
I’m not as big an idiot as I thought I was… HOORAY! I can’t wait to tell everyone that I’m not as stupid as I told them I was! I think I’ll BLOG about it.
Kicker number 2: Well, since I missed the flight, this means my luggage is going to get there well before me, and I’m going to have to retrieve it from the Delta Baggage Claim Office. When I arrive to ATL, I go straight there, passing the carousels without much of a glance. I stand in line to tell the lady my ordeal. When it is my turn I ask where I might find my bags. She looks and looks at her monitor, and doesn’t understand what she is seeing. She asks for her coworker to interpret. It turns out my bags did not make it on my flight either, and ended up riding with me on my plane. They were waiting for me on the carousel. SO…if I HAD caught the earlier flight, I’d have been baggageless!!! Unless of course they PULLED my bags when I didn’t board, but I can’t believe they are that efficient.
So that trip back kinda sucked, but was nothing compared to the following week when I missed my flight out to Richmond. You’d think a Sunday afternoon it wouldn’t be busy. Except on THIS Sunday the rental car return was backed up out into the airport drive, down the off ramp back onto I-85, all the way back to I-75 and back another exit. Basically about a 4 mile backup. I did to get to the counter 29 minutes before my flight, but I missed the 45 minute cutoff for checking and baggage claim. No more flights out that day, except stand by. None until next day at 11AM. Fine. Book me, Dano.
And why the huge backup? No one knew for sure, but the reigning theory was that the Pittsburg fans had hit the airport after the Falcons game all at the same time. Stupid Steelers.
Since I’m supposed to be at the site by 9AM, I guess I’ll be late. I was. Just as I was about to leave the next morning to catch that flight, I turn on CNN Headline News, and just as it comes up it is the Travel Report. Rally Caparas goes thru the airports, and then at the end he says, “And this just in: We’ve gotten word that the Atlanta airport security lines are out into the parking lot and is a 2 hour wait. We’ll try to find out what is going on for you in the next half hour.” I don’t have that long. My flight is leaving in 2 hours and 15 minutes. It takes 15 minutes to get to the airport, and if the line is 2 hours long….. well,…I decided not to finish my eggs, thru the plate in the sink, and flew out the door. The line wasn’t as nearly as bad as reported. It was only 30 minutes long. But the flight was delayed on the runway, so I ended up not getting to the customer site until 2:20PM.
And now, I m writing this in the Richmond Airport, trying to catch my 7:55PM flight. Except it is 9:22PM. Last I heard we’d be leaving ‘sometime around 10’. It’s raining both here and in Atlanta, so I suppose that is why. And all I can do is look forward to getting home and scrapping off cemented egg from my dirty plate. Sigh. I wish I was Otis Greene. I bet HIS travel life is much better.
I see now that the one he handed me was for Otis Greene. Evidently Otis has Crown Room privileges. Now, I’m faced with a minor moral dilemma. Can I just present the wrong ticket and get in, pretending to be Otis? Or will they ask for ID? And will I burn in hell for pretending to be someone I’m not? It’s only 1PM or so, and I do have forever and a day until my 4:48 flight…..
I delay the dilemma by eating first. I then call my friend, Bernadette. She’s my moral compass. She said I should try to get in to the Crown Room. “What’s the worse that could happen?” So, ok… maybe she’s like a moral compass that points due South. I opt not to try it. But I sit on a bench, slouched to the max, listening to all the news from Bernadette.
The time is about 2:30PM now. I tell Bernadette I should probably go thru security and look at my gate. Security is no problem, but I can’t recall my gate, so I walk up to a display screen to see. I can’t find my flight anywhere. I see one flight is cancelled, but it’s not my number. But it was scheduled for departure at 3PM. I’m confused, and begin to have an unsettled sort of feeling, like when you eat pickles with milk. I find an agent who is working at a deserted gate. She seems to be closing a flight.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m all confused. I can’t find my flight on the screen anywhere.” She looks at my ticket and says, “It just left.”
“What!?! It’s not supposed to leave until 4:48!!”
“It is 4:48,” she responds. You can tell she hates stupid customers like me.
“Uhm..” Is it? No, it can’t be. I pull my cell phone out to see the time. “NO! It’s 2:48! Call the plane back, they left early and without me!”
She does a double take then rolls her eyes. “O. Yes, 2:48. It’s scheduled to leave now.” I think she probably hates all life on Earth.
Confusion. Anger. Disappointment. Then I think about it, and I come to a realization of what must have happened. “I think I looked at the Atlanta ARRIVAL time, not the departure time.” She confirms that the arrival time is about 4:48. And she says, “I’m laughing with you, not at you.” Which was kinda creepy, cuz really neither she or myself were laughing. She’s an unfeeling devil spawn.
I’m not really mad at this Delta creature before me. I’m just mad at myself, for two reasons. First of all, I’m mad at myself for reading the monitor wrong. Then too, I’m upset because I did not follow my tried and true procedure. I get to the airport , go thru security and go straight to my gate, no matter how early I am, to confirm that the gate is where it is supposed to be and my flight gate has not been changed.
The gate agent gets me on the next flight, which leaves at 4PM. Turning lemons to lemonade, I tell myself: “Well, at least I’m now leaving earlier than I THOUGHT I was.” I try not to think that I could be in my car on the way home by the time I’m boarding this new flight.
I then do something that I find somewhat curious. Even tho I’m feeling stupid about what I’ve done, I then proceed to call several people to tell them how stupid I am. It’s like I can’t wait to share it with everyone. I would think a normal person would keep such indiscretions to themselves. Oh well.
Then kicker number one happens. While sitting on the plane, I’m thinking about what has transpired. I realize that something does not add up. Later I confirm my suspicions. Recall that my flight was at 3PM. If it was delayed, then how am I suddenly be leaving BEFORE 3PM on a delayed flight non the less?!?!? Then I remember the mysterious 800 call that came in that morning, which I did not answer. They did not leave a message. I look it up on my cell phone, and call it back. It is DELTA airlines. So, the answer to the riddle is that MY 3PM flight was cancelled, and they put me on the 2PM flight, basically without telling me. Then, when I found out I was delayed, my brain dismissed the 2:48 time I saw on the ticket kiosk, because, well… that doesn’t add up…that would not be a delay, now would it?
I’m not as big an idiot as I thought I was… HOORAY! I can’t wait to tell everyone that I’m not as stupid as I told them I was! I think I’ll BLOG about it.
Kicker number 2: Well, since I missed the flight, this means my luggage is going to get there well before me, and I’m going to have to retrieve it from the Delta Baggage Claim Office. When I arrive to ATL, I go straight there, passing the carousels without much of a glance. I stand in line to tell the lady my ordeal. When it is my turn I ask where I might find my bags. She looks and looks at her monitor, and doesn’t understand what she is seeing. She asks for her coworker to interpret. It turns out my bags did not make it on my flight either, and ended up riding with me on my plane. They were waiting for me on the carousel. SO…if I HAD caught the earlier flight, I’d have been baggageless!!! Unless of course they PULLED my bags when I didn’t board, but I can’t believe they are that efficient.
So that trip back kinda sucked, but was nothing compared to the following week when I missed my flight out to Richmond. You’d think a Sunday afternoon it wouldn’t be busy. Except on THIS Sunday the rental car return was backed up out into the airport drive, down the off ramp back onto I-85, all the way back to I-75 and back another exit. Basically about a 4 mile backup. I did to get to the counter 29 minutes before my flight, but I missed the 45 minute cutoff for checking and baggage claim. No more flights out that day, except stand by. None until next day at 11AM. Fine. Book me, Dano.
And why the huge backup? No one knew for sure, but the reigning theory was that the Pittsburg fans had hit the airport after the Falcons game all at the same time. Stupid Steelers.
Since I’m supposed to be at the site by 9AM, I guess I’ll be late. I was. Just as I was about to leave the next morning to catch that flight, I turn on CNN Headline News, and just as it comes up it is the Travel Report. Rally Caparas goes thru the airports, and then at the end he says, “And this just in: We’ve gotten word that the Atlanta airport security lines are out into the parking lot and is a 2 hour wait. We’ll try to find out what is going on for you in the next half hour.” I don’t have that long. My flight is leaving in 2 hours and 15 minutes. It takes 15 minutes to get to the airport, and if the line is 2 hours long….. well,…I decided not to finish my eggs, thru the plate in the sink, and flew out the door. The line wasn’t as nearly as bad as reported. It was only 30 minutes long. But the flight was delayed on the runway, so I ended up not getting to the customer site until 2:20PM.
And now, I m writing this in the Richmond Airport, trying to catch my 7:55PM flight. Except it is 9:22PM. Last I heard we’d be leaving ‘sometime around 10’. It’s raining both here and in Atlanta, so I suppose that is why. And all I can do is look forward to getting home and scrapping off cemented egg from my dirty plate. Sigh. I wish I was Otis Greene. I bet HIS travel life is much better.
Sunday, June 7
McD's and Sunday Strippers
So, I really don't like this BJ's bar too much.... I'm just not into strippers. I have better uses for my dollar bills... and when the crowd is looking at the beautiful gogo dancers, they AREN'T looking at me.!!! (stomp foot, hand on hip, petulant frown). But my friends like to go there and I rarely see them anymore with all my traveling, so......
The other bad thing is that afterwards I find ANOTHER use for my dollars... the McDonald's dollar menu. I just devoured a McDouble before I even got home. I"m sure there a little tiny reconstituted dehydrated onions littering my car seat now. :( I may look a LITTLE more like the GOGO boys if I give them my dollars instead of giving them to that CLOWN. hmmmm.. diet concept, starting to form...... TIPPING GOGO DANCERS SHORTENS BELT LINE.
Tomorrow I fly out. I'm mostly packed. Not prepared for the actual WORK part of my journey to MASS. and this is the first time I've had to do a connecting flight in a while.... hope I don't miss my connection.
Off to bed.... trying to read a chapter of HALF BLOOD PRINCE in prep for my pre-new-harry-potter-movie DVD Party. WOOHOO!
The other bad thing is that afterwards I find ANOTHER use for my dollars... the McDonald's dollar menu. I just devoured a McDouble before I even got home. I"m sure there a little tiny reconstituted dehydrated onions littering my car seat now. :( I may look a LITTLE more like the GOGO boys if I give them my dollars instead of giving them to that CLOWN. hmmmm.. diet concept, starting to form...... TIPPING GOGO DANCERS SHORTENS BELT LINE.
Tomorrow I fly out. I'm mostly packed. Not prepared for the actual WORK part of my journey to MASS. and this is the first time I've had to do a connecting flight in a while.... hope I don't miss my connection.
Off to bed.... trying to read a chapter of HALF BLOOD PRINCE in prep for my pre-new-harry-potter-movie DVD Party. WOOHOO!
Sunday, May 31
Atticus, and the Screaming Pussy
02-17-2006
This morning, I woke up extra early, kinda parched. So, I got up, drank some juice, and returned to bed. Now, I don't know what was wrong with that juice, but here is the ensuing dream, along with my comments inserted.
After being asleep a short time, I'm awoken by an odd sound coming from the sliding glass door. My brother, Kevin, (who lives in Orlando) announces "I'll get it." He proceeds to let in a cat. It is Atticus! (Atticus was my sister-in-law's kitty, who died many years ago of cancer, and was the best cat EVER, God rest her kitty soul). Atticus is purring extremely loudly, sounds almost like a Harley driving down the strip. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," I call. Atticus comes and jumps up on the bed with me, at first on top of me, but then rolls off to the side, and lets me rub her belly. Meanwhile, her mewling is becoming louder and it sounds as if she is in pain, but I'm not sure. All I know is that SOMETHING ain't right, cuz I notice that she has very human-like pink, fleshy, labias (is that plural?) puckering up at me from between her back legs.
I stand up, being somewhat concerned. Atticus comes to the side of the bed, rolls over on her back again, paws in the air, and suddenly her nether region opens up to be almost twice the width of her body. It is a cavernous hole, lined with ribs that rise up to the edges and continue, exposed, forming something like angry, sharp teeth. (Probably don't need Freud for that one). "Of course!", I think, "She's having babies!!" The mewling becomes louder (I think it is actually coming from this monster vagina thing). Suddenly, Atticus moans, quite plainly, "MAKE IT STOP!!!!" Three kittens come rolling out of the vicious maw, one is naked, and the other have the cutest fur, with these golden brown and white patterns. Atticus is acting like she doesn't care about these babies, which concerns me, so I take them and start placing them on her nipples. They keep hiding under the sheets, and I'm concerned about them getting stepped on or lost. (I think this pregnancy thing is because I watched this show about an Arkansas family with 14 kids and another one on the way).
In a resigned sort of way, as if she wished I wouldn't bother her but knew there was no hope of that, Atticus says, "Well, you might as well get the still born. It's underneath me and looks like a cut-off human ear." (Family Guy last night had a little think about Van Gogh cutting off his ear) Sure enough, it did. I scooped it up with a paper towel and threw it away, hurrying to get back to see to the living kitties.
I feel like there was more to the dream, but perhaps not. I think it ended abruptly, at any rate.
The End
!!! Post Script!! The next night, I dreamed about our old dead dog PEPPER! It was like the parade of dead pets thru my head.
This morning, I woke up extra early, kinda parched. So, I got up, drank some juice, and returned to bed. Now, I don't know what was wrong with that juice, but here is the ensuing dream, along with my comments inserted.
After being asleep a short time, I'm awoken by an odd sound coming from the sliding glass door. My brother, Kevin, (who lives in Orlando) announces "I'll get it." He proceeds to let in a cat. It is Atticus! (Atticus was my sister-in-law's kitty, who died many years ago of cancer, and was the best cat EVER, God rest her kitty soul). Atticus is purring extremely loudly, sounds almost like a Harley driving down the strip. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," I call. Atticus comes and jumps up on the bed with me, at first on top of me, but then rolls off to the side, and lets me rub her belly. Meanwhile, her mewling is becoming louder and it sounds as if she is in pain, but I'm not sure. All I know is that SOMETHING ain't right, cuz I notice that she has very human-like pink, fleshy, labias (is that plural?) puckering up at me from between her back legs.
I stand up, being somewhat concerned. Atticus comes to the side of the bed, rolls over on her back again, paws in the air, and suddenly her nether region opens up to be almost twice the width of her body. It is a cavernous hole, lined with ribs that rise up to the edges and continue, exposed, forming something like angry, sharp teeth. (Probably don't need Freud for that one). "Of course!", I think, "She's having babies!!" The mewling becomes louder (I think it is actually coming from this monster vagina thing). Suddenly, Atticus moans, quite plainly, "MAKE IT STOP!!!!" Three kittens come rolling out of the vicious maw, one is naked, and the other have the cutest fur, with these golden brown and white patterns. Atticus is acting like she doesn't care about these babies, which concerns me, so I take them and start placing them on her nipples. They keep hiding under the sheets, and I'm concerned about them getting stepped on or lost. (I think this pregnancy thing is because I watched this show about an Arkansas family with 14 kids and another one on the way).
In a resigned sort of way, as if she wished I wouldn't bother her but knew there was no hope of that, Atticus says, "Well, you might as well get the still born. It's underneath me and looks like a cut-off human ear." (Family Guy last night had a little think about Van Gogh cutting off his ear) Sure enough, it did. I scooped it up with a paper towel and threw it away, hurrying to get back to see to the living kitties.
I feel like there was more to the dream, but perhaps not. I think it ended abruptly, at any rate.
The End
!!! Post Script!! The next night, I dreamed about our old dead dog PEPPER! It was like the parade of dead pets thru my head.
Pledge Drive Me Crazy
Summer, 2001
So, as a new member of Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus, I figure I'll do my part and volunteer (with eight other guys from the chorus of 100)to answer phones at the local PBS TV station (WPBA-30) pledge drive. We answered phones for a three hour block (three and a half, actually) while they showed Donnie Osmand's concert THIS IS THE MOMENT and also Riverdance: Feet of Flames. Well, my first clue that something wasn't quite right in Kansas was this: I got there early and was watching the folks in the block before me. It was a live pledge break. You know how it goes...cheesy people in front of the camera talk and talk and talk, saying the same thing over and over while nobodies in the background busily answer phones which are ringing, ringing, ringing. Well, about 80-90% of those folks were on active calls, BUT as soon as they went off air, every last one of them HUNG UP THEIR PHONE. I thought to myself, "Nuh-uh.... They WEREN'T just faking it, were they?" I just knew it couldn't be true.... So, I went in where the food is (free Italian, quite ok) and met up with the 8 other guys from Chorus and the three other people we shared the slot with.....an Indian Flute Circle. They were low in numbers, so of the three Indian guys, one brought his wife to help. I think she handled her nervousness at being the only female with lots of gay men by becoming super gregarious and talkative. We waited to be trained....they trained us in five minutes....and YES, they trained us how to make our own phones ring and to FAKE LIKE WE WERE GETTING LOTS OF PLEDGES. We were even told to ring a little desk bell every once and a while like we took a pledge.
I was flabbergasted....These people, telling me to lie, are the same ones who showed me Sesame Street and Electric Co. when I was little? So, the first pledge break, I decided NOT to fake it. Well, for rebels like me, they had a backup plan...They can ring the phone remotely.... SO, they ring me, I pick up and no one is there....so I just held it to my ear. But then I realized the incentive to lie was this....if you are 'on a phone' and having an 'animated conversation' they get a close up of you on TV and everyone can see you.
After two breaks, only one of us had a pledge, and I actually got one call too, but they said they had to "wait for their husband to get home." Poor woman. THEN, the announcer stated who we were....Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus. Well, THEN the phones rang!!
I got a live call:
ME: "Thank you for calling WBPA-30! How much would you like to pledge?"
HER: "Uhm, ...I have some questions, first. Uhm....what do your T-shirts say?"
ME: (reading from my shirt) "AGMC, Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus, 20th Season 1981-2001"
HER: "And, what is that exactly?"
ME: "Well, we get together and sing. We have three major concerts a year, one at Christmas, one in the spring, and one is coming up in about a mo-"
HER: (interrupting slightly) "Yes, but...well,....WHO sings in it? Gay men?"
ME: "Well, yes, ma'am."
HER: "Well, how ..I mean....what is the connection between that and Donnie Osmand? Is HE gay?"
ME: "No ma'am, not to my knowledge. In fact I think he was just talking about his wife and kids."
HER: "Ok, well, thanks." and she hangs up, truly sounding dissastisfied with my answers. So, I protected Donnie's good name, I guess....
Then someone else had a lady call to say she wouldn't pledge cuz "PBS is supporting AGMC." My fellow chorus member was unable to explain that they WEREN'T supporting us, AGMC was supporting PBS. !!!! And to top it all off, I raise my hand after the third pledge break and ask, "If we are all on calls faking them, what happens if a real phone call comes in and all the lines are busy?" the answer: "Oh, ...they're rolled over to the back where people who are getting paid answer them." But, I must commend the three Indian Flute Guys, who with no complaint and lots of laughter, were willing to sit right behind the Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus banner.
Bravo!!!
So, as a new member of Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus, I figure I'll do my part and volunteer (with eight other guys from the chorus of 100)to answer phones at the local PBS TV station (WPBA-30) pledge drive. We answered phones for a three hour block (three and a half, actually) while they showed Donnie Osmand's concert THIS IS THE MOMENT and also Riverdance: Feet of Flames. Well, my first clue that something wasn't quite right in Kansas was this: I got there early and was watching the folks in the block before me. It was a live pledge break. You know how it goes...cheesy people in front of the camera talk and talk and talk, saying the same thing over and over while nobodies in the background busily answer phones which are ringing, ringing, ringing. Well, about 80-90% of those folks were on active calls, BUT as soon as they went off air, every last one of them HUNG UP THEIR PHONE. I thought to myself, "Nuh-uh.... They WEREN'T just faking it, were they?" I just knew it couldn't be true.... So, I went in where the food is (free Italian, quite ok) and met up with the 8 other guys from Chorus and the three other people we shared the slot with.....an Indian Flute Circle. They were low in numbers, so of the three Indian guys, one brought his wife to help. I think she handled her nervousness at being the only female with lots of gay men by becoming super gregarious and talkative. We waited to be trained....they trained us in five minutes....and YES, they trained us how to make our own phones ring and to FAKE LIKE WE WERE GETTING LOTS OF PLEDGES. We were even told to ring a little desk bell every once and a while like we took a pledge.
I was flabbergasted....These people, telling me to lie, are the same ones who showed me Sesame Street and Electric Co. when I was little? So, the first pledge break, I decided NOT to fake it. Well, for rebels like me, they had a backup plan...They can ring the phone remotely.... SO, they ring me, I pick up and no one is there....so I just held it to my ear. But then I realized the incentive to lie was this....if you are 'on a phone' and having an 'animated conversation' they get a close up of you on TV and everyone can see you.
After two breaks, only one of us had a pledge, and I actually got one call too, but they said they had to "wait for their husband to get home." Poor woman. THEN, the announcer stated who we were....Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus. Well, THEN the phones rang!!
I got a live call:
ME: "Thank you for calling WBPA-30! How much would you like to pledge?"
HER: "Uhm, ...I have some questions, first. Uhm....what do your T-shirts say?"
ME: (reading from my shirt) "AGMC, Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus, 20th Season 1981-2001"
HER: "And, what is that exactly?"
ME: "Well, we get together and sing. We have three major concerts a year, one at Christmas, one in the spring, and one is coming up in about a mo-"
HER: (interrupting slightly) "Yes, but...well,....WHO sings in it? Gay men?"
ME: "Well, yes, ma'am."
HER: "Well, how ..I mean....what is the connection between that and Donnie Osmand? Is HE gay?"
ME: "No ma'am, not to my knowledge. In fact I think he was just talking about his wife and kids."
HER: "Ok, well, thanks." and she hangs up, truly sounding dissastisfied with my answers. So, I protected Donnie's good name, I guess....
Then someone else had a lady call to say she wouldn't pledge cuz "PBS is supporting AGMC." My fellow chorus member was unable to explain that they WEREN'T supporting us, AGMC was supporting PBS. !!!! And to top it all off, I raise my hand after the third pledge break and ask, "If we are all on calls faking them, what happens if a real phone call comes in and all the lines are busy?" the answer: "Oh, ...they're rolled over to the back where people who are getting paid answer them." But, I must commend the three Indian Flute Guys, who with no complaint and lots of laughter, were willing to sit right behind the Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus banner.
Bravo!!!
Tomorrow, They'll Be Anonymity
Going out to bars when out of town can be so liberating….
I was in Rhode Island last week for work. It was a long, hard week. Friday night I was wiped and it was frigid outside and I almost just went to bed early, but I’m so glad I didn’t! I decided to go to this leather bar, called the Eagle in downtown Providence, just blocks from my hotel. I had researched it and actually brought my leather vest – ‘just in case’. (The website said you got in free if you wore leather.) I walk the 6 blocks there in 9 degree weather, all bundled up. I get to the address, but I’m confused. It says it is called “Fitzgerald’s” or something. I go in and find myself in a plush piano bar, with some drunk guy singing at the mic. A quick scan of the crowd confirms that at least I’m in a gay bar. Five dollar cover is demanded.
“Uhm…Ok. Uh….Where’s the eagle?”. (and all the other people in leather so I don’t look like a fool…..)
It is next door, I’m informed. The bars are connected. Cover gets both.
Doorman doesn’t see my leather beneath my coat and scarf. I forget in the confusion to ask for the discount and just give him the five spot. I go thru to the leather bar where the coat check is and shed my outer garments. This crowd is a bit different from the guys in the piano bar. I do see quite a few leather outfits, and metal armbands and shaved heads and bared tattoos. They also have the heat blasting and I immediately begin to sweat. Nine outside, 89 inside. I scan the dark corners for a 69. (kidding) I do notice that many of the guys are going shirtless.
After 1.5 beers, I’m feeling a little loose and enjoying being the new stranger in the bar. (You get lots of attention, if you didn’t know. Fresh-meat syndrome.) With sweat rings growing out of my pits, I decide “What the hell! I’ll never see these people again. I might as well take off my 4 t-shirts” (IT WAS COLD OUTSIDE!!) and check them with my coat. Besides, what’s the point of having a nipple ring if you can’t show it off in a leather bar? J I’m now in jeans, and a leather vest and a black ball cap, and on high flab alert, belly sucked in tight.
I meet Kirk, an older gentleman who wanted to take me home and give me cocaine and do all sorts of sexual things to me. He was very explicit. He bought me a beer and a teqwilla shot. When he then pressed me for an answer on what I would do with him, (“Will you bareback?”), I had to tell him I wasn’t interested. I went back to playing my video game. He left me, limping off (I think he had gout) to talk to some other guy.
After my 3 beers and tequila, I had to pee. I go to the restroom, located between the two bars. As I’m leaving the bathroom, feeling studly and manly in my leather vest, and chest hair blowing in the heat vents, I hear the piano pounding out a rousing show tune in the other bar. I forget that there are no other leather-ites in the piano bar (are they segregated?) and go thru the doors to get a better listen. I think the piano man was singing “MAME!” I’m standing just to the side of the piano, staying close to the door for a quick exit back into the leather sanctuary.
However, when the piano man finished and looked at me and said “You wanna sing something?” , being a bit tipsy, I said ‘Yes’ and I’m sure I sounded stone-cold sober. I suggest ‘Anthem’ from Chess, since I recently had sung this at karaoke (also out of town in Ohio). He has the sheet music, and away I go, belting my little heart out in my leather vest and nothing else to a room full of Izod, Kenneth Cole and Perry Ellis.
I guess I passed muster, cuz as soon as I was done, the piano man asked me to sing another one. “No, no, I can’t…. Like what?” The duet from ‘Chess’? “No, No, I don’t know it well enough. No, I couldn’t sing another anyway. …What else?” He named something I didn’t recognize. “No, don’t know it. I really shouldn’t sing. I shouldn’t even be in this bar in my little leather vest. Surely this is odd.”
And then, I remember the song I had practiced in the shower for a month, that I had planned on doing at karaoke competition in Marietta ($50 prize), but never got around to it. A surge of evil tequila courses thru my veins to my head and I think, “You know….I’m gonna do it, just cuz it is so crazy and stupid and I can have a story to tell.”
I whisper the title to the piano man. He stares, slack-jawed, for a moment. “Really?” A glance at my nipple ring with a heavy silver skull dangling from it. “....Uhm….OK”. He finds the music, I take the mic from the stand, and he starts the intro. I scan the crowd with a serious expression - a hard, stern glance. I raise the mic to my mouth, fix the kissing lesbians in the back with my mean-man-in-leather stare, and begin to sing, as sincerely as I can. The front door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, making my nipples stand at attention, my jewelry swinging. The piano plays in a key a third too low, but it helps me sound manly. Deep breath, ..but don’t’ expand the tummy too much. The words, heart-felt and poignant, come soaring out across the room. “The sun’ll come out/ Tomorrow/ Bet yer bottom dollar that tomorrow they’ll be sun/ Just thinking about/ Tomorrow/ Clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow/ till there’s none.”
I made my way back to the hotel, laughing at the absurdity of it all. I wonder if anyone in Providence is telling this story today, about the silly leather queen who sang ‘Annie’. But can’t we all relate to little orphan Annie? Aren’t we all orphans, in one way or another?
I was in Rhode Island last week for work. It was a long, hard week. Friday night I was wiped and it was frigid outside and I almost just went to bed early, but I’m so glad I didn’t! I decided to go to this leather bar, called the Eagle in downtown Providence, just blocks from my hotel. I had researched it and actually brought my leather vest – ‘just in case’. (The website said you got in free if you wore leather.) I walk the 6 blocks there in 9 degree weather, all bundled up. I get to the address, but I’m confused. It says it is called “Fitzgerald’s” or something. I go in and find myself in a plush piano bar, with some drunk guy singing at the mic. A quick scan of the crowd confirms that at least I’m in a gay bar. Five dollar cover is demanded.
“Uhm…Ok. Uh….Where’s the eagle?”. (and all the other people in leather so I don’t look like a fool…..)
It is next door, I’m informed. The bars are connected. Cover gets both.
Doorman doesn’t see my leather beneath my coat and scarf. I forget in the confusion to ask for the discount and just give him the five spot. I go thru to the leather bar where the coat check is and shed my outer garments. This crowd is a bit different from the guys in the piano bar. I do see quite a few leather outfits, and metal armbands and shaved heads and bared tattoos. They also have the heat blasting and I immediately begin to sweat. Nine outside, 89 inside. I scan the dark corners for a 69. (kidding) I do notice that many of the guys are going shirtless.
After 1.5 beers, I’m feeling a little loose and enjoying being the new stranger in the bar. (You get lots of attention, if you didn’t know. Fresh-meat syndrome.) With sweat rings growing out of my pits, I decide “What the hell! I’ll never see these people again. I might as well take off my 4 t-shirts” (IT WAS COLD OUTSIDE!!) and check them with my coat. Besides, what’s the point of having a nipple ring if you can’t show it off in a leather bar? J I’m now in jeans, and a leather vest and a black ball cap, and on high flab alert, belly sucked in tight.
I meet Kirk, an older gentleman who wanted to take me home and give me cocaine and do all sorts of sexual things to me. He was very explicit. He bought me a beer and a teqwilla shot. When he then pressed me for an answer on what I would do with him, (“Will you bareback?”), I had to tell him I wasn’t interested. I went back to playing my video game. He left me, limping off (I think he had gout) to talk to some other guy.
After my 3 beers and tequila, I had to pee. I go to the restroom, located between the two bars. As I’m leaving the bathroom, feeling studly and manly in my leather vest, and chest hair blowing in the heat vents, I hear the piano pounding out a rousing show tune in the other bar. I forget that there are no other leather-ites in the piano bar (are they segregated?) and go thru the doors to get a better listen. I think the piano man was singing “MAME!” I’m standing just to the side of the piano, staying close to the door for a quick exit back into the leather sanctuary.
However, when the piano man finished and looked at me and said “You wanna sing something?” , being a bit tipsy, I said ‘Yes’ and I’m sure I sounded stone-cold sober. I suggest ‘Anthem’ from Chess, since I recently had sung this at karaoke (also out of town in Ohio). He has the sheet music, and away I go, belting my little heart out in my leather vest and nothing else to a room full of Izod, Kenneth Cole and Perry Ellis.
I guess I passed muster, cuz as soon as I was done, the piano man asked me to sing another one. “No, no, I can’t…. Like what?” The duet from ‘Chess’? “No, No, I don’t know it well enough. No, I couldn’t sing another anyway. …What else?” He named something I didn’t recognize. “No, don’t know it. I really shouldn’t sing. I shouldn’t even be in this bar in my little leather vest. Surely this is odd.”
And then, I remember the song I had practiced in the shower for a month, that I had planned on doing at karaoke competition in Marietta ($50 prize), but never got around to it. A surge of evil tequila courses thru my veins to my head and I think, “You know….I’m gonna do it, just cuz it is so crazy and stupid and I can have a story to tell.”
I whisper the title to the piano man. He stares, slack-jawed, for a moment. “Really?” A glance at my nipple ring with a heavy silver skull dangling from it. “....Uhm….OK”. He finds the music, I take the mic from the stand, and he starts the intro. I scan the crowd with a serious expression - a hard, stern glance. I raise the mic to my mouth, fix the kissing lesbians in the back with my mean-man-in-leather stare, and begin to sing, as sincerely as I can. The front door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, making my nipples stand at attention, my jewelry swinging. The piano plays in a key a third too low, but it helps me sound manly. Deep breath, ..but don’t’ expand the tummy too much. The words, heart-felt and poignant, come soaring out across the room. “The sun’ll come out/ Tomorrow/ Bet yer bottom dollar that tomorrow they’ll be sun/ Just thinking about/ Tomorrow/ Clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow/ till there’s none.”
I made my way back to the hotel, laughing at the absurdity of it all. I wonder if anyone in Providence is telling this story today, about the silly leather queen who sang ‘Annie’. But can’t we all relate to little orphan Annie? Aren’t we all orphans, in one way or another?
The Bamboozler
The first thing you need to understand about me is that I am a rule follower. I don’t park on yellow curbs, I don’t go in the express lane with one too many items, and I always use my blinker. The thought of breaking a rule causes me much anxiety. Which is what makes my foray into crime so puzzling.
We’re being kicked out of our apartments so that they can turn them into condos and sell them to some poor suckers. Well, we’re in Midtown, so I guess they wouldn’t be POOR suckers. Anyhow, since we moved in 6 months ago, I have always admired the beautiful big bamboo that grows up behind the building along side of the creek. Most of it is well over 20 feet tall. It appeared very sturdy until a storm came thru a few weeks ago. The next day, I noticed that a lot of the bamboo had been knocked down, and partially snapped near the base. There was a bunch of mighty fine bamboo just a lying there. You can do lots of stuff with bamboo. You can make screens, or curtain rods. Napkin rings, or lovely corner displays with back lighting. You can bind several small pieces together and make wall hangings to place over your door. I suppose you could even make a raft!
But of course it doesn’t belong to me. I have no rights to it. So I can’t just go take it. Or could I? No. It belongs to the apartment complex. The grounds keepers will come thru in a few days, and take care of it. Well, they’ll probably just clean it away, and chop it into bits. That would be a might waste of bamboo. Ok. Maybe if I go down to the office, and ASK them if I can have it. They might say ‘no’. In which case, then, I’m really stuck. I’ll have to let them do with it as they will. If I take it after they told me no, then they will know who did it. And as it stands right now, I bet the grounds people don’t even know it has been damaged. They only go back there on Fridays when they are working on the grounds and mowing the grass. It is somewhat hidden behind the building, and further more, most of my neighbors have moved out already.
And that, my friends, is how a criminal mind gets its start. But it doesn’t stop there.
Ok. The apartment complex staff leaves by 6 PM. It gets dark at, oh…8:30 or so. Even tho the bamboo has snapped somewhat, it is still connected and I’m going to have to saw it off. Does my roommate have a handsaw? Yes. Ok. So, I don’t want to do it when it is dark, because then one of the few remaining neighbors might get suspicious and call the cops. So, 7 PM should work nicely. Staff are gone, it is still light outside, and many of my neighbors will either be in with the TV on or out to eat dinner. It’s a go. Maybe next week I’ll plan a train heist.
My stomach starts churning and I almost back out of the plan several times. But finally, 7 o’clock arrives and I go down, handsaw in hand, and start picking out the nicest selection of bamboo. It is pretty quick work, and I try not to look over my shoulder too excessively. There was some bamboo that fell over without snapping, so, out of guilt, I tried to stand them back up, giving them a second chance at life (See! I’m an environmentalist, not a criminal!). I’m not sure how effective that was. I get about 9 bamboo cut, of various sizes. Maybe I have enough to make a screen?
Now I have a problem. They are bigger and heavier than I imagined. We’re talking over 25 feet! To get them up the stairs to my balcony requires tricky maneuvering which will make me plainly visible from the parking lot to any passer by. Out of desperation, I decide to involve another innocent….my roommate. I call him on my cell.
“John, I need your help. Are you alone?”
“Well, yes, but I’m on my way to dinner.”
“I have an emergency. I have just stolen a bunch of valuable bamboo and I need help stashing it.”
“What?”
I explain the whole bamboo thing.
“Well, I can help you after dinner.”
“Uhm..Ok.”
But that will be too long. This has to be done before night fall. So, I begin the arduous process of hauling up 25 and 30 foot bamboo trees onto my 2nd story balcony. Once I have it all up there, I look down at the decimated little bamboo forest, and I see the stark white stalks where the saw bit into them staring up at me, accusingly. And I realize that anyone else who sees the sawed off stalks need merely look up at my balcony, with all of the bamboo on it, and ..well….I don’t want to go to jail. So it is time to start shucking.
Each huge bamboo has many branches and leaves on it that I must break off and dispose of, leaving nothing but the bamboo pipe. This produces quite a bit of waste, so I split it up into three different dumpsters, so no one would see one full dumpster of bamboo remnants, and get suspicious. Then, I have to saw each bamboo into at least 3 sections in order to get them into the apartment and out of sight. Then I have to sweep the balcony of all remaining bamboo bits, to complete the outward appearance of innocence. Meanwhile, the guilt and shame are almost overpowering, and my insides are liquid bags of squirting guilt.
I have quite a haul, however. Actually, too much. This increases my guilt, for I took more than I needed. Ok….not NEEDED….but …you know…more than I can do things with.
After a poor night of sleep, where I had nightmares of being caned with the very bamboo I had harvested, I get up to go to work as if nothing has happened. But I just know I’m going to get a knock on my door from a policeman asking if I saw anything ‘suspicious’, and I don’t know if I can lie to a police officer again. I still have pangs of guilt over the incident when I was 6 and lied to an officer of the law in my own lawn…but that is another story, tho it may be the root of many pathological aspects of my character.
I get a phone call from my friend Theresa. Since her husband, Adam, is a florist, I think I might be able to ask her some questions about re-growing cut bamboo and such. I decide I need to confess my crime to a friend, giving them a chance to loathe me like I am loathing myself, while at the same time knowing I’m gonna have some fabulous bamboo trappings in my new digs. Playing up the drama, I start the conversation with “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this on an unsecured line…maybe I should use code. Here goes….There is this bamboo, see….” And I tell her all about the bamboo and my thievery.
Here are the highlights:
“What are you going to do with all that bamboo?” she asks.
“I don’t know….but that stuff is EXPENSIVE!”
“I know! Tell me about it!” she commiserates.
“Do you think if you plant a cut piece, would it grow? I think it is resilient that way isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” she replies. “I’ll ask Adam. What about drying the pieces you’ve cut?”
“Well, I used to cut down much smaller pieces when I was little, back in our woods, and never had to dry it, but these are bigger.”
“You used to cut it down when you were little?”
“Yeah. I’d make fishing poles out of it, or pretend swords.”
“FISHING POLES?!?!” (she giggles)
“Yeah. Well, ask Adam about drying it.”
“Ok. I’m sure he knows THAT! I’ll have an answer for you at lunch tomorrow.”
After my confession, I feel much better and look forward to lunch the next day with Theresa and our friend Barbara. At lunch, they get to talking about a yard sale, and I generously offer that they can also steal some bamboo from my apartment complex. There is plenty more broken pieces back there. Barbara gets excited about selling them as curtain rods. Theresa gets this panicked, confused look upon here face..as if…well…as if she’d just been bamboozled!
“Wait. Bamboo?!” she exclaims. “Actual BAMBOO!?”
“Uhm,….YES! What did you think I meant?”
“You said you were speaking CODE, so I thought you meant POT!”
“What?! You thought I was harvesting POT? But I told you it was 25 feet high!”
“I know! Adam and I didn’t think it grew that tall.”
“But…you were supposed to find out how to dry it!”
“Yeah. Adam told me exactly what to do. Lay it out in your tub with a heater and a fan on it.”
So, be what I did good or bad, wrong or right or indifferent, at least I’m not as big a criminal as Theresa thought I was!
When I got home from that lunch, the grounds crew had come and taken all the rest of it away.
My harvest is drying behind my bookcases.
We’re being kicked out of our apartments so that they can turn them into condos and sell them to some poor suckers. Well, we’re in Midtown, so I guess they wouldn’t be POOR suckers. Anyhow, since we moved in 6 months ago, I have always admired the beautiful big bamboo that grows up behind the building along side of the creek. Most of it is well over 20 feet tall. It appeared very sturdy until a storm came thru a few weeks ago. The next day, I noticed that a lot of the bamboo had been knocked down, and partially snapped near the base. There was a bunch of mighty fine bamboo just a lying there. You can do lots of stuff with bamboo. You can make screens, or curtain rods. Napkin rings, or lovely corner displays with back lighting. You can bind several small pieces together and make wall hangings to place over your door. I suppose you could even make a raft!
But of course it doesn’t belong to me. I have no rights to it. So I can’t just go take it. Or could I? No. It belongs to the apartment complex. The grounds keepers will come thru in a few days, and take care of it. Well, they’ll probably just clean it away, and chop it into bits. That would be a might waste of bamboo. Ok. Maybe if I go down to the office, and ASK them if I can have it. They might say ‘no’. In which case, then, I’m really stuck. I’ll have to let them do with it as they will. If I take it after they told me no, then they will know who did it. And as it stands right now, I bet the grounds people don’t even know it has been damaged. They only go back there on Fridays when they are working on the grounds and mowing the grass. It is somewhat hidden behind the building, and further more, most of my neighbors have moved out already.
And that, my friends, is how a criminal mind gets its start. But it doesn’t stop there.
Ok. The apartment complex staff leaves by 6 PM. It gets dark at, oh…8:30 or so. Even tho the bamboo has snapped somewhat, it is still connected and I’m going to have to saw it off. Does my roommate have a handsaw? Yes. Ok. So, I don’t want to do it when it is dark, because then one of the few remaining neighbors might get suspicious and call the cops. So, 7 PM should work nicely. Staff are gone, it is still light outside, and many of my neighbors will either be in with the TV on or out to eat dinner. It’s a go. Maybe next week I’ll plan a train heist.
My stomach starts churning and I almost back out of the plan several times. But finally, 7 o’clock arrives and I go down, handsaw in hand, and start picking out the nicest selection of bamboo. It is pretty quick work, and I try not to look over my shoulder too excessively. There was some bamboo that fell over without snapping, so, out of guilt, I tried to stand them back up, giving them a second chance at life (See! I’m an environmentalist, not a criminal!). I’m not sure how effective that was. I get about 9 bamboo cut, of various sizes. Maybe I have enough to make a screen?
Now I have a problem. They are bigger and heavier than I imagined. We’re talking over 25 feet! To get them up the stairs to my balcony requires tricky maneuvering which will make me plainly visible from the parking lot to any passer by. Out of desperation, I decide to involve another innocent….my roommate. I call him on my cell.
“John, I need your help. Are you alone?”
“Well, yes, but I’m on my way to dinner.”
“I have an emergency. I have just stolen a bunch of valuable bamboo and I need help stashing it.”
“What?”
I explain the whole bamboo thing.
“Well, I can help you after dinner.”
“Uhm..Ok.”
But that will be too long. This has to be done before night fall. So, I begin the arduous process of hauling up 25 and 30 foot bamboo trees onto my 2nd story balcony. Once I have it all up there, I look down at the decimated little bamboo forest, and I see the stark white stalks where the saw bit into them staring up at me, accusingly. And I realize that anyone else who sees the sawed off stalks need merely look up at my balcony, with all of the bamboo on it, and ..well….I don’t want to go to jail. So it is time to start shucking.
Each huge bamboo has many branches and leaves on it that I must break off and dispose of, leaving nothing but the bamboo pipe. This produces quite a bit of waste, so I split it up into three different dumpsters, so no one would see one full dumpster of bamboo remnants, and get suspicious. Then, I have to saw each bamboo into at least 3 sections in order to get them into the apartment and out of sight. Then I have to sweep the balcony of all remaining bamboo bits, to complete the outward appearance of innocence. Meanwhile, the guilt and shame are almost overpowering, and my insides are liquid bags of squirting guilt.
I have quite a haul, however. Actually, too much. This increases my guilt, for I took more than I needed. Ok….not NEEDED….but …you know…more than I can do things with.
After a poor night of sleep, where I had nightmares of being caned with the very bamboo I had harvested, I get up to go to work as if nothing has happened. But I just know I’m going to get a knock on my door from a policeman asking if I saw anything ‘suspicious’, and I don’t know if I can lie to a police officer again. I still have pangs of guilt over the incident when I was 6 and lied to an officer of the law in my own lawn…but that is another story, tho it may be the root of many pathological aspects of my character.
I get a phone call from my friend Theresa. Since her husband, Adam, is a florist, I think I might be able to ask her some questions about re-growing cut bamboo and such. I decide I need to confess my crime to a friend, giving them a chance to loathe me like I am loathing myself, while at the same time knowing I’m gonna have some fabulous bamboo trappings in my new digs. Playing up the drama, I start the conversation with “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this on an unsecured line…maybe I should use code. Here goes….There is this bamboo, see….” And I tell her all about the bamboo and my thievery.
Here are the highlights:
“What are you going to do with all that bamboo?” she asks.
“I don’t know….but that stuff is EXPENSIVE!”
“I know! Tell me about it!” she commiserates.
“Do you think if you plant a cut piece, would it grow? I think it is resilient that way isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” she replies. “I’ll ask Adam. What about drying the pieces you’ve cut?”
“Well, I used to cut down much smaller pieces when I was little, back in our woods, and never had to dry it, but these are bigger.”
“You used to cut it down when you were little?”
“Yeah. I’d make fishing poles out of it, or pretend swords.”
“FISHING POLES?!?!” (she giggles)
“Yeah. Well, ask Adam about drying it.”
“Ok. I’m sure he knows THAT! I’ll have an answer for you at lunch tomorrow.”
After my confession, I feel much better and look forward to lunch the next day with Theresa and our friend Barbara. At lunch, they get to talking about a yard sale, and I generously offer that they can also steal some bamboo from my apartment complex. There is plenty more broken pieces back there. Barbara gets excited about selling them as curtain rods. Theresa gets this panicked, confused look upon here face..as if…well…as if she’d just been bamboozled!
“Wait. Bamboo?!” she exclaims. “Actual BAMBOO!?”
“Uhm,….YES! What did you think I meant?”
“You said you were speaking CODE, so I thought you meant POT!”
“What?! You thought I was harvesting POT? But I told you it was 25 feet high!”
“I know! Adam and I didn’t think it grew that tall.”
“But…you were supposed to find out how to dry it!”
“Yeah. Adam told me exactly what to do. Lay it out in your tub with a heater and a fan on it.”
So, be what I did good or bad, wrong or right or indifferent, at least I’m not as big a criminal as Theresa thought I was!
When I got home from that lunch, the grounds crew had come and taken all the rest of it away.
My harvest is drying behind my bookcases.
It’s a Small Gay World, After All
Also entitled: “OH MY GOD!”
Or “Dating is Not for the Faint of Heart”
So, as you may know, I try to go to Showtune Tuesday whenever I can. When I first got there last Tuesday I passed Gene on his way out. He is the retired army guy on disability with whom I had gone on 2 and a half dates earlier this year, but due to drama in his life (crazy ex-wife, crazy ex-boyfriend, crazy lawyers….), any future engagements were postponed. He was in a hurry and didn’t seem to want to talk for long. Maybe it was cuz his date was pulling on his arm and he had to brace against the door frame to just be able to call out “Can’t talk right now! I’ll call you!!”. Then, shortly after that, I met a really nice, attractive young man there by the name of Jarrett. Know him? Anyway, we struck up a conversation, which was muddied by this stranger who was pretending to be his husband of innumerable years but had actually just met Jarrett 20 minutes before. This stranger even intercepted my handoff of my phone number to Jarrett, keeping it for himself! What nerve! Luckily I discovered this before the end of the evening and was able to get my digits to Jarrett. (I’m still waiting for a disturbing phone call from the stranger…) However, Jarrett and I did not talk too much more that evening because after the stranger left, then Eddie moved in.
Eddie is a big, strapping man, rather muscular and looking like he is fresh out of the military or something and may or may not be prone to ‘excesses’. Now, some of you may remember Eddie from another story I’ve told you. To briefly catch the rest of you up: I was at a local sports bar 2-3 months ago, chatting it up and being flirtatious with this guy named Ken. Well, Eddie walks by on his way to the bathroom and whispers something in Ken’s ear, which, from the hissing, explosive consonants and Ken’s pale expression, doesn’t sound very friendly. I think I hear the word ‘slut’. Ken is shaken up a bit, and quickly fills me in that recently (night before, previous week?) he and Eddie had talked and exchanged phone numbers, but that was it. True or not? I’m not sure. Then Eddie walks by again and says to me “Watch out for Ken, he’ll screw you over” or some such type line, I don’t remember exactly what it was. Eddie then fretted and fumed across the room at us for some time. Very uncomfortable. Ken and I never really met up again after that. I later heard that Eddie doesn’t mind ‘beating the shit out of anyone.’ I was mildly freaked.
So anyway, at last week’s Showtune Tuesday, Eddie swoops in on Jarrett, and I’m unsure of what the situation is there, but I am having a serious flashback to the Ken scene, bolstered by the fact that Eddie is giving me the cold shoulder and making a point of rubbing Jarrett’s back while looking defiantly at me as if to dare me to compete. So, after getting my number discreetly to Jarrett, I decide to make a hasty retreat. Well, there were some really good showtunes, so maybe I hung around for a bit, but I digress….
Lucky for me, Jarrett emails me the next day, and we end up having loads of fun seeing a really bad movie that night and then we hang out the next night as well, and I’m thinking I’m really enjoying his company, and I’m thinking he’s a very happy person and laughs a lot, which I usually think is a sign of a good date, tho he does frequently laugh AT me and not so much WITH me, which on low self-esteem days makes me hesitate. But overall, it is what one would call a cheery picture – or perhaps a ‘cherry’ picture if you are feeling a wee bit hungry as I am right now, and are in need of some sustenance.
Anywho, Jarrett and I went out again last night to Showtune Tuesday, and had a little repeat of the Eddie scene. Eddie comes up, talks to Jarrett. Ethel Merman is really loud so it is hard for more than two people to talk at a time. Besides, Eddie gave me a mildly dirty look upon walking up so I decided not to intrude. Jarrett and I felt uncomfortable, so I was happy when Jarrett suggested high-tailing it out of there at the first possible moment. Jarrett mentions, “I don’t think Eddie likes you.” (So now, if I end up dead or missing, the list of suspects should include Eddie and my upstairs neighbor with the sledge hammer, and also throw Gene and Jarrett in there for reasons which are about to come clear.) But compared to our DINNER conversation which had occurred earlier that evening, this was nothing.
At dinner, a lovely little Thai place in the heart of Midtown by the name of Royal Orchid, Jarrett mentions his ex (they were together for 3 years and shared a house) who he has mentioned on a couple of occasions, just in passing. Well, he mentions his name this time for the first time (that I caught). The sentence was something like: “Yeah, Gene was retired from the Army where he got a hurt foot, so then…..” and the rest of the sentence was drowned out by this internal static screaming in my head as my protein-deprived brain (my basil chicken hadn’t come yet) spun out of control as I struggled to understand this rising sense of danger welling up from my inner most being. Random words replay in my head from what he has just said: “Army”….”Hurt foot”…”retired” ….”GENE!” and before I can stop it, my face freezes into this look of shock or horror or something and I think I start sputtering words that won’t form a complete sentence. Jarrett stops and guesses that I might know Gene. Stupid, honest me says, “Yes. Uhm….yeah..well, we sorta dated.” Just at this moment, I’m sure I heard a tray of porcelain plates shatter in the kitchen and a mighty wind blows in thru the restaurant door. Jarrett looks disgusted with me, and I half expect projectile vomiting from one or both of us.
First Eddie, now the refresher on Gene: Gene, as you may recall, was the retired Army guy with all the issues. Those issues included (per Gene, mind you): Ex Wife in Texas, Nasty Custody Battle Over the 4 kids, Fully disabled from shrapnel or whatever, and…and…THE CRAZY EX-BOYFRIEND NAMED JARRETT WHO IS CURRENTLY SITTING ACROSS THE TABLE FROM ME PICKING AT HIS SOUP!!!!”
Sweat drips into my newly arrived Thai dish as the waitress demurely walks away from the table without a word, sensing some momentousness going on. The basil rolls I just ate churn in my stomach. Fear grips me. Jarrett downs the rest of his plum wine and says he isn’t surprised by this revelation. “Gene has dated everyone,” he explains. (Well, now my 2 point 5 dates with Gene seem so much less special!!) Jarrett goes on, “You are like the third person I’ve dated since Gene and I broke up that has dated Gene.”
How does one recover from this? I verbally claim to Jarrett that I can’t remember a word of what Gene has said about Jarrett, meanwhile, in my head I’m ticking of the list of items I do remember of ‘scary things about Gene’s Ex’. And in black comedy fashion, Jarrett interrupts my mental checklist with “So, did you like my house?” referring to the time I was there with Gene….
Then, of course, reason takes hold. Why would I take the word of someone I barely knew (GENE) about someone else I barely know (JARRETT). AND, I’ve been hanging out and talking with Jarrett for a week and I really like him, so what does this really change? And I know how relationships with ex’s can be crazy even when the people aren’t. AND I also remember what most of my friends said about Gene when I talked about his various and sundry issues, and how I had that little warning bell going off in my head that there was some hidden lurking SOMETHING there, thinking at the time it might be tied to what appeared as mild hyper-religiosity in a conservative church, (tho this may be my misperception), or perhaps it may have indeed been a mild mental disorder under control with medications.
Well, so far, Jarrett has supplied me with stories, entertainment, some awkwardness, and lots of fun. I decide I want more of this, as long as Jarrett is interested and does not now see me as ‘tainted’. So, I tell him so, and I hope that the overall experience from last night will be something that has ended up forging a bond of friendship between us and will one day be something we look back on and laugh at. Ok, for me, it already is that day. The ending to the date was quite nice and pleasant by the way, for those who are busy rating this one. I hope to have several more dates with Jarrett to rate. (But don’t take him off the list of suspects in the event of my death just yet….)
Final bit of irony? The night Jarrett and I met, he talked about going to BINGO this Thursday (tomorrow), which I said I would love to go to and I have only been once before….and that was with GENE on his first time there, and our FIRST date!!
Well, I’m looking forward to it anyway…..
Or “Dating is Not for the Faint of Heart”
So, as you may know, I try to go to Showtune Tuesday whenever I can. When I first got there last Tuesday I passed Gene on his way out. He is the retired army guy on disability with whom I had gone on 2 and a half dates earlier this year, but due to drama in his life (crazy ex-wife, crazy ex-boyfriend, crazy lawyers….), any future engagements were postponed. He was in a hurry and didn’t seem to want to talk for long. Maybe it was cuz his date was pulling on his arm and he had to brace against the door frame to just be able to call out “Can’t talk right now! I’ll call you!!”. Then, shortly after that, I met a really nice, attractive young man there by the name of Jarrett. Know him? Anyway, we struck up a conversation, which was muddied by this stranger who was pretending to be his husband of innumerable years but had actually just met Jarrett 20 minutes before. This stranger even intercepted my handoff of my phone number to Jarrett, keeping it for himself! What nerve! Luckily I discovered this before the end of the evening and was able to get my digits to Jarrett. (I’m still waiting for a disturbing phone call from the stranger…) However, Jarrett and I did not talk too much more that evening because after the stranger left, then Eddie moved in.
Eddie is a big, strapping man, rather muscular and looking like he is fresh out of the military or something and may or may not be prone to ‘excesses’. Now, some of you may remember Eddie from another story I’ve told you. To briefly catch the rest of you up: I was at a local sports bar 2-3 months ago, chatting it up and being flirtatious with this guy named Ken. Well, Eddie walks by on his way to the bathroom and whispers something in Ken’s ear, which, from the hissing, explosive consonants and Ken’s pale expression, doesn’t sound very friendly. I think I hear the word ‘slut’. Ken is shaken up a bit, and quickly fills me in that recently (night before, previous week?) he and Eddie had talked and exchanged phone numbers, but that was it. True or not? I’m not sure. Then Eddie walks by again and says to me “Watch out for Ken, he’ll screw you over” or some such type line, I don’t remember exactly what it was. Eddie then fretted and fumed across the room at us for some time. Very uncomfortable. Ken and I never really met up again after that. I later heard that Eddie doesn’t mind ‘beating the shit out of anyone.’ I was mildly freaked.
So anyway, at last week’s Showtune Tuesday, Eddie swoops in on Jarrett, and I’m unsure of what the situation is there, but I am having a serious flashback to the Ken scene, bolstered by the fact that Eddie is giving me the cold shoulder and making a point of rubbing Jarrett’s back while looking defiantly at me as if to dare me to compete. So, after getting my number discreetly to Jarrett, I decide to make a hasty retreat. Well, there were some really good showtunes, so maybe I hung around for a bit, but I digress….
Lucky for me, Jarrett emails me the next day, and we end up having loads of fun seeing a really bad movie that night and then we hang out the next night as well, and I’m thinking I’m really enjoying his company, and I’m thinking he’s a very happy person and laughs a lot, which I usually think is a sign of a good date, tho he does frequently laugh AT me and not so much WITH me, which on low self-esteem days makes me hesitate. But overall, it is what one would call a cheery picture – or perhaps a ‘cherry’ picture if you are feeling a wee bit hungry as I am right now, and are in need of some sustenance.
Anywho, Jarrett and I went out again last night to Showtune Tuesday, and had a little repeat of the Eddie scene. Eddie comes up, talks to Jarrett. Ethel Merman is really loud so it is hard for more than two people to talk at a time. Besides, Eddie gave me a mildly dirty look upon walking up so I decided not to intrude. Jarrett and I felt uncomfortable, so I was happy when Jarrett suggested high-tailing it out of there at the first possible moment. Jarrett mentions, “I don’t think Eddie likes you.” (So now, if I end up dead or missing, the list of suspects should include Eddie and my upstairs neighbor with the sledge hammer, and also throw Gene and Jarrett in there for reasons which are about to come clear.) But compared to our DINNER conversation which had occurred earlier that evening, this was nothing.
At dinner, a lovely little Thai place in the heart of Midtown by the name of Royal Orchid, Jarrett mentions his ex (they were together for 3 years and shared a house) who he has mentioned on a couple of occasions, just in passing. Well, he mentions his name this time for the first time (that I caught). The sentence was something like: “Yeah, Gene was retired from the Army where he got a hurt foot, so then…..” and the rest of the sentence was drowned out by this internal static screaming in my head as my protein-deprived brain (my basil chicken hadn’t come yet) spun out of control as I struggled to understand this rising sense of danger welling up from my inner most being. Random words replay in my head from what he has just said: “Army”….”Hurt foot”…”retired” ….”GENE!” and before I can stop it, my face freezes into this look of shock or horror or something and I think I start sputtering words that won’t form a complete sentence. Jarrett stops and guesses that I might know Gene. Stupid, honest me says, “Yes. Uhm….yeah..well, we sorta dated.” Just at this moment, I’m sure I heard a tray of porcelain plates shatter in the kitchen and a mighty wind blows in thru the restaurant door. Jarrett looks disgusted with me, and I half expect projectile vomiting from one or both of us.
First Eddie, now the refresher on Gene: Gene, as you may recall, was the retired Army guy with all the issues. Those issues included (per Gene, mind you): Ex Wife in Texas, Nasty Custody Battle Over the 4 kids, Fully disabled from shrapnel or whatever, and…and…THE CRAZY EX-BOYFRIEND NAMED JARRETT WHO IS CURRENTLY SITTING ACROSS THE TABLE FROM ME PICKING AT HIS SOUP!!!!”
Sweat drips into my newly arrived Thai dish as the waitress demurely walks away from the table without a word, sensing some momentousness going on. The basil rolls I just ate churn in my stomach. Fear grips me. Jarrett downs the rest of his plum wine and says he isn’t surprised by this revelation. “Gene has dated everyone,” he explains. (Well, now my 2 point 5 dates with Gene seem so much less special!!) Jarrett goes on, “You are like the third person I’ve dated since Gene and I broke up that has dated Gene.”
How does one recover from this? I verbally claim to Jarrett that I can’t remember a word of what Gene has said about Jarrett, meanwhile, in my head I’m ticking of the list of items I do remember of ‘scary things about Gene’s Ex’. And in black comedy fashion, Jarrett interrupts my mental checklist with “So, did you like my house?” referring to the time I was there with Gene….
Then, of course, reason takes hold. Why would I take the word of someone I barely knew (GENE) about someone else I barely know (JARRETT). AND, I’ve been hanging out and talking with Jarrett for a week and I really like him, so what does this really change? And I know how relationships with ex’s can be crazy even when the people aren’t. AND I also remember what most of my friends said about Gene when I talked about his various and sundry issues, and how I had that little warning bell going off in my head that there was some hidden lurking SOMETHING there, thinking at the time it might be tied to what appeared as mild hyper-religiosity in a conservative church, (tho this may be my misperception), or perhaps it may have indeed been a mild mental disorder under control with medications.
Well, so far, Jarrett has supplied me with stories, entertainment, some awkwardness, and lots of fun. I decide I want more of this, as long as Jarrett is interested and does not now see me as ‘tainted’. So, I tell him so, and I hope that the overall experience from last night will be something that has ended up forging a bond of friendship between us and will one day be something we look back on and laugh at. Ok, for me, it already is that day. The ending to the date was quite nice and pleasant by the way, for those who are busy rating this one. I hope to have several more dates with Jarrett to rate. (But don’t take him off the list of suspects in the event of my death just yet….)
Final bit of irony? The night Jarrett and I met, he talked about going to BINGO this Thursday (tomorrow), which I said I would love to go to and I have only been once before….and that was with GENE on his first time there, and our FIRST date!!
Well, I’m looking forward to it anyway…..
Daily Fish Wrapper
February 22, 2002
Obituary
At approximately 12:30AM on this Friday morning, Alexander the Goldfish passed out of this existence. Services were held at 8:30AM today, where ‘Amazing Grace’ was sung. Due to recent financial setbacks, the family was only able to provide a pauper’s funeral. Alexander’s final resting place will be the city dump. “He had been suffering from an infection in recent days, and had just begun a course of treatment the night before”, a family member says. While the family saw signs of improvement after just six hours of medication, they
were horrified to find Alexander lying on the family room floor, dead, when they awoke. “I thought I heard something around 12:20 last night, but I didn’t investigate,” reports a grief stricken family member. “I realize now it was the top of his tank I heard as he busted loose. I should have checked. I should have checked. I’m sure the lid was closed when I went to bed….” Police investigated the scene, but were unable to determine positively if the goldfish had actually been able to force the lid to his tank open.
Sgt.Malone had this to say: “With a fish that size, it is possible that he could force the lid open on his own, if he swam up really fast. The only way to be sure would be to let the coroner examine the body for signs of bruising or contusions that the impact with the door would have caused. However, since this isn’t considered a homicide, we decided to save the family some grief and rule it an accidental suicide.”
Alexander was two years of age. Donations may be made in Alexander’s name to the Fighting Fund, which helps save the whales. Alexander admired them greatly.
http://whales.magna.com.au/trust/
One family member had this to offer, in memoriam:
Obituary
At approximately 12:30AM on this Friday morning, Alexander the Goldfish passed out of this existence. Services were held at 8:30AM today, where ‘Amazing Grace’ was sung. Due to recent financial setbacks, the family was only able to provide a pauper’s funeral. Alexander’s final resting place will be the city dump. “He had been suffering from an infection in recent days, and had just begun a course of treatment the night before”, a family member says. While the family saw signs of improvement after just six hours of medication, they
were horrified to find Alexander lying on the family room floor, dead, when they awoke. “I thought I heard something around 12:20 last night, but I didn’t investigate,” reports a grief stricken family member. “I realize now it was the top of his tank I heard as he busted loose. I should have checked. I should have checked. I’m sure the lid was closed when I went to bed….” Police investigated the scene, but were unable to determine positively if the goldfish had actually been able to force the lid to his tank open.
Sgt.Malone had this to say: “With a fish that size, it is possible that he could force the lid open on his own, if he swam up really fast. The only way to be sure would be to let the coroner examine the body for signs of bruising or contusions that the impact with the door would have caused. However, since this isn’t considered a homicide, we decided to save the family some grief and rule it an accidental suicide.”
Alexander was two years of age. Donations may be made in Alexander’s name to the Fighting Fund, which helps save the whales. Alexander admired them greatly.
http://whales.magna.com.au/trust/
One family member had this to offer, in memoriam:
Alexander, Alexander All shiny silver and gold
Alexander, Alexander Will your story ever be told?
The joy you brought those around you
Your effervescent smile
Your lovely flowing fins and tail
There can be no denial
The excitement boiling in your tank
Every time I came in.
Someway, Somehow you knew
That I always had your din-din.
While perhaps your memory was fleeting,
Quicker than a cricket’s ass
The joy and love you brought your family
Will surely never pass.
Alexander, Alexander…
Mile After Mile
Hurricane Katrina made landfall on the Louisiana coast on August 29th, 2005 as a large category 3 storm that devastated the region. I went to Louisiana in January of 2006, and it was still headline news. Not just headlines, either. Seventy percent of the newscasts were Katrina related. I was there on business, north of Baton Rouge. My customers encouraged me to visit New Orleans on my next trip back in February. I did so. These are my thoughts.
I was able to get a room in the French Quarter pretty easily, and not too expensive either considering that it was really very nice accommodations just off Jackson Square. The Quarter was not damaged. When the levees broke, the water did not invade that historic district. There had been little damage and there were no structural indications that anything had happened if you were standing on Bourbon Street. There were SOME indications, however. For example, the streets were far from barren, but they were also far from being crowded as one would expect for the kickoff weekend of Mardi Gras. Also, many stores remained closed. This was due not to damage, but a lack of staff. There simply are not enough residents left to work all of the restaurants and shops. Many of those that ARE opened are on an adjusted schedule still. Keep in mind...this is five and a half months after the catastrophe. One of my favorite bars that I always liked because of the balcony had the entire upstairs closed. When I asked the bartender, he stated, "There just aren't enough customers to warrant opening, except maybe on Saturdays." Virgin Record store in the Jackson Brewery was also closed, and most of the stores inside the River Walk Mall remain closed.
My first night there I ate at Maspero's, on Toulouse. A great seafood plate was served to me in the largely empty restaurant. There was a large family sitting nearby. They did not have the look of a tourist family however. Their dress and accents were such that I figured them as refugees. Sure enough, I overheard them talking about "if I don't have a house tomorrow, maybe I'll come over to your place and get some laundry done." This band of folks appeared so tired and despondent. At first I was annoyed with the mother and how she let the two toddlers run around. But as I looked closer, she just looked too tired to do much of anything else. At one point, she said to one of the hellions, "I wish you wouldn't do that", but it was a reflex. Her heart was not in it, just empty words. She was too tired to care.
I spoke with a man there about the situation, over a beer. He had much to say about the mayor, and the lack of ongoing federal support. At one point, he became physically agitated and angry as he talked about how many of the residents will not be coming back. He really gets blustering, but it is the angry bluster of a hurt person, who is saying angry things out of hurt, and you aren't even sure he believes them. "I'm glad they aren't coming back. You know, this way, we'll be done with them. This way, we can weed out the people who don't really care about this city, who don't love it! Let them leave!!" His sister lost all three of her properties. He is living 'upstairs' at his sick mother's house, which I later gleaned was actually her attic. He has no job. Most of his friends are gone. He is alone. Hurt, abandoned, and angry at the world, like so many others in Louisiana. A bitterness seeps here, just out of the lights of the Quarter, lingering in the fetid pools.
Early on I had decided to keep the rental car just long enough so I could give myself a tour of the area. I was trepidacious for several reasons. My father had warned me against going because of the violence of which he had heard tales. I began to wonder if he was correct in his warning and that I was a young fool to do such a thing. I saw nothing of the sort, tho I did read in the papers that a man was shot on his porch in the 7th Ward during my visit. But beyond the fear of violence, I also wondered if I really wanted to see the devastation. Was it sick to want to see it? Was it simply juvenile morbid curiosity that drew me? By going and seeing it, was I somehow disrespecting the people whose lives were so greatly affected by Katrina, or trivializing the lives that were actually lost? I was very aware of the fact that during my previous January trip at the customer site, one of the topics of conversation was the fact that the city of New Orleans had banned bus tours of the devastated areas, claiming it was unseemly and taking advantage of the victims. My customers thought it was not unseemly and could have benefited the city, both by pulling in tourists dollars as well as some of the profits were to be donated to the relief effort.
These thoughts were rolling around inside of me in an uneasy way as I timidly approached the desk clerk at my hotel to ask for directions. "Yes, I'm about to go to the airport to return my rental car. I need directions." She began pulling out a map with a smile, saying she'd be glad and that it was very easy. "Yes. Thank you, " I respond, "but I was also wondering.....can you tell me where I would go if I wanted to see ...New Orleans...." I know I'm being vague at this point, but I just don't want to say that I want to see devastation. So I add...."you know.....since Katrina...." She didn't miss a beat. I think she even tried to look sympathetic or understanding. She then proceeds to give me directions to Lakeview, one of the areas damaged when the levees failed.
She is giving me directions, but I notice at one of the turns she is gesturing right but saying left. I ask her to clarify, and she realizes she said the wrong thing, that her gestures were correct. She seems upset by this. You could tell she was visualizing the way as she gave the directions, and this indeed proved correct. She said to me, "I'm sorry, but these directions are good. I used to ride on the bus this way all the time when I was in school." And that's what made her own flood gates burst and the tears flowed down her ruddy cheeks.. "All those neighborhoods are gone now. There is just no one there. I grew up there." She blots her eyes, and attempts but does not succeed in adopting a tour guide stance on the whole matter. "Anyway," she explains, "if you just drive down that street you will see. And Lakeview is not the worst. The 9th Ward is far worse. But just imagine mile after mile of that, ...I can't even tell you how many miles." More tears.
I'm awkward and insufficient. I say how sad it all is, and I know 'sad' is an understatement, but I don't know what else to say. I tell her how I wasn't even sure I should go. "No. Go, " she immediately responds. "If you just stay in the Quarter around here then you think everything is fine. You should go. You will see."
As I'm trying to find my equilibrium after this personal encounter with the desk clerk whose name I do not even recall, I find myself waiting on a very slow valet to come around with my rental. I'm watching the passer-bys, and I spot this one gent who has jeans on that are riding a good five inches too short. I am amazed and appalled at myself, for instantaneously the thought jumps into my head, "What...? Expecting a flood?" This is of course followed with the abhorrent realization that he likely was a flood victim. Likely, these jeans he was given in charity after he lost everything. How quickly I reverted and flew from the personal connection, however fleeting, I had with the desk clerk to callous, thoughtless remarks! I found myself wanting to do something, but there was nothing to be done. I felt alone and ineffectual.
And so it is with these feelings I enter my rental, a very nice Ford Explorer. I'm wondering if there was a reason they gave me this at the rental company. Do you need an SUV to get around New Orleans? On the road, most I see are indeed trucks. I head off on the directions she gave me, passing the pristine facade of the Superdome, and travel down Canal Street. With each block I travel, I become miles removed from civilization. Street lights no longer work. Closed fast food chains. Closed office buildings. Closed homes. And I travel on, toward Lakeview, to see what there is to see. To see what 'devastation' means.
And on the journey, I again ask why I am taking it. It actually is not like me to seek out such things. I was never lured by those videos of death that they have in the video stores. I do not look too closely at newscasts involving carnage. I do not want to see what is behind those blankets along roadside accidents. Over a year after 9/11 I had the chance to visit New York. Some of my traveling companions wanted to see Ground Zero. Not I. So, why do I want to see New Orleans? What is the difference? Or am I different now than I was then? Why do I feel compelled to go to Lakeview when I was repelled by the Twin Towers?
Is it because Ground Zero stood testament to the maliciousness of man, something I never want to willingly face? Something I hide from, something I wish I could deny was real? Was Ground Zero too concentrated for the magnitude of the lives lost, where bodies were never even found, pounded into powder? Those days, as we walked around New York, I had this dread that I would accidentally round a corner and suddenly be faced with it, unprepared. I did not want to see it. I did not want to know it. Yet here, in New Orleans, I'm following carefully given directions, looking for what I've seen on the news. I want to know this disaster. I am compelled by something I can't quite put my finger on.
Perhaps it is tied to the awe I've always had toward Mother Nature. Some of this awe can be traced, perhaps, to when I was a child and I thought that Mother Nature was married to God. But I consider the Tsunami disaster of December 2004: yes I was horrified at the lives lost and destroyed, but accompanying that was sheer wonder at the power of the sea, as well as its fickleness. We live on a planet that can DO that! How scarey! How terrible! How amazing! That one tsunami destroyed miles and miles of coastland, and took thousands and thousands of lives. It affected the rotation of the Earth! I remember in the days after Katrina some newscasters compared the devastation in Louisiana to the tsunami. I also recall my friend, David, being outraged at such a comparison. He tells me, "By far, numerous more lives were lost in the Tsunami. You can't even compare them!" After seeing devastated Lakeview, well over five months AFTER the devastation, I understand now how the newscasters can do it. Forget numbers. When you see what is left, your mind goes numb. Were they comparing the facts of Katrina with the tsunami? Likely not. You look at something unfathomable, and you grope, and you remember the last unfathomable thing you've experienced, and for neither can you summon words with meaning, and at a loss for words, you try to give context.
For those who have read this far, waiting for some eloquent description of what I saw in Lakeview, I'm sorry. You will not get anywhere close to knowing what it was like. The best words I have are these: Imagine a single house being extensively renovated. We probably all have had one on our block at one time or another. It is mostly just frames up, maybe most outer walls have been constructed. No drywalls have been hung inside, tho. Some shingles are off the roof, and maybe there are some holes in the roof, perhaps for a new skylight. The paint has not been put on yet. There is construction debris everywhere, but some attempt had been made to confine it to a trash pile out front. We've all seen this scene before. There is nothing new in this respect in Lakeview, nothing spectacular. Except the debris piles are huge, and have been scraped from the roadway, and contains things other than lumber: refrigerators, beds, tables, tvs, papers, dolls, tricycles, silt covered cars, masses of rags that were once clothes, mud, mud, mud. The paint is not waiting to be put on, but has been scoured off. Dry walls were blown out by storm surge, not waiting to be hung. The shingles are ratty from winds. There is a tree down there in front, roots not quite deep enough to keep it upright. And the ever present waterline, bearing testimony to just how high the water was here. It was higher than my SUV. Walk up seven steps to a porch and the waterline is at the top of the front screen door, barely hanging on it's hinges. Then there is the spray paint left by the rescuers. You probably saw it in the news. It is a cross, and there are numbers in each section, marking date searched, bodies found, alive or dead. It is easy to see this picture in your mind's eye, this one house. But the spray paint is a reminder that this is not just an empty, shattered building, but lives and a family resided in this less than a shack, that used to be a home.
But it is not just one house. It is not just all the houses and families on that street. It is not just this block and the next. It is not one neighborhood here and one neighborhood there. I traveled for miles until I got to the lake. It was all of it. It was mile after mile off to my right. It was mile after mile off to my left. Mile after mile of the sameness. The same destruction. The same emptiness. The same piles. The same mud. The same debris. The same ruined roads. The same hand painted signs offering mold removal, construction, loans, haulers. Block after block. Street after street. Mile after mile. Your mind goes numb, and you think, "I'll never be able to describe this." And you can't. And the tears you find yourself crying for these people you did not know, alone in your rented SUV as you weave around debris and stare at the ruin, these tears betray you and you want to make others see it, but how? They did not see this on the news, not the scope. And I only saw ONE of the 'lesser affected areas'. And now I know why I had to go. I had to bear witness. I enjoyed the French Quarter and I encourage others to return there to visit, but....for me to not see this...to not know this....that would be an offense to the former residents of this great city. It would not be truthful. This is where the bartender is from. This is where the desk clerk grew up. This is the city that the angry citizens love. This is now New Orleans. It can NEVER be the same. What was, is gone.
That night, rental car returned, and me cabbing it in the rain back to my plush hotel room, the droplets making pretty shiny crystals of light on the windows as I stare out at the balconies of the French Quarter, I ask the taxi driver how he fared. Immediate and forthright came his answer, requiring no prompts or further questions from me. "Not well. My house got 17 feet of water. I have two grown sons now, both moved out. Everything is gone. All the pictures. I used to come home and sit with my scrapbooks and coffee, and look at the pictures of my two boys when they were little and growing up, their weddings. All the pictures of me and my late wife when we first started dating. I can't see those anymore. I'm 63 years old. I don't know how I'm going to start over. How do I do that? I just don't know."
I was able to get a room in the French Quarter pretty easily, and not too expensive either considering that it was really very nice accommodations just off Jackson Square. The Quarter was not damaged. When the levees broke, the water did not invade that historic district. There had been little damage and there were no structural indications that anything had happened if you were standing on Bourbon Street. There were SOME indications, however. For example, the streets were far from barren, but they were also far from being crowded as one would expect for the kickoff weekend of Mardi Gras. Also, many stores remained closed. This was due not to damage, but a lack of staff. There simply are not enough residents left to work all of the restaurants and shops. Many of those that ARE opened are on an adjusted schedule still. Keep in mind...this is five and a half months after the catastrophe. One of my favorite bars that I always liked because of the balcony had the entire upstairs closed. When I asked the bartender, he stated, "There just aren't enough customers to warrant opening, except maybe on Saturdays." Virgin Record store in the Jackson Brewery was also closed, and most of the stores inside the River Walk Mall remain closed.
My first night there I ate at Maspero's, on Toulouse. A great seafood plate was served to me in the largely empty restaurant. There was a large family sitting nearby. They did not have the look of a tourist family however. Their dress and accents were such that I figured them as refugees. Sure enough, I overheard them talking about "if I don't have a house tomorrow, maybe I'll come over to your place and get some laundry done." This band of folks appeared so tired and despondent. At first I was annoyed with the mother and how she let the two toddlers run around. But as I looked closer, she just looked too tired to do much of anything else. At one point, she said to one of the hellions, "I wish you wouldn't do that", but it was a reflex. Her heart was not in it, just empty words. She was too tired to care.
I spoke with a man there about the situation, over a beer. He had much to say about the mayor, and the lack of ongoing federal support. At one point, he became physically agitated and angry as he talked about how many of the residents will not be coming back. He really gets blustering, but it is the angry bluster of a hurt person, who is saying angry things out of hurt, and you aren't even sure he believes them. "I'm glad they aren't coming back. You know, this way, we'll be done with them. This way, we can weed out the people who don't really care about this city, who don't love it! Let them leave!!" His sister lost all three of her properties. He is living 'upstairs' at his sick mother's house, which I later gleaned was actually her attic. He has no job. Most of his friends are gone. He is alone. Hurt, abandoned, and angry at the world, like so many others in Louisiana. A bitterness seeps here, just out of the lights of the Quarter, lingering in the fetid pools.
Early on I had decided to keep the rental car just long enough so I could give myself a tour of the area. I was trepidacious for several reasons. My father had warned me against going because of the violence of which he had heard tales. I began to wonder if he was correct in his warning and that I was a young fool to do such a thing. I saw nothing of the sort, tho I did read in the papers that a man was shot on his porch in the 7th Ward during my visit. But beyond the fear of violence, I also wondered if I really wanted to see the devastation. Was it sick to want to see it? Was it simply juvenile morbid curiosity that drew me? By going and seeing it, was I somehow disrespecting the people whose lives were so greatly affected by Katrina, or trivializing the lives that were actually lost? I was very aware of the fact that during my previous January trip at the customer site, one of the topics of conversation was the fact that the city of New Orleans had banned bus tours of the devastated areas, claiming it was unseemly and taking advantage of the victims. My customers thought it was not unseemly and could have benefited the city, both by pulling in tourists dollars as well as some of the profits were to be donated to the relief effort.
These thoughts were rolling around inside of me in an uneasy way as I timidly approached the desk clerk at my hotel to ask for directions. "Yes, I'm about to go to the airport to return my rental car. I need directions." She began pulling out a map with a smile, saying she'd be glad and that it was very easy. "Yes. Thank you, " I respond, "but I was also wondering.....can you tell me where I would go if I wanted to see ...New Orleans...." I know I'm being vague at this point, but I just don't want to say that I want to see devastation. So I add...."you know.....since Katrina...." She didn't miss a beat. I think she even tried to look sympathetic or understanding. She then proceeds to give me directions to Lakeview, one of the areas damaged when the levees failed.
She is giving me directions, but I notice at one of the turns she is gesturing right but saying left. I ask her to clarify, and she realizes she said the wrong thing, that her gestures were correct. She seems upset by this. You could tell she was visualizing the way as she gave the directions, and this indeed proved correct. She said to me, "I'm sorry, but these directions are good. I used to ride on the bus this way all the time when I was in school." And that's what made her own flood gates burst and the tears flowed down her ruddy cheeks.. "All those neighborhoods are gone now. There is just no one there. I grew up there." She blots her eyes, and attempts but does not succeed in adopting a tour guide stance on the whole matter. "Anyway," she explains, "if you just drive down that street you will see. And Lakeview is not the worst. The 9th Ward is far worse. But just imagine mile after mile of that, ...I can't even tell you how many miles." More tears.
I'm awkward and insufficient. I say how sad it all is, and I know 'sad' is an understatement, but I don't know what else to say. I tell her how I wasn't even sure I should go. "No. Go, " she immediately responds. "If you just stay in the Quarter around here then you think everything is fine. You should go. You will see."
As I'm trying to find my equilibrium after this personal encounter with the desk clerk whose name I do not even recall, I find myself waiting on a very slow valet to come around with my rental. I'm watching the passer-bys, and I spot this one gent who has jeans on that are riding a good five inches too short. I am amazed and appalled at myself, for instantaneously the thought jumps into my head, "What...? Expecting a flood?" This is of course followed with the abhorrent realization that he likely was a flood victim. Likely, these jeans he was given in charity after he lost everything. How quickly I reverted and flew from the personal connection, however fleeting, I had with the desk clerk to callous, thoughtless remarks! I found myself wanting to do something, but there was nothing to be done. I felt alone and ineffectual.
And so it is with these feelings I enter my rental, a very nice Ford Explorer. I'm wondering if there was a reason they gave me this at the rental company. Do you need an SUV to get around New Orleans? On the road, most I see are indeed trucks. I head off on the directions she gave me, passing the pristine facade of the Superdome, and travel down Canal Street. With each block I travel, I become miles removed from civilization. Street lights no longer work. Closed fast food chains. Closed office buildings. Closed homes. And I travel on, toward Lakeview, to see what there is to see. To see what 'devastation' means.
And on the journey, I again ask why I am taking it. It actually is not like me to seek out such things. I was never lured by those videos of death that they have in the video stores. I do not look too closely at newscasts involving carnage. I do not want to see what is behind those blankets along roadside accidents. Over a year after 9/11 I had the chance to visit New York. Some of my traveling companions wanted to see Ground Zero. Not I. So, why do I want to see New Orleans? What is the difference? Or am I different now than I was then? Why do I feel compelled to go to Lakeview when I was repelled by the Twin Towers?
Is it because Ground Zero stood testament to the maliciousness of man, something I never want to willingly face? Something I hide from, something I wish I could deny was real? Was Ground Zero too concentrated for the magnitude of the lives lost, where bodies were never even found, pounded into powder? Those days, as we walked around New York, I had this dread that I would accidentally round a corner and suddenly be faced with it, unprepared. I did not want to see it. I did not want to know it. Yet here, in New Orleans, I'm following carefully given directions, looking for what I've seen on the news. I want to know this disaster. I am compelled by something I can't quite put my finger on.
Perhaps it is tied to the awe I've always had toward Mother Nature. Some of this awe can be traced, perhaps, to when I was a child and I thought that Mother Nature was married to God. But I consider the Tsunami disaster of December 2004: yes I was horrified at the lives lost and destroyed, but accompanying that was sheer wonder at the power of the sea, as well as its fickleness. We live on a planet that can DO that! How scarey! How terrible! How amazing! That one tsunami destroyed miles and miles of coastland, and took thousands and thousands of lives. It affected the rotation of the Earth! I remember in the days after Katrina some newscasters compared the devastation in Louisiana to the tsunami. I also recall my friend, David, being outraged at such a comparison. He tells me, "By far, numerous more lives were lost in the Tsunami. You can't even compare them!" After seeing devastated Lakeview, well over five months AFTER the devastation, I understand now how the newscasters can do it. Forget numbers. When you see what is left, your mind goes numb. Were they comparing the facts of Katrina with the tsunami? Likely not. You look at something unfathomable, and you grope, and you remember the last unfathomable thing you've experienced, and for neither can you summon words with meaning, and at a loss for words, you try to give context.
For those who have read this far, waiting for some eloquent description of what I saw in Lakeview, I'm sorry. You will not get anywhere close to knowing what it was like. The best words I have are these: Imagine a single house being extensively renovated. We probably all have had one on our block at one time or another. It is mostly just frames up, maybe most outer walls have been constructed. No drywalls have been hung inside, tho. Some shingles are off the roof, and maybe there are some holes in the roof, perhaps for a new skylight. The paint has not been put on yet. There is construction debris everywhere, but some attempt had been made to confine it to a trash pile out front. We've all seen this scene before. There is nothing new in this respect in Lakeview, nothing spectacular. Except the debris piles are huge, and have been scraped from the roadway, and contains things other than lumber: refrigerators, beds, tables, tvs, papers, dolls, tricycles, silt covered cars, masses of rags that were once clothes, mud, mud, mud. The paint is not waiting to be put on, but has been scoured off. Dry walls were blown out by storm surge, not waiting to be hung. The shingles are ratty from winds. There is a tree down there in front, roots not quite deep enough to keep it upright. And the ever present waterline, bearing testimony to just how high the water was here. It was higher than my SUV. Walk up seven steps to a porch and the waterline is at the top of the front screen door, barely hanging on it's hinges. Then there is the spray paint left by the rescuers. You probably saw it in the news. It is a cross, and there are numbers in each section, marking date searched, bodies found, alive or dead. It is easy to see this picture in your mind's eye, this one house. But the spray paint is a reminder that this is not just an empty, shattered building, but lives and a family resided in this less than a shack, that used to be a home.
But it is not just one house. It is not just all the houses and families on that street. It is not just this block and the next. It is not one neighborhood here and one neighborhood there. I traveled for miles until I got to the lake. It was all of it. It was mile after mile off to my right. It was mile after mile off to my left. Mile after mile of the sameness. The same destruction. The same emptiness. The same piles. The same mud. The same debris. The same ruined roads. The same hand painted signs offering mold removal, construction, loans, haulers. Block after block. Street after street. Mile after mile. Your mind goes numb, and you think, "I'll never be able to describe this." And you can't. And the tears you find yourself crying for these people you did not know, alone in your rented SUV as you weave around debris and stare at the ruin, these tears betray you and you want to make others see it, but how? They did not see this on the news, not the scope. And I only saw ONE of the 'lesser affected areas'. And now I know why I had to go. I had to bear witness. I enjoyed the French Quarter and I encourage others to return there to visit, but....for me to not see this...to not know this....that would be an offense to the former residents of this great city. It would not be truthful. This is where the bartender is from. This is where the desk clerk grew up. This is the city that the angry citizens love. This is now New Orleans. It can NEVER be the same. What was, is gone.
That night, rental car returned, and me cabbing it in the rain back to my plush hotel room, the droplets making pretty shiny crystals of light on the windows as I stare out at the balconies of the French Quarter, I ask the taxi driver how he fared. Immediate and forthright came his answer, requiring no prompts or further questions from me. "Not well. My house got 17 feet of water. I have two grown sons now, both moved out. Everything is gone. All the pictures. I used to come home and sit with my scrapbooks and coffee, and look at the pictures of my two boys when they were little and growing up, their weddings. All the pictures of me and my late wife when we first started dating. I can't see those anymore. I'm 63 years old. I don't know how I'm going to start over. How do I do that? I just don't know."
Saturday, May 30
Deviled Eggs
This week I made deviled eggs, and they were good. I'm now even CLOSER to being husband material! ...right? RIGHT?
Profile Pictures
I was tired of my old pics that used to be on my online profiles (tho still accurate reps of me), so I got a new friend, who had SEEMED bright, to walk with me in the woods as I posed prevocatively against trees. I even took my shirt off, leaned out against a tree that stretched its limbs over the waters of the Chattahoochee, and did that whole knee up, arm over head seductive pose ....as couples with the children and chihuahuas walked by and stared. I figured the scenic pics would be worth it, and would show my love of nature and my hot sexy armpits....therefore this short term embarrassment would be worth it. Well, my new 'bright' friend.....he's a stupid fucker. I discovered when I got home and tried to upload the pics, that he hadn't taken a single one. Goshdurnmotherfuckinnerfherder! He evidently thought the DELETE button was the SAVE button.
Anyone else wanna volunteer to be photographer?
(UPDATE: I have forgiven my friend... and more importantly, I found the TIMER on my camera phone and did it myself. :) )
Anyone else wanna volunteer to be photographer?
(UPDATE: I have forgiven my friend... and more importantly, I found the TIMER on my camera phone and did it myself. :) )
Shaving Souls at Baltimore Eagle
At the hot and steamy Baltimore Eagle, a few feet from the dark naughty area, a guy comes up to me as I'm leaning against the wall. He grabs my crotch, rubs my chest, leans forward with a seductive look in his eye and asks in a seriously interested sorta way, "Hell, or are you Saved?" (Yes, I think this is weird, but I reply) "Hell". He looks at me, askance. "What?" I repeat, "Hell". He looks confused still, so I say, "Ok, wait,..what did you ask me?" "Hair," tapping my chest, "or are you shaved?" :)
The Skinny Dipping Incident
A FUNNY FROM SEPTEMBER FLORIDA TRIP:
So……I’m like the only one here at this guest house just off the beach in FTL. It’s smallish, middle of week, off season. There may be one other room occupied. I debate going for a 2:30AM skinny dip last night before going to bed in the lovely salt water pool. My room is up on the balcony. I step out to ensure there is no one in the courtyard. I peer over the balcony, and LO! it is deserted. Looking forward to a naughty, au-natural dip, I turn to go back in to the room to grab my towel. As I complete my turn, I see the door swing close with a click.
It’s locked.
I’m naked.
No towel.
No robe.
Not a stitch.
No key.
No cell phone....and the manager/owner does not live onsite.
I tried to use my mental powers to unlock my door, but it won’t budge. I then tried to break in thru my window… no go. (In retrospect, I thought it interesting I tried my mental powers first.) I try the mental powers again. Willing it to NOT BE just doesn't work.
I go down to the office area. I see a sign that they open at 9AM. I lay down in a lawn chair by the pool thinking I can nap under the stars, but it starts to sprinkle and the skeeters start biting.
I go back to the office, and use the phone they have perched there with a number for ‘emergencies’. I wasn't postive this qualified as an emergency for THEM, but it certainly was one for ME.
The man was not happy to have to come let me in. To his credit, he made no mention of the fact that I was naked as the day I was born. I got the feeling it was not an uncommon occurrence. Of course, to compensate for feeling so stupid and vulnerable, I did the best eye contact- stare-at-him “I DARE YOU TO SAY SOMETHING ABOUT IT” look that I could muster. I had tried to keep a bush between us, but that didn’t work out for long. I had also weighed the merits of using one of those neon lime-green noodle floaties from the pool, but was fearful that may come off as even more obscene.
So……I’m like the only one here at this guest house just off the beach in FTL. It’s smallish, middle of week, off season. There may be one other room occupied. I debate going for a 2:30AM skinny dip last night before going to bed in the lovely salt water pool. My room is up on the balcony. I step out to ensure there is no one in the courtyard. I peer over the balcony, and LO! it is deserted. Looking forward to a naughty, au-natural dip, I turn to go back in to the room to grab my towel. As I complete my turn, I see the door swing close with a click.
It’s locked.
I’m naked.
No towel.
No robe.
Not a stitch.
No key.
No cell phone....and the manager/owner does not live onsite.
I tried to use my mental powers to unlock my door, but it won’t budge. I then tried to break in thru my window… no go. (In retrospect, I thought it interesting I tried my mental powers first.) I try the mental powers again. Willing it to NOT BE just doesn't work.
I go down to the office area. I see a sign that they open at 9AM. I lay down in a lawn chair by the pool thinking I can nap under the stars, but it starts to sprinkle and the skeeters start biting.
I go back to the office, and use the phone they have perched there with a number for ‘emergencies’. I wasn't postive this qualified as an emergency for THEM, but it certainly was one for ME.
The man was not happy to have to come let me in. To his credit, he made no mention of the fact that I was naked as the day I was born. I got the feeling it was not an uncommon occurrence. Of course, to compensate for feeling so stupid and vulnerable, I did the best eye contact- stare-at-him “I DARE YOU TO SAY SOMETHING ABOUT IT” look that I could muster. I had tried to keep a bush between us, but that didn’t work out for long. I had also weighed the merits of using one of those neon lime-green noodle floaties from the pool, but was fearful that may come off as even more obscene.
Oprah Dreams
4/3/2009I had this dream last night:I’m in a large modern office building and I meet Oprah Winfrey who is sitting at one of the cubicles in a sea of cubicles. She’s very friendly and seems genuinely excited to see me. She confides that one of her legs is fake. What happened? “Oh, I ate my leg. Just a little off the ankle at first, but I couldn’t stop myself.” Disturbed, I walk away and find a very crowded Men’s room. Oprah follows me in and keeps looking at my goods while I’m trying to pee and then keeps trying to fondle me. There’s more of me trying to get away, going back in when less crowded, but she follows me again. The toilets are odd, as well. It’s like they have no bottom, but the liquid flushed along the sides and loops up and down in impossible ways, and truly just makes no sense. Meanwhile, Oprah is actually climbing up so she can look over the stall wall into my stall to watch me pee, and she again stretches to try and feel my junk.I zip up, think of her eating her leg and am disgusted until I suddenly remember a Family Guy cartoon where Oprah was randomly eating everything in site, “food, furniture, etc.” and I remember the cartoon ended with Oprah’s big cartoon mouth opening up and swallowing her whole body so that she’s gone. And I wonder if the writer’s were in on the secret that Oprah had eaten her leg, and then I started laughing uncontrollably and woke up.The End_______________________________
Crystal Meth Junky
4/28/2009: Funny from this past CLAW party weekend.... I had too much to drink the first night there and I guess i got a little sloppy. :( The next day I was talking with my Canadian friend. The conversation went somethign like this:
ME: I was pretty trashed last night.
HIM: Yeah. When we talked you were out of it.
ME: We talked? OH! yeah, I remember that now. (SEE..not a total black out!)
HIM: Yeah, you were going on and on about needing Crystal.
ME: WHAT?!?!? I don't do that shit.
HIM: Yeah, you kept saying you really wanted to find some Crystal.
ME: Wow...I was more out of it than I thought. I don't do that stuff.
HIM: So you didn't find any...?(he seemed a bit too hopeful about this question, but I ignored that since I was concerned I was looking for Crystal Meth and don't even remember that.... then I realized...)
ME: (laughing hysterically). OH! Whenever I've been drinking, I always want to go get a Krystal's Hamburger. I guess you don't have those in Canada. It's like a White Castle!
ME: I was pretty trashed last night.
HIM: Yeah. When we talked you were out of it.
ME: We talked? OH! yeah, I remember that now. (SEE..not a total black out!)
HIM: Yeah, you were going on and on about needing Crystal.
ME: WHAT?!?!? I don't do that shit.
HIM: Yeah, you kept saying you really wanted to find some Crystal.
ME: Wow...I was more out of it than I thought. I don't do that stuff.
HIM: So you didn't find any...?(he seemed a bit too hopeful about this question, but I ignored that since I was concerned I was looking for Crystal Meth and don't even remember that.... then I realized...)
ME: (laughing hysterically). OH! Whenever I've been drinking, I always want to go get a Krystal's Hamburger. I guess you don't have those in Canada. It's like a White Castle!
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