Yup--just what I thought. Another agency. Another lie. Another deer-in-the-headlights reaction to me. Still, I got some good pointers on my resume, and it took me 35 minutes to walk over from 39th and Madison to where I am on 10th.
It always happens in threes--deaths, accidents, fuck-ups, illnesses, even cats. I have three. Two just didn't seem equal. Three, in the words of De La Soul, is a Magic Number!
So, I got the business card. I told Marci (with an "i", no "e") how I constructed my resume based on my former co-worker's suggestion on putting the skills at the top. Since she went on to a $50K job back in March, I'll listen to her. Style is preferential. It IS the computer programs you know. Companies do not want to train. They want to know what you can do and how modern it is. Rachel made me laugh about this yesterday as well. She didn't know what SAP or CRM is.
"It's a vendor database system," I told her, "and not very modern at all."
"Well, I'd never have known that," was her terse reply.
Um, Rach? That's why you work at an EMPLOYMENT agency and not for a top company. Steady work don't mean it's top-of-the-line, pumpkin!
And these people are SUPPOSED TO HELP ME? Please.
I'll stick to careerbuilder, monster, nytimes.com, and contacting companies directly through the internet. Not one of my interviews came from any of these places.
Feh.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Mermaids and Hot Dogs
Wow. Great Saturday. Great sunburn, too.
Of course, I went to the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island and ran into...people from Queens and Manhattan(?). Every year it's the same, but not quite--this year, I saw the Seaweed Twins and Blowfish Boy! God, I love these costumes. I couldn't even get near the hot dogs, although you could smell 'em from a mile away. I decided on Totonno's pizza, but I couldn't get in the door! So, I hightailed it to Manhattan and decided to people-watch, but the heat was too much. So, I bought a ticket for myself and decided to see this Brad/Angelina flick.
Pretty good. Jenny Aniston NEVER had a chance. Brad's pecs and Angie's lips sell this film, no question.
It's basically a 'commando' version of that Jack/Angelica classic Prizzi's Honor. Hilarious!
And now, I'm off to meet my queens for Pride Day. I can taste the cosmo from here!
Of course, I went to the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island and ran into...people from Queens and Manhattan(?). Every year it's the same, but not quite--this year, I saw the Seaweed Twins and Blowfish Boy! God, I love these costumes. I couldn't even get near the hot dogs, although you could smell 'em from a mile away. I decided on Totonno's pizza, but I couldn't get in the door! So, I hightailed it to Manhattan and decided to people-watch, but the heat was too much. So, I bought a ticket for myself and decided to see this Brad/Angelina flick.
Pretty good. Jenny Aniston NEVER had a chance. Brad's pecs and Angie's lips sell this film, no question.
It's basically a 'commando' version of that Jack/Angelica classic Prizzi's Honor. Hilarious!
And now, I'm off to meet my queens for Pride Day. I can taste the cosmo from here!
Friday, June 24, 2005
0 for 2
Don't tell me lightning strikes twice, kiddies, because it zapped my ass again last night.
I get to Prime Staffing in Queens, was told 4 hours prior that they'd wait for me at 7, and GUESS WHAT? No one was there. I stared into the glass door of a darkened office and called the answering machine. I waited five minutes, and called again. I thought to myself, "Should I be nice? Or should I be ME?"
I was ME. The screaming, vicious, impatient bitch who's been screwed not once, but twice--two days in a row.
Not only did I tell this place what kind of people I thought they were, I pointed out in a very business-like fashion that the person who dropped the ball took money out of this place's pocket by fucking over a potential client. And if they think I'm going to trek my ass out on the goddamn R train for 1 hour and 45 minutes again, they can kiss my Irish ASS. I also told them to take my resume OUT of their computers, because I don't want my information padding their database. I have no intention of going back there. They've already shown me what kind of business they run. Considering the dilapidated spectacle they're housed in? I'm surprised I didn't get Legionnaire's disease by breathing in what they considered air conditioning while I waited in the hall.
Once again, I ask, WHAT THE FUCK DO I LOOK LIKE? An asshole? Apparently, because all of these places keep treating me like one.
So, to hell with this 'courteous-be-nice-don't-step-on-any-toes' bullshit. These people make their own rules? FINE.
Now it's my turn.
[And special thanks, once again, to RD for listening to me rant and spew when I came home. I owe him two steak dinners, a silk suit, and a diamond pinky ring (he IS Italian, kiddies.)]
I get to Prime Staffing in Queens, was told 4 hours prior that they'd wait for me at 7, and GUESS WHAT? No one was there. I stared into the glass door of a darkened office and called the answering machine. I waited five minutes, and called again. I thought to myself, "Should I be nice? Or should I be ME?"
I was ME. The screaming, vicious, impatient bitch who's been screwed not once, but twice--two days in a row.
Not only did I tell this place what kind of people I thought they were, I pointed out in a very business-like fashion that the person who dropped the ball took money out of this place's pocket by fucking over a potential client. And if they think I'm going to trek my ass out on the goddamn R train for 1 hour and 45 minutes again, they can kiss my Irish ASS. I also told them to take my resume OUT of their computers, because I don't want my information padding their database. I have no intention of going back there. They've already shown me what kind of business they run. Considering the dilapidated spectacle they're housed in? I'm surprised I didn't get Legionnaire's disease by breathing in what they considered air conditioning while I waited in the hall.
Once again, I ask, WHAT THE FUCK DO I LOOK LIKE? An asshole? Apparently, because all of these places keep treating me like one.
So, to hell with this 'courteous-be-nice-don't-step-on-any-toes' bullshit. These people make their own rules? FINE.
Now it's my turn.
[And special thanks, once again, to RD for listening to me rant and spew when I came home. I owe him two steak dinners, a silk suit, and a diamond pinky ring (he IS Italian, kiddies.)]
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Thanks for calling, I'm asleep
And yet another wonderful employment fuck-up. After a Herculean effort to wrest myself from the X27 snag that IS the Gowanus Expressway, I hop onto the 4 train to try to get to Strategic Workforce, another shit agency located at 110 E. 42nd St. (I work on the extreme West Side, this is akin to traveling to the North Pole and then hopping down to Louisiana afterwards for some gumbo.)
I get there, proceed to fill out my forms, and whaddya know? Miss Voicemail who confirmed and swore to God (well, her god anyway--the one wrapped in silk nail tips and Hermes bags)that she'd be there to greet me. The feckless receptionist buzzes her office not once, but twice. And guess what...she's not even there. She overslept. That Birkin must have been too heavy to lift. And now it's 2:14 pm, and I STILL haven't received a phone call, an email or a fax stating, "Gee, I screwed up even though you made the effort."
Of course, I'll probably get blamed. How do these assmonkeys keep their jobs? If I did that, someone would dig Johnnie Cochran up from the dead, re-animate him, and I'd be sued by zombie ass! Oh, wait a minute. I forgot. This is ME we're talking about. I'm short. Fat. Direct. Honest. I play by the rules. Of course, this and 50 cents won't get me a goddamn latte or even a smile from one of these fuckwits.
Let's just say I'm totally pissed about my so-called job hunt. These agencies aren't doing shit except wasting my time, and now it's summer, which means I'm stuck here until all the companies give a rat's ass about cutting me a pittance while they golf, fake bake, and "summer." Ever notice people and corporations with money refer to 'summer' as a verb? It's a fucking season I hate.
I must have been a rapist-Rasputin-Jesus-juice-swilling child molester because I can't catch a break if all my bones were broken.
And Conchita Maria de Goddess Punanney MUST have next Friday off.
Excuse me while I go eat some broken lightbulbs. I'll be here bleeding internally if any of you care...
I get there, proceed to fill out my forms, and whaddya know? Miss Voicemail who confirmed and swore to God (well, her god anyway--the one wrapped in silk nail tips and Hermes bags)that she'd be there to greet me. The feckless receptionist buzzes her office not once, but twice. And guess what...she's not even there. She overslept. That Birkin must have been too heavy to lift. And now it's 2:14 pm, and I STILL haven't received a phone call, an email or a fax stating, "Gee, I screwed up even though you made the effort."
Of course, I'll probably get blamed. How do these assmonkeys keep their jobs? If I did that, someone would dig Johnnie Cochran up from the dead, re-animate him, and I'd be sued by zombie ass! Oh, wait a minute. I forgot. This is ME we're talking about. I'm short. Fat. Direct. Honest. I play by the rules. Of course, this and 50 cents won't get me a goddamn latte or even a smile from one of these fuckwits.
Let's just say I'm totally pissed about my so-called job hunt. These agencies aren't doing shit except wasting my time, and now it's summer, which means I'm stuck here until all the companies give a rat's ass about cutting me a pittance while they golf, fake bake, and "summer." Ever notice people and corporations with money refer to 'summer' as a verb? It's a fucking season I hate.
I must have been a rapist-Rasputin-Jesus-juice-swilling child molester because I can't catch a break if all my bones were broken.
And Conchita Maria de Goddess Punanney MUST have next Friday off.
Excuse me while I go eat some broken lightbulbs. I'll be here bleeding internally if any of you care...
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Long Week
With a nice break. RD and I saw Rickie Lee Jones in the Prospect Park bandshell Wednesday night for $3. A simple donation and the inimitable sound of that woman's voice through the night. Almost 2 perfect hours.
And now, I'm off to do laundry.
There's nothing to write about other than how beautiful Stewart's Coat sounded live.
sigh....
And now, I'm off to do laundry.
There's nothing to write about other than how beautiful Stewart's Coat sounded live.
sigh....
Monday, June 13, 2005
15 hours of sleep
That's what I got from the end of Saturday night to yesterday evening. I woke up at 6 pm. These allergy pills knock me out. So did my dream.
I was handed an award from some animal activist group (similar to PETA, but not that name) for saving a greyhound dog off a highway. What the hell I, the catwoman, was doing dreaming of saving a dog is beyond me. I got choked up onstage from looking at the little pup, and woke up in tears. Not that I wouldn't save a dog, but why was I crying at a podium? This weather must be making me more miserable than I can handle since my emotions have been very close to the surface lately.
In continuation of my dream, yesterday was Doggie Sunday. Everyone was out with pugs, daschunds, dalmations, shepherds, terriers, westies, and retrievers. The last time I saw this many pooches in one place was the Westminster dog show on TV! Of course, I stopped to pet all of them.
One particular dog, who is walked by a neighbor from 2 blocks away, is a samoyed and shepherd mix--all white, fluffy and gorgeous. Like a giant snowball with brown eyes and feet. The man is Muslim, and the dog answers to Arabic commands! Gotta love it. This guy should be a cat person, too, since most of the Egyptian store owners have cats, but he's a dog lover. He can't bring the dog into their stores for obvious reasons, so the other men and women go outside to talk to him. I was sure Mr. Doggie would bark and growl given the heat yesterday, but he was nice to all the children and nuzzled them with his wet nose.
I have to honestly say I love my neighborhood much better than my previous residence. All the food is fresh, the pastry and nut imports are all new (Halal law), they have cats, and the women are eager to practice their English with me, which reminds me of all the Russians I taught ten years ago. Inna and Roman are now 17. They were the first children I babysat from Moscow. They had never seen Sesame Street or Bugs Bunny. They also told their parents and friends about Wheel of Fortune after finding the english letters I taught them. In about one month's time, every Russian on my floor was watching it!
"Go to Annye [that's how they spelled my name], she will teach you words," they said.
My pockets were soon stuffed with dollar bills and my fridge was packed with fresh Russian meats and food. If they couldn't pay me in cash, I got a cream-filled spice cake or a bottle of cherry wine. Not a bad exchange! They bode their time until space in Sheepshead Bay or Coney Island opened up to join their relatives. Inna is now near Knapp Street, and Roman is on the cusp of Gravesend, near Ocean Parkway. He is quite a hockey player, I hear. I have very few memories like these, however, from that place.
Interestingly, many of my neighbors resented the Russians for their lack of warmth and their fur coats. Um, allow me to teach you some culture: Russians are not known for their warmth for two reasons--1)their language lacks articles, which makes it sound brunt and staccato; and 2) If you had lived through Stalin, Gorbachev, the KGB, and the evil politics of public housing during Communism you'd be neither very nice nor very trusting. As for their fur coats, many of my friends came from the outer regions which are an expanse of ice and snow from the end of October straight through mid-April, sometimes May. These coats are usually passed from one generation to another. Wool is actually harder to find than mink, muskrat or beaver since sheep aren't exactly hearty animals in -22 Farenheit degree weather. Mink is not a luxury, but a necessity to ward off the cold. That explains the clash between American "spoiled" thinking and the actuality of a harsh land, weatherwise and politically. Since I actually took geography in grammar school, they were very impressed that I could point out their homes on a world map. I also remember them laughing at me in January as I shivered in my synthetic wool while they had floor-length furs and t-shirts on underneath. "Americans don't have everything, you know," they'd say. I'd roll my eyes and agree. I miss them and their cream cakes, really.
And now I live in a sea of jahibs, the head scarves and robes covering the women. One, in my favorite 99 cent store, confessed a love for the 'small, white animals with the ears'.
"Rabbits?" I asked.
"Yes! That is the word. With the eggs, too [meaning chocolate, I imagine]," she said, smiling. I wonder if there is an Easter bunny for Islam? Maybe.
The immigrant culture continues in New York City.
(and I am still teaching words.)
I was handed an award from some animal activist group (similar to PETA, but not that name) for saving a greyhound dog off a highway. What the hell I, the catwoman, was doing dreaming of saving a dog is beyond me. I got choked up onstage from looking at the little pup, and woke up in tears. Not that I wouldn't save a dog, but why was I crying at a podium? This weather must be making me more miserable than I can handle since my emotions have been very close to the surface lately.
In continuation of my dream, yesterday was Doggie Sunday. Everyone was out with pugs, daschunds, dalmations, shepherds, terriers, westies, and retrievers. The last time I saw this many pooches in one place was the Westminster dog show on TV! Of course, I stopped to pet all of them.
One particular dog, who is walked by a neighbor from 2 blocks away, is a samoyed and shepherd mix--all white, fluffy and gorgeous. Like a giant snowball with brown eyes and feet. The man is Muslim, and the dog answers to Arabic commands! Gotta love it. This guy should be a cat person, too, since most of the Egyptian store owners have cats, but he's a dog lover. He can't bring the dog into their stores for obvious reasons, so the other men and women go outside to talk to him. I was sure Mr. Doggie would bark and growl given the heat yesterday, but he was nice to all the children and nuzzled them with his wet nose.
I have to honestly say I love my neighborhood much better than my previous residence. All the food is fresh, the pastry and nut imports are all new (Halal law), they have cats, and the women are eager to practice their English with me, which reminds me of all the Russians I taught ten years ago. Inna and Roman are now 17. They were the first children I babysat from Moscow. They had never seen Sesame Street or Bugs Bunny. They also told their parents and friends about Wheel of Fortune after finding the english letters I taught them. In about one month's time, every Russian on my floor was watching it!
"Go to Annye [that's how they spelled my name], she will teach you words," they said.
My pockets were soon stuffed with dollar bills and my fridge was packed with fresh Russian meats and food. If they couldn't pay me in cash, I got a cream-filled spice cake or a bottle of cherry wine. Not a bad exchange! They bode their time until space in Sheepshead Bay or Coney Island opened up to join their relatives. Inna is now near Knapp Street, and Roman is on the cusp of Gravesend, near Ocean Parkway. He is quite a hockey player, I hear. I have very few memories like these, however, from that place.
Interestingly, many of my neighbors resented the Russians for their lack of warmth and their fur coats. Um, allow me to teach you some culture: Russians are not known for their warmth for two reasons--1)their language lacks articles, which makes it sound brunt and staccato; and 2) If you had lived through Stalin, Gorbachev, the KGB, and the evil politics of public housing during Communism you'd be neither very nice nor very trusting. As for their fur coats, many of my friends came from the outer regions which are an expanse of ice and snow from the end of October straight through mid-April, sometimes May. These coats are usually passed from one generation to another. Wool is actually harder to find than mink, muskrat or beaver since sheep aren't exactly hearty animals in -22 Farenheit degree weather. Mink is not a luxury, but a necessity to ward off the cold. That explains the clash between American "spoiled" thinking and the actuality of a harsh land, weatherwise and politically. Since I actually took geography in grammar school, they were very impressed that I could point out their homes on a world map. I also remember them laughing at me in January as I shivered in my synthetic wool while they had floor-length furs and t-shirts on underneath. "Americans don't have everything, you know," they'd say. I'd roll my eyes and agree. I miss them and their cream cakes, really.
And now I live in a sea of jahibs, the head scarves and robes covering the women. One, in my favorite 99 cent store, confessed a love for the 'small, white animals with the ears'.
"Rabbits?" I asked.
"Yes! That is the word. With the eggs, too [meaning chocolate, I imagine]," she said, smiling. I wonder if there is an Easter bunny for Islam? Maybe.
The immigrant culture continues in New York City.
(and I am still teaching words.)
Thursday, June 9, 2005
Let's Get Fizzical
Wooohaaaahhhh...
that was some bath I took last night, kiddies.
One Dreamtime balt melt bar and a Butterball ballistic bomb in my tub and ZAP BANG I was relaxed, drifting, and floaty in a sea of cocoa butter, jasmine, ylang ylang, and essential oils. I haven't slept that well since....???? Can't even recall.
Lush has got my loyalty. My avon bubbles can take a break.
And in other news, McGraw-Hill called for the Executive Assistant position. Minimum salary starts at about $48K. Oh, yippee skipperoodles if they take me! Plus it's at 2 Penn Plaza. That means I can just walk down the block come Tuesday. After that, it's off to Pratt to interview for the Exec Assist for their Development team.
Things are looking up.
that was some bath I took last night, kiddies.
One Dreamtime balt melt bar and a Butterball ballistic bomb in my tub and ZAP BANG I was relaxed, drifting, and floaty in a sea of cocoa butter, jasmine, ylang ylang, and essential oils. I haven't slept that well since....???? Can't even recall.
Lush has got my loyalty. My avon bubbles can take a break.
And in other news, McGraw-Hill called for the Executive Assistant position. Minimum salary starts at about $48K. Oh, yippee skipperoodles if they take me! Plus it's at 2 Penn Plaza. That means I can just walk down the block come Tuesday. After that, it's off to Pratt to interview for the Exec Assist for their Development team.
Things are looking up.
Wednesday, June 8, 2005
Lush
That's the name of the new shop I've found. All hand-made bath products, ready to melt and dissolve in this weather since most are unpackaged. I'm particularly fond of a gift set called "Cheeky Monkey", which has banana-scented EVERYTHING in it. They even have a similar simian-named bath gel called "Sonic Death Monkey" for those of you who loved Jack Black in "High Fidelity."
This place might actually cure me of having to trot my Avon empties to recycling. Believe me, kiddies, I'm getting pretty sick of all that plastic in my bathroom.
My second spackle package arrived in the mail courtesy of Jennifer Flavin, Sly Stallone's wife. Yes, her modeling career is over, but her beauty products are flying off HSN's channel faster than you can scream ADRIAN at the top of your lungs. Glycolic acid formulations ain't cheap, but when I flipped the channel and saw what 8 bottles of this stuff was priced? Oh, I GRABBED my credit card and called in. I couldn't possibly see a price this low if I put a gun to a salesgirl's head in Lord & Taylor!
So that's my vanity fix this week. I figure I won't have to do any real Duane Reade $5.99 idiot shampoo-and-facial-wash shopping. Between my eBay stock (about 2 months worth) and now my spackle? I'll be good through at least August. All of this stuff is mega-sized economy, so I can start attacking that dreaded VISA bill.
Suze Orman would be so proud of me. And than when someone finally hires me? I can buy new suits instead of new spackle!
One week until Rickie Lee Jones....
This place might actually cure me of having to trot my Avon empties to recycling. Believe me, kiddies, I'm getting pretty sick of all that plastic in my bathroom.
My second spackle package arrived in the mail courtesy of Jennifer Flavin, Sly Stallone's wife. Yes, her modeling career is over, but her beauty products are flying off HSN's channel faster than you can scream ADRIAN at the top of your lungs. Glycolic acid formulations ain't cheap, but when I flipped the channel and saw what 8 bottles of this stuff was priced? Oh, I GRABBED my credit card and called in. I couldn't possibly see a price this low if I put a gun to a salesgirl's head in Lord & Taylor!
So that's my vanity fix this week. I figure I won't have to do any real Duane Reade $5.99 idiot shampoo-and-facial-wash shopping. Between my eBay stock (about 2 months worth) and now my spackle? I'll be good through at least August. All of this stuff is mega-sized economy, so I can start attacking that dreaded VISA bill.
Suze Orman would be so proud of me. And than when someone finally hires me? I can buy new suits instead of new spackle!
One week until Rickie Lee Jones....
Monday, June 6, 2005
Goodbye, Peggy
Solid and empty at the same time. But one song remains...
After all the jacks are in their boxes
and the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on downstreet
footprints dressed in red
and the wind whispers MARY
A broom is drearily sweeping
up the broken pieces of yesterdays life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind, it cries MARY
The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow
and shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags downstream
'cause the life that they lived is, is dead
And the wind screams MARY
Will the wind ever remember
the names it has blown in the past
and with its crutch, its old age, and its wisdom
it whispers "no, this won't be the last"
And the wind, it cries MARY
--Jimi Hendrix, Are You Experienced?
I hate the month of June. Always did, always will.
After all the jacks are in their boxes
and the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on downstreet
footprints dressed in red
and the wind whispers MARY
A broom is drearily sweeping
up the broken pieces of yesterdays life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind, it cries MARY
The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow
and shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags downstream
'cause the life that they lived is, is dead
And the wind screams MARY
Will the wind ever remember
the names it has blown in the past
and with its crutch, its old age, and its wisdom
it whispers "no, this won't be the last"
And the wind, it cries MARY
--Jimi Hendrix, Are You Experienced?
I hate the month of June. Always did, always will.
Bunny Ears No More
Well, kiddies, it's a sad day. I have just found out that after 62 years, the Ritz Thrift Shop will close its doors. Apparently, a huge real estate developer has offered the family something in the range of $25 million to buy the entire building. The family's getting a chunk of this, too. Since the building isn't landmarked, there's no point in staying. So much for my mink.
The bunny ears reference goes back to April 2004 when I walked in there right before Easter Weekend. I'm sure they'd remember me.
As for my weekend, the ISI competition at SkyRink was an astounding success. I did music registration all afternoon. It was definitely worth it. Drinks afterward was a good thing, too.
I'm happy to announce I've conquered my iTunes and got my purchased songs back. It only took a few hours, and my account was back in good standing. RD is getting his tunes, and we're planning on Rickie Lee next week. Hope it doesn't rain.
And I hope McGraw Hill calls. I need to get out of here so badly, it's not even mildly amusing.
The bunny ears reference goes back to April 2004 when I walked in there right before Easter Weekend. I'm sure they'd remember me.
As for my weekend, the ISI competition at SkyRink was an astounding success. I did music registration all afternoon. It was definitely worth it. Drinks afterward was a good thing, too.
I'm happy to announce I've conquered my iTunes and got my purchased songs back. It only took a few hours, and my account was back in good standing. RD is getting his tunes, and we're planning on Rickie Lee next week. Hope it doesn't rain.
And I hope McGraw Hill calls. I need to get out of here so badly, it's not even mildly amusing.
Friday, June 3, 2005
Politics, Sarcasm, Defiance
Three things the Irish perfected. And since I am a hellish little shamrock, what a week it's been for all these things........
I left early Wednesday upon recognizing that drippy scratch known as allergies from all the lovely pollen. Yesterday was spent in bed sneezing, coughing, and basically feeling miserable. Bag O'Rocks is out the door as of today, and that makes me mighty happy. One Gemini down. The other is on vacation.
Weird dreams plague me: Chris Ferrand, my football player, made a lovely foray with me, hand-in-hand, into old Bensonhurst. We walked in the snow and looked at Tolin's Christmas lights, as we loved to do once upon a time. It seems finding my former turd has brought back the people I should have loved from the depths of my subconscious. And guess what? The 5th Avenue festival is this Sunday. Since I know Turd was there last year, perhaps he'll be making an appearance? I'll bet any amount of money it's at one of three places: Bullshots, Wicked Monk, or Peggy O'Neill's. RD, would you like to check that site and get back to me? You know my fishy witchiness is always spot-on, so email or call to tell me how right I am.
It's been 15 years since I've seen the Turd. I believe it was November 1990. My hair was red back then, and I was waaay thinner than I am now. I remember thinking to myself, "He said hello to me. Wow. I feel like ten bucks." (as opposed to a million.)
That law of diminishing returns kicked in and I began to laugh at it all. I can never thank Artie, Barbara, Mary, Michelle, Theresa, Rob, and Nick enough for telling me how the Turd actually ran his personal and band-related business. He also specialized in girlfriend removal for a while. You're his friend? You go away on vacation? Girlfriend gets left behind? Well, the Turd moves in and screws her. Nice guy, huh? I'd love to know if he can still wield that beautiful face of his like a deadly sword. Honestly, I should buy some water balloons. I'll chuck them right at the speakers and electrocute this bastard. What the fucking fuck was I thinking? Ah, young love. Young and Dumb. Those two words almost rhyme.
Chris, may you forgive me. And RD, I'll give you details. I've got such a feeling on this. Please check, because I know I'm right!
I left early Wednesday upon recognizing that drippy scratch known as allergies from all the lovely pollen. Yesterday was spent in bed sneezing, coughing, and basically feeling miserable. Bag O'Rocks is out the door as of today, and that makes me mighty happy. One Gemini down. The other is on vacation.
Weird dreams plague me: Chris Ferrand, my football player, made a lovely foray with me, hand-in-hand, into old Bensonhurst. We walked in the snow and looked at Tolin's Christmas lights, as we loved to do once upon a time. It seems finding my former turd has brought back the people I should have loved from the depths of my subconscious. And guess what? The 5th Avenue festival is this Sunday. Since I know Turd was there last year, perhaps he'll be making an appearance? I'll bet any amount of money it's at one of three places: Bullshots, Wicked Monk, or Peggy O'Neill's. RD, would you like to check that site and get back to me? You know my fishy witchiness is always spot-on, so email or call to tell me how right I am.
It's been 15 years since I've seen the Turd. I believe it was November 1990. My hair was red back then, and I was waaay thinner than I am now. I remember thinking to myself, "He said hello to me. Wow. I feel like ten bucks." (as opposed to a million.)
That law of diminishing returns kicked in and I began to laugh at it all. I can never thank Artie, Barbara, Mary, Michelle, Theresa, Rob, and Nick enough for telling me how the Turd actually ran his personal and band-related business. He also specialized in girlfriend removal for a while. You're his friend? You go away on vacation? Girlfriend gets left behind? Well, the Turd moves in and screws her. Nice guy, huh? I'd love to know if he can still wield that beautiful face of his like a deadly sword. Honestly, I should buy some water balloons. I'll chuck them right at the speakers and electrocute this bastard. What the fucking fuck was I thinking? Ah, young love. Young and Dumb. Those two words almost rhyme.
Chris, may you forgive me. And RD, I'll give you details. I've got such a feeling on this. Please check, because I know I'm right!
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