hello
this is dexter.
today is a grate day! becauz it's Holloween! Witches, candee and cats. And a big shout out to Carmine, Andrew's buddee. Weel go flyeen on the broom later.
Holloween is the offishal pagen festival before those damm puritens ruined it all by comeen over on that bote. It's about hideen from evil spirits by dresseen like someone else so they wont find you and take your sole.
as an offishal emblem of that time (and beeing a pretty sexee familiar myself), it's a day for all black cats to be more than reviled creatures. we do not turn peeple into toads, we do not breeng plague, suffereen, or dizeaze. that's Laura Bush's job hss hss hssss i kill me i sware.
we simplee wish to enjoy the costoomes, the kids, and the occasional peece of buttered popcorn that falls in our path (well, i do anyway. hss hss hss)
many of our two-leggers wer hung, drownt, and burnt at the stake simply out of that sillee histerria in the 1600's. some of us got it, too. if you see someone doeen sumtheen rotten to a black cat today? bite them, plain and simple. Tell them dexter and carmine sent yoo.
today is about candee and fun, so hug a black cat and bob for appels!
well, the dorrbell is ringeen. i have go act cute so i can get some popcorn frum dresst up kids.
carmine, letz do sooshi later this week?
love,
dexter
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Babe let one slide...
But it's ok.
I say Congratulations, Boston. You've waited long enough. To Susan and Mike in Staunton, Mass., I know you're loving this. And rightfully so.
Winning constantly can make a team sloppy. Complacent. And who wants a mediocre champion? Not New York.
Like the Mets in 1986--and last night was the 18th anniversary of Buckner's goof--it can only improve morale and make a better team for the rest of the competition. Something my floor seems to be doing. Out with the old and in the new, I say.
Have fun and don't take anything for granted. But take just a tiny moment to shine.
1918 no more, way to go 2004.
(The Yanks WILL get 'em next year.)
I say Congratulations, Boston. You've waited long enough. To Susan and Mike in Staunton, Mass., I know you're loving this. And rightfully so.
Winning constantly can make a team sloppy. Complacent. And who wants a mediocre champion? Not New York.
Like the Mets in 1986--and last night was the 18th anniversary of Buckner's goof--it can only improve morale and make a better team for the rest of the competition. Something my floor seems to be doing. Out with the old and in the new, I say.
Have fun and don't take anything for granted. But take just a tiny moment to shine.
1918 no more, way to go 2004.
(The Yanks WILL get 'em next year.)
Monday, October 25, 2004
More thoughts on those damn bagpipes...
It came to me over the weekend: my continuing curiosity regarding Everlast. I really have a thing for this man. How odd is it that I foolishly, feverishly, moronically adored a guy whose huge hit was a song I could barely tolerate until I downloaded it last Thursday? The story, as I recall, began in 1991 or 1992.
Once upon a time, there was a thing called the Video jukebox. It basically churned out all the videos MTV and vh1 wouldn’t touch. You called in, paid your $2.99 per request (added to your phone bill), and waited for the “song” to show. Just like a real jukebox.
1991-92 was the time of my CUNY switchover from Staten Island to Brooklyn College. It was also the time of chicken pox, flu, Epstein-Barr and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome—in that order—so my memory on the exact time might be waaay off. I do remember clearly seeing two videos that were constantly requested almost back-to-back: “I Got the Knack” and “Swingin’ With T.” Every day for about a month, they came on at around the same time, 4 pm or so. With my afternoon classes ending at 2:15, I always made it home to catch the new “tune” of the week. I jumped at the chance to request plenty of goodies, much to the dismay of my mother, who plainly had a conniption with the added amount on the bill. Never mind the fact that I paid her in cash for when I called in. She blocked me from calling, plain and simple. Oh well. No more videos for me. This wasn’t a problem until I found myself anxiously awaiting 4 pm to see that guy in that video on my tv. I still can’t figure out what it was. The face? The swagger? The humor? Those damn green eyes? It sure was something. All I knew is there was never any videotape in my VCR to tape this guy. I also felt extremely stupid asking friends to call up for me. I didn’t want to share my crush with anyone, particularly not Terri or Janet, my two girlfriends at the time.
Embarrassingly enough, one day I missed my bus home. I ran in at 4:30, sweaty and exasperated. I flipped on the tv like a junkie waiting for my fix, and it did not arrive. I’d missed it. No video. Couldn’t request it, either. Mom's phone block. Terri, Janet and a few friends were going to a local hangout that night called Muffins. Terri’s friend, who we called “Germin”, was playing darts. “Why not go watch?”, Terri asked. “Ok,” I agreed, but at this point my day was utterly ruined. It was Friday and I’d have to wait until Monday again to see that video. My theory on why this never showed during weekends is that it was probably a high schooler who’d requested it while Mom/Dad wasn’t around. I mean NEVER showed. My weekend was empty. I went out as planned. No video. I sat. I pouted. I sulked and moped. No video. Terri, Tina, and Janet all looked at me and asked what was wrong. I told them sheepishly that my tv was not working very well. They looked at me like I was nuts. I did not say anything about that guy in the video. My night, and subsequent weekend, ended in a sea of disappointment.
Finally, this video began to fade. That highschooler probably got caught for adding to the phone bill just like I did, and it was barely played anymore. All good things come to an end, I thought. I moved on. No more guy from the tv.
Fast forward to 1992 when the sound of furious bagpipes surfaced in a song called Jump Around. The group was House of Pain. I heard it on the radio and promptly covered my ears. The repetitive screech was a bit much. My friends loved this song. I hated it. Those damn bagpipes! The banshee instrument! “TURN THAT OFF,” I begged when we went to bars, clubs, even drove in Tina’s car. My ears hurt. My head hurt. I could not escape that song.
Apparently, I couldn’t escape my crush. “Who the fuck sings that song?” I demanded.
“Some guy named Everlast,” was Terri’s reply.
“EVERLAST???? ARE YOU SHITTING ME????” I squealed, my heart rate soaring.
“What the hell’s wrong with you? Don’t you watch the Video Jukebox? That song is on every day. Stop squealing, you sound like you’re possessed!!!”
You got that right! My guy from the tv was BACK. No more 4 pm rushing, I just kept the damn channel on until Jump Around surfaced no matter what time it was. And then, it happened. The screech I hated. I took a deep breath and luxuriated in my seat. There he was. Looking like a mean hooligan. Sneering at the camera. Like he'd bite someone. (Let it be me?) The video is a series of St. Patrick’s Day images in black and white, if I remember correctly. Stuff I normally complain about, particularly little shamrocks painted on faces (ugh). But there he was. Goatee, green eyes. Intense. Deliciously menacing. I wanted to slather him in honey and put him on toast. And not just me—it seems most of the girls I knew all drooled over him, too. I felt superior, however, due to my previous Jukebox devotion. (Ok—OBSESSION.) I saw him first. Nya, Nya!
The song continued to annoy me, but I didn’t hate it that much knowing it was his song. He faded for a few years and then resurfaced in 1998. I saw a photo of him in Rolling Stone. My heart skipped a few beats. Still does. Some guys just do that to ya. It’s one of those “hell-if-I-know” things. And now who’s the hot white rapper of the day? Eminem. Cool guy, but let’s not kid ourselves about who did it first. And does anyone remember my guy from the tv (other than for his big fight with Eminem)? I wonder. Clear Channel owns everything, so I’m not expecting his newest digs to explode on the radio. If you’re over 25 and not pop, you don’t get airplay. The Video Jukebox is long gone, so once again, we are at the mercy of Britney and Justin on MTV and the flavor of the week show on vh1. It just sucks.
And I still hate bagpipes, always will. But, oh, those green eyes. Thank god for the internet. And memories. And iTunes. Wow-there goes my heartbeat again...
Once upon a time, there was a thing called the Video jukebox. It basically churned out all the videos MTV and vh1 wouldn’t touch. You called in, paid your $2.99 per request (added to your phone bill), and waited for the “song” to show. Just like a real jukebox.
1991-92 was the time of my CUNY switchover from Staten Island to Brooklyn College. It was also the time of chicken pox, flu, Epstein-Barr and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome—in that order—so my memory on the exact time might be waaay off. I do remember clearly seeing two videos that were constantly requested almost back-to-back: “I Got the Knack” and “Swingin’ With T.” Every day for about a month, they came on at around the same time, 4 pm or so. With my afternoon classes ending at 2:15, I always made it home to catch the new “tune” of the week. I jumped at the chance to request plenty of goodies, much to the dismay of my mother, who plainly had a conniption with the added amount on the bill. Never mind the fact that I paid her in cash for when I called in. She blocked me from calling, plain and simple. Oh well. No more videos for me. This wasn’t a problem until I found myself anxiously awaiting 4 pm to see that guy in that video on my tv. I still can’t figure out what it was. The face? The swagger? The humor? Those damn green eyes? It sure was something. All I knew is there was never any videotape in my VCR to tape this guy. I also felt extremely stupid asking friends to call up for me. I didn’t want to share my crush with anyone, particularly not Terri or Janet, my two girlfriends at the time.
Embarrassingly enough, one day I missed my bus home. I ran in at 4:30, sweaty and exasperated. I flipped on the tv like a junkie waiting for my fix, and it did not arrive. I’d missed it. No video. Couldn’t request it, either. Mom's phone block. Terri, Janet and a few friends were going to a local hangout that night called Muffins. Terri’s friend, who we called “Germin”, was playing darts. “Why not go watch?”, Terri asked. “Ok,” I agreed, but at this point my day was utterly ruined. It was Friday and I’d have to wait until Monday again to see that video. My theory on why this never showed during weekends is that it was probably a high schooler who’d requested it while Mom/Dad wasn’t around. I mean NEVER showed. My weekend was empty. I went out as planned. No video. I sat. I pouted. I sulked and moped. No video. Terri, Tina, and Janet all looked at me and asked what was wrong. I told them sheepishly that my tv was not working very well. They looked at me like I was nuts. I did not say anything about that guy in the video. My night, and subsequent weekend, ended in a sea of disappointment.
Finally, this video began to fade. That highschooler probably got caught for adding to the phone bill just like I did, and it was barely played anymore. All good things come to an end, I thought. I moved on. No more guy from the tv.
Fast forward to 1992 when the sound of furious bagpipes surfaced in a song called Jump Around. The group was House of Pain. I heard it on the radio and promptly covered my ears. The repetitive screech was a bit much. My friends loved this song. I hated it. Those damn bagpipes! The banshee instrument! “TURN THAT OFF,” I begged when we went to bars, clubs, even drove in Tina’s car. My ears hurt. My head hurt. I could not escape that song.
Apparently, I couldn’t escape my crush. “Who the fuck sings that song?” I demanded.
“Some guy named Everlast,” was Terri’s reply.
“EVERLAST???? ARE YOU SHITTING ME????” I squealed, my heart rate soaring.
“What the hell’s wrong with you? Don’t you watch the Video Jukebox? That song is on every day. Stop squealing, you sound like you’re possessed!!!”
You got that right! My guy from the tv was BACK. No more 4 pm rushing, I just kept the damn channel on until Jump Around surfaced no matter what time it was. And then, it happened. The screech I hated. I took a deep breath and luxuriated in my seat. There he was. Looking like a mean hooligan. Sneering at the camera. Like he'd bite someone. (Let it be me?) The video is a series of St. Patrick’s Day images in black and white, if I remember correctly. Stuff I normally complain about, particularly little shamrocks painted on faces (ugh). But there he was. Goatee, green eyes. Intense. Deliciously menacing. I wanted to slather him in honey and put him on toast. And not just me—it seems most of the girls I knew all drooled over him, too. I felt superior, however, due to my previous Jukebox devotion. (Ok—OBSESSION.) I saw him first. Nya, Nya!
The song continued to annoy me, but I didn’t hate it that much knowing it was his song. He faded for a few years and then resurfaced in 1998. I saw a photo of him in Rolling Stone. My heart skipped a few beats. Still does. Some guys just do that to ya. It’s one of those “hell-if-I-know” things. And now who’s the hot white rapper of the day? Eminem. Cool guy, but let’s not kid ourselves about who did it first. And does anyone remember my guy from the tv (other than for his big fight with Eminem)? I wonder. Clear Channel owns everything, so I’m not expecting his newest digs to explode on the radio. If you’re over 25 and not pop, you don’t get airplay. The Video Jukebox is long gone, so once again, we are at the mercy of Britney and Justin on MTV and the flavor of the week show on vh1. It just sucks.
And I still hate bagpipes, always will. But, oh, those green eyes. Thank god for the internet. And memories. And iTunes. Wow-there goes my heartbeat again...
Saturday, October 23, 2004
It's Just me against the world
My thuggin' continues...god I love iTunes.
Well, there's no way I'm rushing today to get my Amazon packages out. I hate the 88th Street post office more than words, always have. It's nice outside, cool, feeling like Autumn. I'm going to bother Andy and Ann later and maybe roam over to Wollman to say "hi" to David.
I also feel a Barbie jones coming on. I think the new holiday selection's out, so it's Times Square today, too. So, I can stop by the 33rd street post office and get these books out to their new homes. I figure I've held onto this stuff for so long, I'm probably depriving some high school student of literacy. Do I really need to keep that copy of "Animal Farm" I read twice back in ninth grade? I don't think so. Let someone have it for $2.
My cds are selling, too. Do I really want that old Sarah McLachlan Jeff gave me? No. I've played it once, get it out of my house. Out with the old, make space for the new.
Let's see how Monday goes. The half-and-half shit begins.
Well, there's no way I'm rushing today to get my Amazon packages out. I hate the 88th Street post office more than words, always have. It's nice outside, cool, feeling like Autumn. I'm going to bother Andy and Ann later and maybe roam over to Wollman to say "hi" to David.
I also feel a Barbie jones coming on. I think the new holiday selection's out, so it's Times Square today, too. So, I can stop by the 33rd street post office and get these books out to their new homes. I figure I've held onto this stuff for so long, I'm probably depriving some high school student of literacy. Do I really need to keep that copy of "Animal Farm" I read twice back in ninth grade? I don't think so. Let someone have it for $2.
My cds are selling, too. Do I really want that old Sarah McLachlan Jeff gave me? No. I've played it once, get it out of my house. Out with the old, make space for the new.
Let's see how Monday goes. The half-and-half shit begins.
Friday, October 22, 2004
I'll serve your ass like John McEnroe...
and if your girl steps up I'm smackin' da ho...LMAO
Yes, kiddies, I've found that little House of Pain gem known as Jump Around from 1994? 1995? How far back does that song go? I remember being bombarded with that in every bar, every club, even the Video Jukebox used to kill me with those damn bagpipes every 10 minutes. Good God, I hated that song. Didn't stop my crush on Everlast (even cuter than Eminem), but I was waaaay sick of that song.
Nothing cheers up a tired gal like some thug rappers, I'll tell ya. Between Erik B and Rakim's Don't Sweat the Technique now being used in a Target advertisement, the straight selling potential of a strong hook with some thumping bass is not lost on commercial America. I saw the Target commercial about a month ago, and my jaw dropped. I completely forgot about that song. They are boxing in the ad, too, so "Everlast" is everywhere. That got me reminiscing, too. About those damn bagpipes. My mind's been frazzled, I need to galvanize this anger.
I went home last night, after a truly agonizing week, and went straight to iTunes. 99 cents a song? I got me some House, some Cypress Hill, some Rakim, Tupac, and some Q-Tip, the only non-thuglet in the bunch. A scalding hot bath, a few $$$ later, and I was ghetto fabulous in my tub, with Dexter (the Original Gangsta) standing guard at the door. I took the phone off the hook, turned off the cell, and soaked for a good 40 minutes. I feel absolutely renewed.
And now, for my latest rant...(deep breaths, kiddies!)
Ain't nothing going on today in the office, except maybe fraud. There’s an incredible rumor that PB is getting an office. How in hell, I don’t know. OH, wait! I get it: incompetence, stupidity, and the enjoyment of bossing other people around. That makes for good management. The less they do, the higher up they go. My lips may be chapped, but certainly not from kissing anyone’s ass. Never will be either. Let’s see if I ever get to $40K in this place. I will now shamelessly admit I’ve starting buying lottery tickets. If I win? Good luck finding me, kiddies. There will be no reaching my cell phone, because I won’t need one anymore.
And now, she’s supposedly not here next week. I’m left with all the undone contracts, the changes for our legal department, the filing, the shit that’s been sitting here since the end of September. Nice.
Of course, I get a lame “thank you.” Such crumbs are considered nourishment around here. I guess my Strawberry/Old Navy/Conway digs and three-year-old PayLess shoes ain’t cutting it. If I were a competitive bitch who can’t spell with Dior perfume, I’d have two assistants by now.
Makes me wanna Holler.
Whew! I feel cleansed having said that.
But the headache is temporarily gone, and my legs don't hurt today.
Maybe I'll hunt for some Pete Rock and C.L. Smooth tonight. RD and I are taking a lovely trip for some mushrooms. (Portabello's, not Cypress Hill.) And we'll laugh. We always do.
Yes, kiddies, I've found that little House of Pain gem known as Jump Around from 1994? 1995? How far back does that song go? I remember being bombarded with that in every bar, every club, even the Video Jukebox used to kill me with those damn bagpipes every 10 minutes. Good God, I hated that song. Didn't stop my crush on Everlast (even cuter than Eminem), but I was waaaay sick of that song.
Nothing cheers up a tired gal like some thug rappers, I'll tell ya. Between Erik B and Rakim's Don't Sweat the Technique now being used in a Target advertisement, the straight selling potential of a strong hook with some thumping bass is not lost on commercial America. I saw the Target commercial about a month ago, and my jaw dropped. I completely forgot about that song. They are boxing in the ad, too, so "Everlast" is everywhere. That got me reminiscing, too. About those damn bagpipes. My mind's been frazzled, I need to galvanize this anger.
I went home last night, after a truly agonizing week, and went straight to iTunes. 99 cents a song? I got me some House, some Cypress Hill, some Rakim, Tupac, and some Q-Tip, the only non-thuglet in the bunch. A scalding hot bath, a few $$$ later, and I was ghetto fabulous in my tub, with Dexter (the Original Gangsta) standing guard at the door. I took the phone off the hook, turned off the cell, and soaked for a good 40 minutes. I feel absolutely renewed.
And now, for my latest rant...(deep breaths, kiddies!)
Ain't nothing going on today in the office, except maybe fraud. There’s an incredible rumor that PB is getting an office. How in hell, I don’t know. OH, wait! I get it: incompetence, stupidity, and the enjoyment of bossing other people around. That makes for good management. The less they do, the higher up they go. My lips may be chapped, but certainly not from kissing anyone’s ass. Never will be either. Let’s see if I ever get to $40K in this place. I will now shamelessly admit I’ve starting buying lottery tickets. If I win? Good luck finding me, kiddies. There will be no reaching my cell phone, because I won’t need one anymore.
And now, she’s supposedly not here next week. I’m left with all the undone contracts, the changes for our legal department, the filing, the shit that’s been sitting here since the end of September. Nice.
Of course, I get a lame “thank you.” Such crumbs are considered nourishment around here. I guess my Strawberry/Old Navy/Conway digs and three-year-old PayLess shoes ain’t cutting it. If I were a competitive bitch who can’t spell with Dior perfume, I’d have two assistants by now.
Makes me wanna Holler.
Whew! I feel cleansed having said that.
But the headache is temporarily gone, and my legs don't hurt today.
Maybe I'll hunt for some Pete Rock and C.L. Smooth tonight. RD and I are taking a lovely trip for some mushrooms. (Portabello's, not Cypress Hill.) And we'll laugh. We always do.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Drift in the eyes of the ghost again
Well, the drowning man has visited again: out of the sky and into my body.
I awoke in such pain this morning I could barely move. Knees, elbows, joints, legs on fire, lower back. This is called fibromyalgia and it's a slow form of hell. They (the Doctors) want to put me on painkillers, but I am hard-wired to get hooked on those pills, thanks to my lovely Eugene O'Neill DNA. Hydrocodone scares the living shit outta me. Straight up. Taking care of this banged-up body means uncovering all the illnesses my predecessors ignored. Thyroid problems (which I have) and PCOS (which go hand-in-hand) have a dark connection to a soft-tissue disorder called fibromyalgia. For a woman who's spend 28 years on and off the ice, it frightens me to feel like I'm on fire. I am burning inside and out and it ain't passion, kiddies.
I am home instead of deciding like a good juror because I could barely get out of bed. It felt like little gnomes were stabbing me with ice picks. I didn't know whether I should report at 9 or 10, but I wasn't getting there until 10:30, which I did. I truly didn't care today. 32 and I'm hunched over like a strega? Dear Lord, help me.
So, I get there. I walk through the holding area and didn't recognize anyone. I knew I was in trouble. I limp past the security guard into the "main office". I am told to wait. Waiting without a chair is not good. "Is she ok?" I hear someone ask. The answer is NO NO NO, but now I'm getting attitude. I beg the woman to check my name, I'm worried, I'm not feeling well, and I don't want to come back because I don't want to lose my job and I get snapped with "oh, THAT'S WHY YOU'RE NOT FEELING WELL, YOU DON'T WANT TO BE HERE. BACK OF THE LINE!"
To which I think, silently burning (my legs, back and SOUL now in fury), "What the fuck do I have to do to be treated like a human being?" I can feel my anger raising. This is sooo not good.
I am told to go upstairs to the third floor. I am now lost on the elevator. 8th floor, 6th floor, 2nd floor. No third floor. 20 minutes have gone by. Finally, I get to the third floor. More attitude. I also know they are looking for that missing juror. I can't even remember the case name. I am ready to keel.
"Well, then, you need to go back downstairs so I know what room." I completely lose it. And not in my usual manner. Tears are streaming down my face now. The security guard knows I am not kidding. I proceed to break down completely. I show her my pills, I grab a chair and scream "I CAN'T DO THIS I DON'T FEEL WELL WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE A HUMAN BEING????" I tell her, another judge, and a clerk that I simply can't do this. After waiting two weeks of bullshit, going there two days, going back to work, coming back a third time, and then being told to come back a fourth time because we "might" have a judge, I give up. Then I get a phone call--PB wants to know if I'm in Thursday, Friday and next week. Of course, she doesn't call me herself. Why would she? Get someone else to do it. She's the boss. She's tired of backing up my work. She's leaving next week, so once again, IT'S MY PROBLEM. Never mind the fact that I'm working myself to the fucking bone--the burning on fire bones--but she has to have my schedule while she does damn well what she pleases. Yes, I'll be in because I'm tired of fixing her fucking mistakes. I was put here to figure out my lot in this world, not to kiss her ass. I hang up the phone. "I'll be back Thursday, regular time." I go back down with another guard, looking like I won the Courtney Love lookalike contest (mascara smeared in 12 directions), and am told to wait again. 15 minutes tick by.
I am now getting pitiful and discomforted looks from the other jurors in the lounge. I am a freak. I am distraught. Devoid of connection, empty of logic. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.
Dismissal. Four more years before I am inconvenienced again. Small comfort. I walk out into the rain, the story of my life.
I catch the bus. I'm drenched from the spraying rain. My umbrella is useless. So am I, today.
Tea, out of wet clothes, Kashi. Umbrella near radiator to dry. Led Zeppelin on the radio.
And I sit writing this, wondering how I got to this point.
Sure as hell ain't enough room to write that down.
=^..^= ???
I awoke in such pain this morning I could barely move. Knees, elbows, joints, legs on fire, lower back. This is called fibromyalgia and it's a slow form of hell. They (the Doctors) want to put me on painkillers, but I am hard-wired to get hooked on those pills, thanks to my lovely Eugene O'Neill DNA. Hydrocodone scares the living shit outta me. Straight up. Taking care of this banged-up body means uncovering all the illnesses my predecessors ignored. Thyroid problems (which I have) and PCOS (which go hand-in-hand) have a dark connection to a soft-tissue disorder called fibromyalgia. For a woman who's spend 28 years on and off the ice, it frightens me to feel like I'm on fire. I am burning inside and out and it ain't passion, kiddies.
I am home instead of deciding like a good juror because I could barely get out of bed. It felt like little gnomes were stabbing me with ice picks. I didn't know whether I should report at 9 or 10, but I wasn't getting there until 10:30, which I did. I truly didn't care today. 32 and I'm hunched over like a strega? Dear Lord, help me.
So, I get there. I walk through the holding area and didn't recognize anyone. I knew I was in trouble. I limp past the security guard into the "main office". I am told to wait. Waiting without a chair is not good. "Is she ok?" I hear someone ask. The answer is NO NO NO, but now I'm getting attitude. I beg the woman to check my name, I'm worried, I'm not feeling well, and I don't want to come back because I don't want to lose my job and I get snapped with "oh, THAT'S WHY YOU'RE NOT FEELING WELL, YOU DON'T WANT TO BE HERE. BACK OF THE LINE!"
To which I think, silently burning (my legs, back and SOUL now in fury), "What the fuck do I have to do to be treated like a human being?" I can feel my anger raising. This is sooo not good.
I am told to go upstairs to the third floor. I am now lost on the elevator. 8th floor, 6th floor, 2nd floor. No third floor. 20 minutes have gone by. Finally, I get to the third floor. More attitude. I also know they are looking for that missing juror. I can't even remember the case name. I am ready to keel.
"Well, then, you need to go back downstairs so I know what room." I completely lose it. And not in my usual manner. Tears are streaming down my face now. The security guard knows I am not kidding. I proceed to break down completely. I show her my pills, I grab a chair and scream "I CAN'T DO THIS I DON'T FEEL WELL WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE A HUMAN BEING????" I tell her, another judge, and a clerk that I simply can't do this. After waiting two weeks of bullshit, going there two days, going back to work, coming back a third time, and then being told to come back a fourth time because we "might" have a judge, I give up. Then I get a phone call--PB wants to know if I'm in Thursday, Friday and next week. Of course, she doesn't call me herself. Why would she? Get someone else to do it. She's the boss. She's tired of backing up my work. She's leaving next week, so once again, IT'S MY PROBLEM. Never mind the fact that I'm working myself to the fucking bone--the burning on fire bones--but she has to have my schedule while she does damn well what she pleases. Yes, I'll be in because I'm tired of fixing her fucking mistakes. I was put here to figure out my lot in this world, not to kiss her ass. I hang up the phone. "I'll be back Thursday, regular time." I go back down with another guard, looking like I won the Courtney Love lookalike contest (mascara smeared in 12 directions), and am told to wait again. 15 minutes tick by.
I am now getting pitiful and discomforted looks from the other jurors in the lounge. I am a freak. I am distraught. Devoid of connection, empty of logic. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.
Dismissal. Four more years before I am inconvenienced again. Small comfort. I walk out into the rain, the story of my life.
I catch the bus. I'm drenched from the spraying rain. My umbrella is useless. So am I, today.
Tea, out of wet clothes, Kashi. Umbrella near radiator to dry. Led Zeppelin on the radio.
And I sit writing this, wondering how I got to this point.
Sure as hell ain't enough room to write that down.
=^..^= ???
Monday, October 18, 2004
How to Work with Four Year-Olds
Leave it to Irving Berlin to describe my work situation. Come to think of it, my last job was like this, too. Hum a few bars and join in...
Anything you can do,
I can do better.
I can do anything
Better than you.
No, you can't.
Yes, I can. No, you can't.
Yes, I can. No, you can't.
Yes, I can,
Yes, I can!
Anything you can be
I can be greater.
Sooner or later,
I'm greater than you.
No, you're not. Yes, I am.
No, you're not. Yes, I am.
No, you're NOT!. Yes, I am.
Yes, I am!
Get the picture? Oh, I'm ready to get my gun, all right, as Bob Verlaque would say.
And I'm off two days this week--follow up to my jury case (the judge recused himself), and my magical day off--RECOGNITION THANK GOD--for coming in VOLUNTARILY on a Saturday. Next week is adventures in the new car with RD. That's Friday, PB's last day. HA!
Someone send me a roll of quarters, I'll call PB when I care.
Anything you can do,
I can do better.
I can do anything
Better than you.
No, you can't.
Yes, I can. No, you can't.
Yes, I can. No, you can't.
Yes, I can,
Yes, I can!
Anything you can be
I can be greater.
Sooner or later,
I'm greater than you.
No, you're not. Yes, I am.
No, you're not. Yes, I am.
No, you're NOT!. Yes, I am.
Yes, I am!
Get the picture? Oh, I'm ready to get my gun, all right, as Bob Verlaque would say.
And I'm off two days this week--follow up to my jury case (the judge recused himself), and my magical day off--RECOGNITION THANK GOD--for coming in VOLUNTARILY on a Saturday. Next week is adventures in the new car with RD. That's Friday, PB's last day. HA!
Someone send me a roll of quarters, I'll call PB when I care.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Today is a first...
I am writing this from my desk at work. YES, ON A SATURDAY. I volunteered to do this not to kiss ass, but to NOT be interrupted every five minutes with stupidity, phone calls, gossip, hello's, crap and overall headaches. I was going to do this without telling anyone, but then I sat with one of my bosses, and decided, what the hell? Throw it in and mention I care. Why?
1) Because I do. Despite my commutes from hell, I actually enjoy my work.
2)I am tired of getting interrupted.
3)There is an urgent deadline Monday, and I understand that this is important and I'm tired of being disorganized.
Having said that, I am enjoying a Diet Coke with lime and a chive-sprinkled chicken salad sandwich on wheat. I am also blasting Rufus's Do You Love What you Feel? as I type this. If you're not familiar with this song, check out iTunes or Windows Media for a sampler. It's a jammin' doozy! Wait, it's the bridge--let me twirl in my chair.
(twirl)
Ok, that felt good. This is what work should be every day. Loud music, no interruptions, and fun. But there's this thing that keeps getting in the way: other people. Oh well. I'll just have to deal. Onto Sade now. Thank God for RealPlayer.
Well, kiddies, that's my fun for now. Thanks to RD and Mom for calling me to give me moral support. Andrew's missing in action. I wonder if he's preparing for Halloween or something. I must bother him later.
As Dexter would say, Tuna Out!
1) Because I do. Despite my commutes from hell, I actually enjoy my work.
2)I am tired of getting interrupted.
3)There is an urgent deadline Monday, and I understand that this is important and I'm tired of being disorganized.
Having said that, I am enjoying a Diet Coke with lime and a chive-sprinkled chicken salad sandwich on wheat. I am also blasting Rufus's Do You Love What you Feel? as I type this. If you're not familiar with this song, check out iTunes or Windows Media for a sampler. It's a jammin' doozy! Wait, it's the bridge--let me twirl in my chair.
(twirl)
Ok, that felt good. This is what work should be every day. Loud music, no interruptions, and fun. But there's this thing that keeps getting in the way: other people. Oh well. I'll just have to deal. Onto Sade now. Thank God for RealPlayer.
Well, kiddies, that's my fun for now. Thanks to RD and Mom for calling me to give me moral support. Andrew's missing in action. I wonder if he's preparing for Halloween or something. I must bother him later.
As Dexter would say, Tuna Out!
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Christmas Elves are killing me in my dreams…
That’s just an example of what little sleep, no play, and all work does to yours truly. Yes, that is not just an eye-grabbing headline, it’s really REAL. I dreamed a bunch of Christmas-y looking gnomes jumped off a huge tree and began to march towards me with daggers in their hand. Instead of stabbing me with daggers, they held them like shotguns and little bullets shot out directly into my chest. I awoke, startled, with Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas (the Perry Como version) fading somewhere in my mind. Have I lost it? (That’s purely rhetorical, I’ve known the answer since third grade.)
In other news, the debates are over. Retard Monkey Boy Bush and Lord of the Rings Tree Face Kerry are finished. Anti-Union politics will prevail if our presiding Chimp wins again. But don’t tell that to RD, who brazenly protested doing scab work in the casino where he’s employed. Asked to work the bar to cover striking union members, he promptly took his $20 in tip money to the picket organizer so the bunch could get donuts. The CEO and all the managers are laughing their asses off, making $$$ hand over fist, and all these people want is a decent wage. This is another example of fascism at its finest. $20 for donuts---that’s why RD’s a “mint guy”, to use Lawn Guyland vernacular. He told me he couldn’t have possibly kept any of that money in good conscience. And I agree, both my parents were union. Domino Sugar, Rheingold, and Utz have all gone the way of BetaMax.
Proof of this mentality is the fact that I will be coming in this Saturday to sit at my desk, just to catch up and get some peace. I’ve been on a deadline, trying to complete one year’s worth of work into two weeks. What I'm doing now used to be the work of a team who got fired due to their old age. Anyone past 40 is not allowed to eat, live, or have a paycheck, so I guess I'll be employed for about 7 more years. I'll enjoy it while it lasts. I'm only living to pay bills. Wish I was a princess, but oopsie, no silver spoon or rich family do I descend from. Feel free to gloat, but only if you're an asshole. If you are, I'm probably ignoring you anyway.
Last night I got home at 8:30, having worked until 7:05 p.m. Did I mention I only get paid for 8 hours worth of work? Those new overtime rules Bush passed apply to us, so I’m not eligible for overtime. How does this benefit me? It doesn’t. But the “economy” is getting stronger. My vote “counts.” I will be “prosperous” again in no time.
See what spin does? I sound like Bill O’Reilly. Oops, was that not nice? Sorry. Maybe that’s why those elves came after me…
In other news, the debates are over. Retard Monkey Boy Bush and Lord of the Rings Tree Face Kerry are finished. Anti-Union politics will prevail if our presiding Chimp wins again. But don’t tell that to RD, who brazenly protested doing scab work in the casino where he’s employed. Asked to work the bar to cover striking union members, he promptly took his $20 in tip money to the picket organizer so the bunch could get donuts. The CEO and all the managers are laughing their asses off, making $$$ hand over fist, and all these people want is a decent wage. This is another example of fascism at its finest. $20 for donuts---that’s why RD’s a “mint guy”, to use Lawn Guyland vernacular. He told me he couldn’t have possibly kept any of that money in good conscience. And I agree, both my parents were union. Domino Sugar, Rheingold, and Utz have all gone the way of BetaMax.
Proof of this mentality is the fact that I will be coming in this Saturday to sit at my desk, just to catch up and get some peace. I’ve been on a deadline, trying to complete one year’s worth of work into two weeks. What I'm doing now used to be the work of a team who got fired due to their old age. Anyone past 40 is not allowed to eat, live, or have a paycheck, so I guess I'll be employed for about 7 more years. I'll enjoy it while it lasts. I'm only living to pay bills. Wish I was a princess, but oopsie, no silver spoon or rich family do I descend from. Feel free to gloat, but only if you're an asshole. If you are, I'm probably ignoring you anyway.
Last night I got home at 8:30, having worked until 7:05 p.m. Did I mention I only get paid for 8 hours worth of work? Those new overtime rules Bush passed apply to us, so I’m not eligible for overtime. How does this benefit me? It doesn’t. But the “economy” is getting stronger. My vote “counts.” I will be “prosperous” again in no time.
See what spin does? I sound like Bill O’Reilly. Oops, was that not nice? Sorry. Maybe that’s why those elves came after me…
Monday, October 11, 2004
Tears of Sorrow, Tears of JOY
Well, my day started off in a fit of tears with the news of Christopher Reeves's death. His accident on May 28, 1995 reminded me of another accident: same day, three years later. For those of you that know, I am talking about Harryetta Peterka. She was one of the few people I admired at the former hellhole acting school. Her life was shattered on May 28, 1998, only three weeks after I had come to the school. A bicycle messenger hit her from behind and she never regained consciousness. We said goodbye to her on June 2, 1998.
What's so ironic is that Harry (as she was called) and Christopher worked together at one point during the 70's. The name of the play escapes me. Both of them are now free to discuss their work, their lives, their joys, and catch up on old times. More change, hard as it is. But another angel to watch us? Maybe. Chris, you'll always be my Superman.
My tears of joy came late in the day: Princess Brat is leaving the office. She will be out of my hair, and on another floor. The true platinum plated balls involved in all of this is an email I shouldn't have seen--she wants more money. No college degree, not even an associates! But she wants more money. And they'll probably give it to her. I've got an associates and a bachelor's in a dual major, and I guarantee they won't give me more money when the time comes. Still, the headaches, the shitpot mess, the spelling errors and mistakes will no longer be my department's problem. I couldn't possibly be happier. There's no chance for me to run into her, either. It's an entirely different floor with different work. No mixing, no mingling. THANK GOD, HEAVEN, AND ALL THE SAINTS!!! Now, I won't come in to 9:05 a.m. emails about going to lunch, who said what and why did they do this, gossip, bullshit, Gucci bags (Ghetto Cow loved those, too), and inane laugh (Fran Drescher's is more pleasant, trust me) will be a thing of the past.
Once again, I will howl with mirth and glee at some of the better spelling errors PB has given us:
Diddo (ditto)
Responces (responses)
Wernt (weren't)
Resime (resume)
Woudn't (wouldn't)
and
hey there (not as fun as Jeffrey Tambor's Hey Now!, but you get the point)
Stupidity has a new home!!!! And it doesn't even have a degree!!! How do I know this?
SHE LEFT HER RESUME ON THE PUBLIC DATABASE. I SAW IT. Can't wait to show it to the powers that be should I hear, "She was such a good worker."
HAAAA!!! Excuse me while I wipe some tears, I'm rolling on my ass HOWLING right now.
What's so ironic is that Harry (as she was called) and Christopher worked together at one point during the 70's. The name of the play escapes me. Both of them are now free to discuss their work, their lives, their joys, and catch up on old times. More change, hard as it is. But another angel to watch us? Maybe. Chris, you'll always be my Superman.
My tears of joy came late in the day: Princess Brat is leaving the office. She will be out of my hair, and on another floor. The true platinum plated balls involved in all of this is an email I shouldn't have seen--she wants more money. No college degree, not even an associates! But she wants more money. And they'll probably give it to her. I've got an associates and a bachelor's in a dual major, and I guarantee they won't give me more money when the time comes. Still, the headaches, the shitpot mess, the spelling errors and mistakes will no longer be my department's problem. I couldn't possibly be happier. There's no chance for me to run into her, either. It's an entirely different floor with different work. No mixing, no mingling. THANK GOD, HEAVEN, AND ALL THE SAINTS!!! Now, I won't come in to 9:05 a.m. emails about going to lunch, who said what and why did they do this, gossip, bullshit, Gucci bags (Ghetto Cow loved those, too), and inane laugh (Fran Drescher's is more pleasant, trust me) will be a thing of the past.
Once again, I will howl with mirth and glee at some of the better spelling errors PB has given us:
Diddo (ditto)
Responces (responses)
Wernt (weren't)
Resime (resume)
Woudn't (wouldn't)
and
hey there (not as fun as Jeffrey Tambor's Hey Now!, but you get the point)
Stupidity has a new home!!!! And it doesn't even have a degree!!! How do I know this?
SHE LEFT HER RESUME ON THE PUBLIC DATABASE. I SAW IT. Can't wait to show it to the powers that be should I hear, "She was such a good worker."
HAAAA!!! Excuse me while I wipe some tears, I'm rolling on my ass HOWLING right now.
Saturday, October 9, 2004
In the words of Sir Duke, I Love You Madly (TK 1935-2001)
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of have through haves of give
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely)stood my father's dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood;
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile
Scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
through dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth
--I say though hate were why men breathe--
because my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
e.e. cummings, 1940
A short and tender life. A laugh bursting forth. A tear, a memory, a dream. I see you now as you could not see yourself. Up into the silence the green silence with a white earth in it you will go...
through sames of have through haves of give
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely)stood my father's dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood;
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile
Scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
through dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth
--I say though hate were why men breathe--
because my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
e.e. cummings, 1940
A short and tender life. A laugh bursting forth. A tear, a memory, a dream. I see you now as you could not see yourself. Up into the silence the green silence with a white earth in it you will go...
Happy B-day, John
Yup, John Lennon would have been 64 today. Q104's doing a Beatles block later. He and Scottso are having hilarious conversations, I'm sure.
Chapman's still rotting in jail, thank God. I say put him in General Population and watch him get shanked in about a week. That would be justice. If prison is anything like Oz, that wonderfully evil show on HBO, he wouldn't live past, oh, next Thursday.
Some things are unforgiveable.
The cold is a bit better, my cough is not as painful, but the congestion is still throwing me for a loop. I will venture outside to get a paper and more teabags.
So much for an exciting Saturday. Oh, and joy! More hair will fall out due to my fever. Fuck it all, I'm shaving my head...
Chapman's still rotting in jail, thank God. I say put him in General Population and watch him get shanked in about a week. That would be justice. If prison is anything like Oz, that wonderfully evil show on HBO, he wouldn't live past, oh, next Thursday.
Some things are unforgiveable.
The cold is a bit better, my cough is not as painful, but the congestion is still throwing me for a loop. I will venture outside to get a paper and more teabags.
So much for an exciting Saturday. Oh, and joy! More hair will fall out due to my fever. Fuck it all, I'm shaving my head...
Friday, October 8, 2004
Tissues, tissues, and...tissues?
That is the only thing that defines my existence. I am really sick with a head cold. But what did I expect? The back and forth stress of trains, office, jury, jury, office is a bit much. There's also 40 zillion germs hanging around the vending machines, the backs of chairs, even the computer mouse I used in the lounge. All I have to do is touch and then touch my nose or my eye...and WHAM! I get a cold.
I anxiously await people's reactions next week when I tell them I have to go back for the actual trial. Everyone else is allowed days off except me. I get evil glares if I'm not there, as if I'm going for a Best Performance with Germs Oscar. The court officer did give me a letter stating I had to come back, so that will be my "note", not unlike the sick kid in Heaven Help Us. There's a movie you've haven't seen in a while, huh?
It's moments like this I realize there are choices: the choice to get up and go where the action is (and probably get even sicker) or to sit it out, rest, and take stock of the quiet moments with phlegm filling up my head, not to mention my thoughts. My best days are behind me, anyway. All those people are gone. Am I willing to go out and find some half-assed bunch to share old stories with? No, not at all. I'll cherish the times I have with those who still remember. It's quality, not quantity that has defined this year so far for me.
The headaches, gossip, bullshit, and games aren't going to affect me either in the office or at home. It's the times I could make an exception that are so far away. Yup, I realize I can count my friends on one hand, and it's less than five fingers. But that's ok. I drew that long line in the sand a long time ago. I know what to say, what to do, and how to fight. Having a cold is just a minor setback. It's a basic thing telling me to rest, recover, and sleep. It's not like there's anyone to take care of me. That's a choice, too. I am firmly convinced no one could possibly help me except me. Being weak and lightheaded certainly drives the point home, but like I said, it's a choice.
I'm not about to run myself ragged for anyone who's truly beneath me. I did that in that shithole school I suffered through with sneers and rumors, I even suffered through that hellish rink with Prospect Park's shitty management. I think I need to be kinder with myself. Doing marathons and saving the world is someone else's job. I quit, kiddies. And in doing so, I allow myself to get sick. To take a day off, to rest. And those who challenge that? Well, my famous temper is always at the surface.
Princesses abound, as do bullshit artists, liars, psychopaths, and other personality-disorded vermin. It's part of the world, part of life.
Like grabbing tissues as I sneeze in the dark is. My heaven is filled with bathtubs, and books, and the purr of a kitten perched on a zamboni overlooking a perfect glass-cut ice rink.
When I'm no longer here, that's what people will remember: a cat, a skate, music, a book, a ballet slipper. These are the things that come to mind inbetween cold tablets and nightsweats. At least I have perspective.
I anxiously await people's reactions next week when I tell them I have to go back for the actual trial. Everyone else is allowed days off except me. I get evil glares if I'm not there, as if I'm going for a Best Performance with Germs Oscar. The court officer did give me a letter stating I had to come back, so that will be my "note", not unlike the sick kid in Heaven Help Us. There's a movie you've haven't seen in a while, huh?
It's moments like this I realize there are choices: the choice to get up and go where the action is (and probably get even sicker) or to sit it out, rest, and take stock of the quiet moments with phlegm filling up my head, not to mention my thoughts. My best days are behind me, anyway. All those people are gone. Am I willing to go out and find some half-assed bunch to share old stories with? No, not at all. I'll cherish the times I have with those who still remember. It's quality, not quantity that has defined this year so far for me.
The headaches, gossip, bullshit, and games aren't going to affect me either in the office or at home. It's the times I could make an exception that are so far away. Yup, I realize I can count my friends on one hand, and it's less than five fingers. But that's ok. I drew that long line in the sand a long time ago. I know what to say, what to do, and how to fight. Having a cold is just a minor setback. It's a basic thing telling me to rest, recover, and sleep. It's not like there's anyone to take care of me. That's a choice, too. I am firmly convinced no one could possibly help me except me. Being weak and lightheaded certainly drives the point home, but like I said, it's a choice.
I'm not about to run myself ragged for anyone who's truly beneath me. I did that in that shithole school I suffered through with sneers and rumors, I even suffered through that hellish rink with Prospect Park's shitty management. I think I need to be kinder with myself. Doing marathons and saving the world is someone else's job. I quit, kiddies. And in doing so, I allow myself to get sick. To take a day off, to rest. And those who challenge that? Well, my famous temper is always at the surface.
Princesses abound, as do bullshit artists, liars, psychopaths, and other personality-disorded vermin. It's part of the world, part of life.
Like grabbing tissues as I sneeze in the dark is. My heaven is filled with bathtubs, and books, and the purr of a kitten perched on a zamboni overlooking a perfect glass-cut ice rink.
When I'm no longer here, that's what people will remember: a cat, a skate, music, a book, a ballet slipper. These are the things that come to mind inbetween cold tablets and nightsweats. At least I have perspective.
Thursday, October 7, 2004
Runaway Jury
I'm STILL on jury duty.
I am also sick. The back-and-forth of trains to State St. and then NYC to my job have upped my stress levels considerably. So, in typical change-of-the-season-I-can't-fight-it-anymore fashion, I started sneezing last night. I officially woke up to a cold this morning only to be told that there's no judge for the case. Apparently, the one we thought we had is "unavailable", whatever that means.
So, now it's back to work tomorrow in yet another parody of "Are We Having Fun Yet?" I'm ready to keel over. And tomorrow I probably will. Dust, itches, sneezes, and 70 degree days to 58 degree nights---these are a few of my favorite things. NOT!
And my shoulder is still killing me from my little skating mishap last week: I went one way, the blade went the other. My shoulder got stuck in the socket for about 10 seconds, and the back of my leg is bluer than an asphyxiated Smurf.
Whoop Dee Doodle Doo, kiddies.
The farmer's market near the court was nice, though--a tiny open batch of upstaters selling apple cider, pumpkins, apples and fresh veggies. I bought some tart Sparton apples, and a baby pumpkin pie. It's nearing Halloween, so pumpkins are de rigeur, I guess.
The cats are surprised to see me home so early. I'm going to list some books on Amazon, burn some cd's, and wait for my cold medicine to kick in.
What was I doing this time last year? My god, I don't remember. That means the cold medicine is working.
Zzzzzz....later.
I am also sick. The back-and-forth of trains to State St. and then NYC to my job have upped my stress levels considerably. So, in typical change-of-the-season-I-can't-fight-it-anymore fashion, I started sneezing last night. I officially woke up to a cold this morning only to be told that there's no judge for the case. Apparently, the one we thought we had is "unavailable", whatever that means.
So, now it's back to work tomorrow in yet another parody of "Are We Having Fun Yet?" I'm ready to keel over. And tomorrow I probably will. Dust, itches, sneezes, and 70 degree days to 58 degree nights---these are a few of my favorite things. NOT!
And my shoulder is still killing me from my little skating mishap last week: I went one way, the blade went the other. My shoulder got stuck in the socket for about 10 seconds, and the back of my leg is bluer than an asphyxiated Smurf.
Whoop Dee Doodle Doo, kiddies.
The farmer's market near the court was nice, though--a tiny open batch of upstaters selling apple cider, pumpkins, apples and fresh veggies. I bought some tart Sparton apples, and a baby pumpkin pie. It's nearing Halloween, so pumpkins are de rigeur, I guess.
The cats are surprised to see me home so early. I'm going to list some books on Amazon, burn some cd's, and wait for my cold medicine to kick in.
What was I doing this time last year? My god, I don't remember. That means the cold medicine is working.
Zzzzzz....later.
Tuesday, October 5, 2004
Heh Kahm Da Judge!
Yes, kiddies, I'm on jury duty. I'm back at work tomorrow, because it took forever to actually find alternates. So, I'm in then I'm out then I'm back in for the case Thursday. (????) Yeah, I feel the same. Confused. The judge took a break from taking a break to take a break, I guess.
I'm also totally bewildered at not having the right cables for my new DVD player. I bought the damn thing, while laughing at my 1989 t.v. Yup, 1989. The entire cast of Harry Potter was born that year. Christ, I just felt gray hair grow in.
And, of course, it's cold as a witch's tit in a brass bra since it feels like OCTOBER, not June like a few days ago. Let's see if my cheap new bastard landlord gives us heat this winter. Asshole runs a small office out in Lake Success, Lawn Guyland. They make Donald Trump look poor.
Dexter's happy, since it's a black cat holiday very soon. I bought him a rubber mouse the other day, and he's "killing" it as I type this. He jumps high for an 11-year-old.
So, now the big question: WHAT THE HELL DO I WEAR??? Tweeds are too heavy, wool will make me sweat like a pig, boots will knock me out like Tyson going after Mitch Green. I love/hate/love this time of year.
I should decorate my door or something. Unless there's a law against that, too. Bad enough I pay for my own window, we can't sit out on the stoop anymore, and my neighbor was ordered to take down his surveillance camera. Yup, that one. The one the cheap Lake Success bastards won't let us have in the lobby where it belongs. If I put a black cat on my door, will I come home to Dexter (a real black cat) taken hostage? I wonder. They're sneaky. We've got a total of 12 tenants gone. I think they're going to bleed us dry, fix nothing, go co-op, then evict. I watched this happen at the other shitho...apartment I lived in. I've got the San Andreas fault going on in my living room wall (a nice 5 ft. crack), my hallway's ceiling is cracking like dead skin, and paint flakes are falling like snow. If I drop dead from lead poisoning, send someone to pick my body up. The super's got a key, kiddies.
And let's see the mistakes I go back to tomorrow. I'm too tired to look. One day back is not going to help me catch up.
Do I have milk for hot chocolate? I should look.
Yup, I can pretend I'm snug and cozy under the San Andreas fault.
Ugh. I need to play some Stevie Wonder.......
I'm also totally bewildered at not having the right cables for my new DVD player. I bought the damn thing, while laughing at my 1989 t.v. Yup, 1989. The entire cast of Harry Potter was born that year. Christ, I just felt gray hair grow in.
And, of course, it's cold as a witch's tit in a brass bra since it feels like OCTOBER, not June like a few days ago. Let's see if my cheap new bastard landlord gives us heat this winter. Asshole runs a small office out in Lake Success, Lawn Guyland. They make Donald Trump look poor.
Dexter's happy, since it's a black cat holiday very soon. I bought him a rubber mouse the other day, and he's "killing" it as I type this. He jumps high for an 11-year-old.
So, now the big question: WHAT THE HELL DO I WEAR??? Tweeds are too heavy, wool will make me sweat like a pig, boots will knock me out like Tyson going after Mitch Green. I love/hate/love this time of year.
I should decorate my door or something. Unless there's a law against that, too. Bad enough I pay for my own window, we can't sit out on the stoop anymore, and my neighbor was ordered to take down his surveillance camera. Yup, that one. The one the cheap Lake Success bastards won't let us have in the lobby where it belongs. If I put a black cat on my door, will I come home to Dexter (a real black cat) taken hostage? I wonder. They're sneaky. We've got a total of 12 tenants gone. I think they're going to bleed us dry, fix nothing, go co-op, then evict. I watched this happen at the other shitho...apartment I lived in. I've got the San Andreas fault going on in my living room wall (a nice 5 ft. crack), my hallway's ceiling is cracking like dead skin, and paint flakes are falling like snow. If I drop dead from lead poisoning, send someone to pick my body up. The super's got a key, kiddies.
And let's see the mistakes I go back to tomorrow. I'm too tired to look. One day back is not going to help me catch up.
Do I have milk for hot chocolate? I should look.
Yup, I can pretend I'm snug and cozy under the San Andreas fault.
Ugh. I need to play some Stevie Wonder.......
Saturday, October 2, 2004
I Just Wanta Hang Around You...
every day and night....hang around you...
And with those words, another unlabeled cassette from 1985 comes back to life. Wish I could. The song I'm referring to is a George Benson creation from 1984's 20/20. Great album. Less jazzy, more bluesy. I'm feeling quite bluesy today.
An embarrassing incident last night made me frazzled: a giant cramp made me forget about $10 worth of Duane Reade purchases in either a Starbucks (thank god for the bathrooms) or in a Petco. I was too much in pain to realize I'd left it behind until I got home. So, now, in typical brick-to-the-forehead fashion, I'm out $10. Nice. My pockets must be filthy, because there's always something to clean them out.
Weird dream, too. I was watching a bunch of Dyker Heights-esque houses--lawns, stairs, trees. One of the trees was growing out of a tiny pool. The concrete, as I came closer, was actually earth. There were koi swimming in it. A black cat who I instinctively knew was female stepped into the water, hovered for a second, whimpered, and began to sink. I lunged forward to grab this creature and pull it close to me. I asked all those around me where I could go for help, but no one answered. I was invisible. As I ran down the block, the cat turned to stone. I dropped it and it dissolved into ash before it hit the ground. I woke up with a start.
The cat is me, no doubt. Am I turning to stone? That debate could take up an entire blog in itself.
What amazes me is that this time of year for children is always about beginnings. The school year, obviously, is a fresh start for many kids. For adults, it's different: we are thinking about the end of the year. With roughly 2 weeks vacation, the average adult in this country can only track the seasons by how many days off we are given. One day blends into the next, with very little stop inbetween. Even RD mentioned how strange this past week felt: it's a sort of slow, dark I-don't-know-what feeling. It's not a beginning as much as a beginning of the END kind of feeling. The days darker, colder, more narrow. Fighting for light, maybe? We will turn the clocks again in a few weeks.
I must already be doing that if I'm playing old cassettes from 1985.
The ice is going down in Rock Center, and I am not there. We will soon be fighting when the Hudson Hawk bites come November. That wind? I could take an umbrella to work and fly like Mary Poppins. Scary.
Tomorrow is the St. Finbar's Flea Market. Frenchy Poliseno, a long-time resident of my old neighborhood, was shot dead after being robbed right near Bay 20th this past week. The priests of St. Finbars all knew her. She dragged herself to the precinct and gave a description of the attackers (who followed her from my old block, the Daily News noted), before dying on the way to Lutheran Medical Center. I was stunned to read this yesterday afternoon. 2 blocks from a police station, and they were that brazen to take an old woman's life? Not the neighborhood I knew.
Weird, weird, and weird. I've got a bad feeling, kiddies. Pray it goes away.
And with those words, another unlabeled cassette from 1985 comes back to life. Wish I could. The song I'm referring to is a George Benson creation from 1984's 20/20. Great album. Less jazzy, more bluesy. I'm feeling quite bluesy today.
An embarrassing incident last night made me frazzled: a giant cramp made me forget about $10 worth of Duane Reade purchases in either a Starbucks (thank god for the bathrooms) or in a Petco. I was too much in pain to realize I'd left it behind until I got home. So, now, in typical brick-to-the-forehead fashion, I'm out $10. Nice. My pockets must be filthy, because there's always something to clean them out.
Weird dream, too. I was watching a bunch of Dyker Heights-esque houses--lawns, stairs, trees. One of the trees was growing out of a tiny pool. The concrete, as I came closer, was actually earth. There were koi swimming in it. A black cat who I instinctively knew was female stepped into the water, hovered for a second, whimpered, and began to sink. I lunged forward to grab this creature and pull it close to me. I asked all those around me where I could go for help, but no one answered. I was invisible. As I ran down the block, the cat turned to stone. I dropped it and it dissolved into ash before it hit the ground. I woke up with a start.
The cat is me, no doubt. Am I turning to stone? That debate could take up an entire blog in itself.
What amazes me is that this time of year for children is always about beginnings. The school year, obviously, is a fresh start for many kids. For adults, it's different: we are thinking about the end of the year. With roughly 2 weeks vacation, the average adult in this country can only track the seasons by how many days off we are given. One day blends into the next, with very little stop inbetween. Even RD mentioned how strange this past week felt: it's a sort of slow, dark I-don't-know-what feeling. It's not a beginning as much as a beginning of the END kind of feeling. The days darker, colder, more narrow. Fighting for light, maybe? We will turn the clocks again in a few weeks.
I must already be doing that if I'm playing old cassettes from 1985.
The ice is going down in Rock Center, and I am not there. We will soon be fighting when the Hudson Hawk bites come November. That wind? I could take an umbrella to work and fly like Mary Poppins. Scary.
Tomorrow is the St. Finbar's Flea Market. Frenchy Poliseno, a long-time resident of my old neighborhood, was shot dead after being robbed right near Bay 20th this past week. The priests of St. Finbars all knew her. She dragged herself to the precinct and gave a description of the attackers (who followed her from my old block, the Daily News noted), before dying on the way to Lutheran Medical Center. I was stunned to read this yesterday afternoon. 2 blocks from a police station, and they were that brazen to take an old woman's life? Not the neighborhood I knew.
Weird, weird, and weird. I've got a bad feeling, kiddies. Pray it goes away.
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