A Few More Hours to FREEDOM

FREEDOM from 2007, that is. My, what a strange rabbit hole it's been. Falling and falling and...

????

Well, I can't seem to find the right words, so I'll borrow my dear friend Don's. He's a cat breeder, former dancer, and one-time photographer of all the ballet greats. I purchased a picture of my beloved Gelsey from him, but really? We bonded over cats. He's now an ambassador to Cat Fancy Magazine since he shows 2 of his little fuzzers and they've won some ribbons!

Here's his words of wisdom.

New Year’s Greeting To all of you:
I hope each of you had a grand holiday season in 2007. And I sincerely hope that the past year was filled with some joy, some laughter, and some memorable milestones in your lives. But how about this New Year, 2008? I don't intend to make any real resolutions.
What I do intend to do is try to keep a positive attitude and take the good and the bad as it comes, making the best of it if it is bad and giving thanks for it if it is good. One of the things I am thankful for is good friends, people like you, who have enriched my life by just being who you are.

My take on the new year is: Happiness is too many things these days for anyone to wish it on anyone else lightly; and therefore I cautiously bid you to pursue it. What I wish for you is fulfillment, contentment, satisfaction with yourself, and respect for yourself and others. I wish for you health in so far as it is possible forany of us at this point in our lives. And I wish that we can all get together sometime during 2008 if just to say hello to each other one more time.

Here are some quotes, cynical and sometimes funny:

Anonymous --- Many people look forward to the New Year for a new start on
old habits.

Mark Twain --- New Year’s is a harmless annual institution, of no particular
use to anybody save as a scapegoat for promiscuous drunks, friendly calls,
and humbug resolutions. Twain also said --- New Year’s Day now is the accepted time to make your
regular annual resolutions. Next week you can begin paving the road to hell
with them as usual.

Bill Vaughan --- Youth is when you're allowed to stay up late on New Year’s
Eve. Middle age is when you're forced to. Old age is when you don't even
bother to.

Eric Zorn --- Making resolutions is a cleansing ritual of self assessment
and repentance that demands personal honesty and, ultimately, reinforces
humility. Breaking them is part of the cycle.

Oprah Winfrey --- Cheers to a New Year and another chance for us to get it
right.

Better words have never been spoken. Thanks Don! And to the 15 or so readers of this very silly blog. The calendars have already been changed. Woo hoo!!!

See ya tomor....see ya in '08!

Perseverance

Hope Never Disappears

Yes, it's by an AP writer. But too good not to mention.

You can't kill hope. Even if it's three feet tall sitting in the back of a room.

???

Well, 20 years ago today, I saw Anthrax in concert. Don't ask me why I remember this. 10 years ago today, I was working two jobs and trying to hold up a very strange relationship. This year? I'm sitting here wondering about The Point of It All.

Watching "Sicko" yesterday made me wonder just how bad things are going to get for me. I am in the Insomniac Circle again, anxiety bolting me out of bed to walk around my apartment, heart racing. Or, I get up like I did eight hours ago to do the dishes. I am beginning to associate the hours of 3 and 4 am with two things: sorting recycling or doing dishes. It's either dust on my hands or the scent of Palmolive suds. I am now covered by Medicaid, which is truly the ninth circle of hell. Managed care will be the death of this country and everyone in it. I know now that I am a problem to be cast aside just as much as the people in this very disturbing documentary. The rich can be healthy. The rest of us? Offal, garbage, useless sheep sent off to slaughter.

I am temporarily giving up endless hours on Monster and careerbuilder because 1) no one's scheduling interviews --believe me, I've asked; and 2) it's Christmas. I shouldn't have to be terrified and disgusted every minute of every day during a happy holiday season.

Also, I am taking a break from seeing Mother this year. She won't be coming up and I won't be flying down. It's too expensive, and the cost of oil drove up airplane fares this year. It's a luxury and a non-reality. Plus, another year of her re-arranging my apartment behind my back and I truly will have a psychotic break. (I'm about a month away from that now.)

In deference to my allergies and my ever-aching back, I am having no tree this year. I had no tree in 1999 and 2000 due to 2E, the smallest dump I ever lived in, and I'm taking a time-out-tree-break this year as well. I will decorate my windows and door. That's always been fun. I'm not sure about sending out cards since I didn't find any I liked. I even searched the 99 cent stores and saw nothing. Feh.

If 2007 is any indication of how the universe works, then what comes down must go back up. I've watched massive freak-outs from celebrities: deaths, drug overdoses, crashed SUVs, jail time, break-ups, separations, ignored newborns, gossip, crap, and reputations on the line. It's a fine time for exile if ever I saw it.

There is also the realization that I probably won't see the salary I deserve. I am one of millions. Corporate America is on its way to becoming the biggest Fascist Front since Mussolini and Hitler positioned themselves as evil threats. I am letting go of the fantasy that I will ever become a homeowner or have anything worthy to my name. My family did not come from wealth and I won't inherit anything. I have my own debt to care of, which will most likely climb exponentially when the new credit rates go into effect next month. When the economy crashes, Hillary or Obama will have to take care of it. Communist China, whose Olympics I will be boycotting, will soon own us. I see No Exit in front of me. I have resigned myself to just this: LOSS.

My fight is dying. I am tired of carrying around disappointment, anger, and bewilderment. I'm going to put on my headphones and play Christmas carols while walking through my neighborhood, looking at decorated houses. Perhaps Frosty and Rudolph can cheer me up.

I don't know what else will.

An Alternative to His Name We Abuse

Meg, Kjou, Sheryl....same mission, nothing to do with THAT place. Thanks, Kathy Griffin, for supporting this on your site!

www.angelfood.org

Feed Those In Need!

Project Angel Food--sorry for iffy link, my blog keeps "eating" it.

Looks like their financials are a bit better, too. Good to know!

A Turn of Heart

Well, I'm still unemployed and probably will remain that way until 2008, but I'm not afraid. I realize that maybe I needed this time off to rest, relax and deal with my physical and mental pain. My fibromyalgia has improved, and something strange has started to happen: tears have come back into my life. With so much numbness and anger, I couldn't get past the one thing I didn't feel, which was the sensitivity that marked my childhood and adolescent years.

People have noticed something lately in my face, my walk. I'm not so vain to call it a glow, but I am no longer raging and throwing things. The tension and scowl is gone. Perhaps this was a symptom of my depression. I've learned it is not always glum and lazy, it can be frenetic thoughts, panic attacks, screaming matches over nothing and lashing out. Underneath all the storms since 2003, I see now how I did not recognize the sadness that overtook me. It's coming out. I am closer to being a human being more than I've ever known. What a perfect time for this to materialize: the holidays, which I love. I have achieved grace and humility by realizing that I did not fall into schemes and the manipulations of others, it was this very thing I fought against violently, hence the anger.

I recently watched "V for Vendetta" again and began to wail when Evie was taken from the torture room by V. She said she'd rather die behind the chemical sheds by firing squad than give up a vein of truth that could kill someone else. (A girl after my own heart indeed.)

The cloaked man replied, "Then you have no fear. You are completely free."

Evie makes her way into the hall and realizes it was an illusion to unlock her deepest emotions to face the loss of her parents, the fear and disgust she'd lived with her entire life in a society designed on mind control, fear, the haves and the have-nots. She attacks V and accuses him of vile deeds, but V explains that he, too, had to make this difficult trip in order to break through.

As she collapses in a fit of tears, V tells her that hate was the thing he lived, breathed and what consumed him. "I thought I would die with all that hate in my veins." Well, V? I came damn close. And it nearly killed me. From the stupidity of others.

I bought into their schemes, their lies. At my own expense. I wanted a better salary when really, I should have been looking towards trying to become a better person. No one is making any money in this economy. What the fuck makes me so special? It's hard for me to admit that my spiritual approach to life was almost canceled out by my obsessive quest for the almighty paycheck. My god, I almost became like them.

A three hour convo with KJou this past weekend netted me some more info on Associated Mess's latest quittings. I was particularly tickled to learn that Pinochet was, and is, a COMPLETE liar. When I interviewed her in 2005, she told me she worked in an office. Turns out she managed a restaurant. A total lie (not to mention her HB-1 visa) netted her the job that Bag O'Rocks gave her. I knew she was a phony bitch, now I have proof. And no wonder she liked to boss us all around! She did that every day with her staff in a Mexican restaurant on the upper East Side. KJou also told me a certain housewife I no longer talk to is still shaken by a letter I'd written. In the guise of "friendship"--a title by attrition--I was used. I put up her Christmas tree, was put on "lawyer paper" duty, sold her piddlings for pennies on eBay (of which I did all the work and she got the money-DUMB DUMB on my part), and basically was her therapist. Unpaid, of course. KJou said, "Maybe she values the friendship." Sure. Like a cripple values his crutch?

I'm done with this person.

My talents will be utilized, not used. My intelligence will be valued, not thrown around like a ragdoll for those who neither read, vote, or care. And I will continue to look for the same in an employer. This time with values, not the lure of money. To think I almost became a whore. My god, the shame is almost unbearable.

2008 will be my year.

But for now, I will enjoy the stores, the songs, the joy of giving to those that need it and the possibility of snow.

And I'm taking Kjou to Nutcracker this weekend! A perfect pastel dream he needs since he's still for working for The Mess, as I now call it.

Ballet, skating, cats, food, music, books, candles, winter and my unadulterated Irish passion. Let this be how I am remembered. Maybe that will be my legacy--I don't give gifts, I give memories.

Back To My Roots

where my love can be found/and my heart rings true

Special thanks to RuPaul for writing that because the message actually got me back on the ice today. Yes, my feet hurt like hell and I wobbled like an overgrown potato given my lack of abs and weight gain, but I did it. 40 minutes. Baby steps...or should I say glides?

I am thrilled to say that Bryant Park has completely eclipsed Rockefeller Center--run by Restaurant Associates--as the place to be. All the shows, the stars, and the up-and-comers are all being financed by CitiGroup's gorgeous little rink. AND IT'S FREE. YOU DON'T HAVE TO PAY A DIME IF YOU HAVE A LOCK AND YOUR OWN SKATES. It's like the old SkyRink 2.0: a small cafe next to lockers, back check and bathrooms. Each has hot water, working toilets and sizable heated spaces. Best of all is the state of the art lights and sound system. Classic jazz was playing. I almost tripped coming out of a mohawk turn when SCOTT JOPLIN came on. When's the last time you heard ragtime? My dad's favorite. It's like he was watching me. My first return to my "roots" (I skated before I danced) since March 17th of this year. I'm a bit sore, but I'll be back, definitely.

The holiday hunt continues. I'm checking out Century21 department store near my neck o'the woods. Turns out there's some sort of bonus they give you. I haven't gotten a bonus since....? 1988? I believe I worked in Lowen's Drug Store. It was $15, and I was only there 4 weeks. The minimum wage was $3.35 an hour, which is about how much the American dollar is worth currently if you think about it.

Somehow I have to find a way to get down to Florida to see Mom, even if it's on the back of a turnip truck. She won't be able to make the trip this year due to her health. Oh well. We'll see. Either way, I'm feeling a helluva lot better despite my insomniac blogging at this moment. I'm going to keep a positive spin on things. Blasting house music and following my favorite drag queens has a lovely effect on my mood. Which gives me a creative idea--I've got old concert t-shirts and a Bedazzler somewhere in the back of my closet. Perhaps a little sparkle to the shirts and put 'em up on eBay? Now there's a thought.....

It's good to scheme. Even at 4 in the morning.

Happy Birthday, Wick

Well, I think of it every year. Today would have been my previous boss's 70th birthday. Like a true Scorpio, he died a sudden and shocking death.

He had hand picked me when I left that school to work for him. "You're the absolute right person for this job. When can you disentangle yourself from these people?" That was March 21, 2001. I said two weeks, to be professional. I wanted to leave right then, but I didn't. I wanted to gloat that I was getting away and there was nothing they could do about it. I was struck by not only how professional and cordial he was, but also how much he looked like my father. They could have been brothers, although Dad was an only child like myself. Wick was a father figure to all of us in the old membership department.

In August 2002, his throat cancer came back. He kept it under wraps for as long as he could. In October, we had a birthday cake for him and he had a few bites. His voice was pretty raspy, given his Texarkana accent, but you could tell he was struggling. That was the last birthday we all celebrated as a group before Baldo the Snake and Sad Sack took over. Ironically, it was Wick that had something to do with keeping them "down" in their jobs, meaning no promotions without results. These two had moved laterally around the company, but basically, it was the titles that changed. Wick used to work in HR before he became VP of Membership. Smart guy.

He left to have surgery and they had to put a tracheal tube in his throat. His wife, Margy, and his daughter, Shawn, came to the office to pick up contracts, emails, cards and jokes sent to him from other media members (Cox, Advance, Wall Street Journal) as well as silly things we would cut out for him. He and I shared a love for three things: cats, pigs, and frogs. Ro, his assistant--and a dear friend--loved frogs, too. I used to cut out cartoons and wacky articles from the New Yorker. We even shared a big laugh over one of Kinky Friedman's articles from AARP magazine that my mother had shown me. Where do you get a boss like that? Someone who'll not only take you under his wing, point out your mistakes and tell you how to improve, but whose inbox is filled with clippings, Far Side cartoons, and ceramic pigs as paper weights? Someone who'll gladly shut down the office to celebrate a birthday, a pregnancy, a promotion or a transfer with cakes from Zabars? I can only hope to work for someone with the qualities this man had. He was truly one of a kind.

On February 3, 2003, my other boss Dan called me at home. Any boss calling you at home is not a good thing. "I have some bad news, Anne," he said.

"Please don't let this be Wick," I thought to myself. I bit my lip and paused.

"Wick passed away on the 1st. They were on their way to the hospital, he and Margy, he had stopped breathing. He started to bleed through his neck and the choking got worse. He collapsed in Margy's arms. She pulled over and called 911 on the highway near Millburn. They couldn't save him."

The tears came. I was blubbering and it really hurt. Dan consoled me, but I really felt horrible. We were people first, then an office. Wick always made that clear.

He had been sending us emails about how he was doing swallow therapy, about how not talking was bothering the hell out of him, and how he had to fight for a spot on the couch with his black and white cat. He continued to put on his reading glasses and pore through articles, contracts, emails, the papers--Wall Street Journal, The NY Times, The Advance. He kept in touch with all the bureau chiefs throughout the country, and even people at Canadian Press. He was busier at home with no voice than when he was in the office.

We all realized that the last birthday cake we had was for him and that--literally--was his last birthday. He was 65 and died on the first of the month, just like my dad. They were both sports writers, too and worked in the newspapers on some level their entire lives. They were also born in October. The parallels hit me and sent chills up my spine. Wick was also a great fan of my skating when we were at Rockefeller Center. I would run down during lunch hour with my skates and all the execs commented on it. I confessed I rode the zamboni and Wick loved it. "I hope I get to ride one of those things one day, " he told me.

Margy and Shawn came by to visit and we had a memorial in the board room. A formal memorial for all his friends and professional colleagues came late in February. My favorite picture of him was taken in his childhood home. He was dressed as a cowboy and he was reaching for his gun like John Wayne in "Shane." Wick was six years old when it was taken, which would have made it 1943. He never lost that charm. We laughed, we cried. We ate all his favorite foods, and yes, there was cake.

Last year on this very same day, one of my remaining colleagues passed my desk. He would walk by Wick's memorial plague and rub his hand across it as he descended the stairs. I would watch him do this exactly 15 minutes before I left my desk to go home. It moved me every time. I told him that it was Wick's birthday and he stopped to talk to me.

"I've got to call Margy," he said, with a huge grin spreading across his face. He and I were the only ones to know he wasn't just a plaque hanging on a wall.

Does anyone else remember? I doubt it, and that's another reason why I left. It might just be the reason I'm still struggling to find a job.

I want excellence. I want passion and caring. I want correct spelling, a professional demeanor and a sense that if all is not right that an entire team will work to make it so.

Am I asking for too much? I don't think so.

And Wick would surely agree. He was a gem. I love him. I miss him. He represents a part of me that hasn't died yet, that will not be killed nor silenced. Even though I struggle, I've got his good name to mention.

Thank you for believing in me, Wick. Maybe for all of us, as separate as we've gone. I still need you.

I always will.

Goodbye, My Coney Island Baby

That's a song my father sang to me when I was little. Thor Equities is now ripping Astroland and the surrounding properties apart, which would have hurt him more than the lights and Steeplechase Park closing down for good in 1967.

Sixteen years ago at this time, he was on his way out of rehab for his third time. A nervous breakdown over the death of his two best friends to heart attacks did him in. On September 5, 1991 I made a frantic call to his cousin Jack in NJ to help me drive him out to South Oaks Facility right off Sunrise Highway in Babylon, Long Island. He was admitted and successfully released right around this time. We shared the death of Miles Davis on October 6 with equal sadness.

Two months later, I was working at the South Street Seaport and realized that I had no money to get there to pick up my (measly) paycheck and promptly freaked out near my freshly decorated Christmas tree. It became very clear that I was upset about much more than having no money. Dear Old Dad picked up on this and I expressed my fear of ending up with nothing and no one, including both parents.

"I'm not going to die. I'm not going to leave you anytime soon," he said. I was beyond consoling, literally shaking in the ugly brown chair.

A few years later, I heard this song and realized this mirrored the sentiments he was trying to say. He had exactly nine more Christmases to express that sentiment before I never got the chance to say goodbye.


Lullaby (Goodnight my angel)

Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes
And save these questions for another day
I think I know what you've been asking me
I think you know what I've been trying to say
I promised I would never leave you
And you should always know
Wherever you may go, no matter where you are
I never will be far away

Goodnight my angel, now it's time to sleep
And still so many things I want to say
Remember all the songs you sang for me
When we went sailing on an Emerald Bay
And like a boat out on the ocean
I'm rocking you to sleep
The water's dark and deep inside this ancient heart
You'll always be a part of me

Goodnight my angel, now it's time to dream
And dream how wonderful your life will be
Someday your child may cry, and if you sing this lullabye
Then in your heart, there will always be a part of me
Someday we'll all be gone, but lullabyes go on and on
They never die, that's how you and I will be

© 1993, River of Dreams
Words and music by Billy Joel

Once again, Billy Joel can be counted on for the soundtrack of my life. Some things can't be beautified, only viewed honestly filtered through a wounded memory. Happy Birthday, Dad. I hope you're having a drink with Wick and smiling.

Quote of the Day

Courtesy of Perez Hilton's comments section. I am blogging this after cleaning my computer screen. Chamomile tea SPRAYED the screen when I HOWLED in hysterics!

nick says –
perez, get a life. stop insulting everyone because you are nothing more than a fat fuck who got lucky by reporting celebrity gossip. one day your empire will crash and you will be exterminated. you have no talent and have done nothing to deserve everyone knowing your name. I hope britney spears one day fucking shoots you. lose the hair, you arent cool.

Another person named I-Wanna-Fuck-Mariah-Carey mentioned how Sarah Jessica Parker's newest "scent" smells like roach spray, which is true. It's called Covet, and yet, I don't. And I'm up to 99 bottles of perfume, Mariah's being my most recent eBay purchase. No kidding.

I love the internet!

Time Is Slipping Away

Rob Brezney hits one outta the park for me and my fellow fish!

Here are a few of the improvements I expect you to be enjoying by the end of October: a new, more practical treaty with your evil twin or nemesis; good reasons to eliminate superfluous middlemen and middlewomen who claim you can't live without them; a knack for avoiding other people's hells; the ability to adopt an enlightened version of tunnel vision and call on the power of having a one-track mind; and an enhanced grasp of the mysterious workings of money and the marketplace, which could ultimately lead to some financial magic.

A bit o'inspiration that I need right now. Fibro is really bad, the pain just won't stop. I'm on the fence about actually applying for disability and I ain't kidding this time. My Medicaid card showed up in the mail, which is an answer to How-Am-I-Going-To-Pay-My-Doctors question. Let the friggin' state take care of me, I've been working like a damn dog since I was 16 anyway. Well, actually 11, but I started off the books taking care of cats and walking my neighbor's dogs. This whole cubicle idea sucks and I'm not looking forward to going back to it. The day I got my working papers was the beginning of the rat race hell and you can keep it. I'm sick of it. Totally and completely.

I'm turning a point in my life and I don't think I can go back. The pain is only making this decision all the more obvious. Corporate America can truly kiss my ass. They're evil, backstabbing, snake-skin shedders with nothing better to do than count their dollars at the top while they subtract from the little people such as myself on the bottom. That old bag Helmsley was right: only the little people DO pay taxes. Well, fuck you very much. I'm sick, tired, and in screaming pain. This is not what I envisioned my life on the verge of 36 as being: having nothing and clinging to crumbs while the baby boomers get everything. Fuck that.

I applied again at IMG, since I belong there after getting dicked around last April, but I'll bet any amount of money they don't remember me. I chopped off most of my hair, so I don't even look the same. His Name We Abuse has hired their third assistant in one year (and I believed I was the problem?

The next woman I work for will be myself. Mark my words. My brain is already starting to turn that way. Just you wait, kiddies...

U C in Me What U Loathe in Ur Self

Well, with that, Rosie O'Donnell certainly caught my attention. I'm currently ordering copies of my fall books (since no one wants to hire me) and Celebrity Detox is at the top of my list. Dorothy Hamill's got her own autobiography coming out, too. October 3. Ro's is October 9. There's something about October that's even stranger than September, which has always been my personal winter, emotionally.

The headline of this post today came from a response to one of Rosie's numerous fan mail posts, some of which are vitriolic, to put it mildly. Still, Ro posts everything good and bad. I know plenty of people that don't like her. Or Kathy Griffin. (Or me, for that matter.) Strong, opinionated Irish women who play it straight, no chaser. I've always loved Ro since 1988, the first time I saw her stand-up comedy in Dangerfield's. How I got in there at 16 with no i.d. and a bunch of friends beats me, but there she was, feathered hair and all. Just hilarious. But back to my point.

Her response came from a rather nasty post about how The View debacle revealed once and for all how "needy", "whiny", "angry" and "divisive" Ro can be. I see none of that, just an honest good old-fashioned sarcastic take on the world and how other celebrities take themselves waaaay too seriously, which Ro is always ready to poke a big fat hole through with her pointed rhetoric (and I say that lovingly, I do that myself.) Elisabeth Hasselbeck is a reality tv creation, certainly not someone who worked her way up through Hollywood's evil jungle or the stand-up world, where you truly get eaten alive. Liz's 15 minutes are up in my opinion, and I was only paying attention to about 5 ot 6 of those minutes at all.

What you loathe in yourself...makes me think about this year and all the people I had problems with. It certainly tells me why I gave up certain friends--well, frenemies, really--and why my previous bosses couldn't fathom why I didn't do what they wanted in addition to why I grated on their nerves. In fact, it tells me why I hated them so much. I saw things in them I didn't or couldn't want to deal with and vice versa. That, in my opinion, is true growth. I can see it, admit it, laugh about it, and move on. The judgment hangs perilously in the air, but I really did need this time off. For the rest, the sleep I didn't get for about seven or eight years, and the perspective. My next job will be just that: a job. I took all the things I did way too seriously and tried to fashion a career out of nothing, really. I wanted to dance, but my training ended too soon. My knees were operated on, my hip clicked and wrecked my turnout (which you need in ballet as much as jazz), my shoulders are busted, and my lower back is shot from a bike accident, a car accident and falling down a flight of stairs when I was 14. I've also but my skating on the backburner, which I can now admit was a poor substitute for my love of dance.

Dance was always my married lover: I had to chase it and woo it and mold it to various limitations. I would jump high and crawl low to be near it for even five minutes of a good performance. I knew it wouldn't last. Skating? Well, I skated before I danced, and I've always viewed it as a friend. A buddy, a high-five, an occasional phone call, coffee in the morning that will be there and go somewhere alone whether I'm in it or not. This is the second time I've put skating on hold (the last time was 1985-1991), but October is around the corner. I'll skate again however half-heartedly. My pirouettes were double and triple, but I could never conquer those damn figures, particularly loops and brackets, which meant I couldn't test properly or compete. I could practice my ballet and jazz positions anywhere: a rug, a gymnasium, even the halls of my high school. Many a freshman stood in disbelief as I leaped past them from one class to the next. Yes, I was certainly "colorful." Now I look at my body and how it's just not moving as quickly as it used to and I wonder, "What was all that about?" It certainly wasn't about money, I've always scraped to get by. This time I think it's about desire. Well, maybe the lack thereof. I'm kinda tired, worn out. My exile has been necessary. I'm not looking forward to go back to work. The politics, the bullshit, the asskissing....it's just not for me. I'll have to, somehow, find my way. My heart just isn't in it this time.

I'm seriously looking at dogwalking, grooming, and pet sitting for my next ventures. Should I get an office job anytime soon, all the money I make will go into schooling or certification for any of the above, insurance and bonding included.

In other skating news, Sasha Cohen's hanging it up. She signed a one-year contract to work with Stars on Ice. That means we won't be seeing her in 2010. I guess an Olympic silver and one national title is enough.

What's the point of it all? Better is the enemy of good enough.

I Will Not Sleep Until I Know You are Mine

That is part of the translation of "Nessun Dorma", Pavarotti's most famous aria from Puccini's opera Turandot. If you haven't read it yet, Luciano passed at the age of 71 at 5 am in Italy.

I came to know and love him through two channels: my own mother, who was trained in opera and many of my skaters. Brian Boitano's most beloved professional program was to "Nessun", a song and choreographic concept later copied numerous times by other skaters. Pavarotti's rendition of "La Vesta de Guiba" from Pagliacci, the story of Canio the sad clown, was immortalized by the incomparable Toller Cranston as his exhibition program after winning the bronze medal at the 1976. Dorothy Hamill gave a famous story to the media about running from her dressing room in her bathrobe just to watch him skate this. Skaters running to watch other skaters is quite rare, and an honor when it happens. She had her tights on, but not her costume, hence the bathrobe. Toller wore a bronze and black costume, similar to his "peacock" costume, which he claimed "never fell down." His autobiography "Zero Tollerance" cites this costume was worn over 200 times before it started to itch and fray at the edges. He kept it for over 20 years before he gave it away. A funny way for me to remember Pagliacci. Katia and her late husband, Sergei, also won a professional title to this in 1991. It just stands the test of time.

Ah, the joy of high C's. I've hit them, a fact not known to most, since the women in my family sing so easily we kinda take it for granted. Both Mom and I have been known to blow the average karaoke-ers away with everything from Judy Garland, Cole Porter, Art Tatum, and various show tunes. It is through her that I know the great singers. Legend has it she realized she was pregnant with me at a performance of "Aida" when her first bout of morning sickness came on. AT 9 PM AT NIGHT, NO LESS.

Another enchanting legacy of my parents' two previous marriages, both to Italians, before they met each other. And me being raised in Bensonhurst, surrounded by dangerous mobsters and blue collar guys alike who'd play Puccini, Leoncavallo, Verdi and Donizetti with pasta dinners and red wine on Sunday afternoons. A strange blend of culture: me, the shamrock, in a sea of oregano and basil!

Oh, he will be missed. For his girth, his vocal range, his smile, his famous white hankerchief in his left hand while he performed. We may have Bryn Terfel, Domingo, and Carreras, but nothing will replace those high C's and zest for life. And food. And us.

Rest in peace, Luciano. Veni, Vedi, Vici.

Sheryl hits one outta the park

A former colleague sent me this. It's too funny, so I'm cut and pasting from an actual email. A true GEM.

Subject: High School Answering Machine

This is the message that the Pacific Palisades High School (California) staff voted unanimously to record on their school telephone answering machine. This is the actual answering machine message for the school. This came about because they implemented a policy requiring students and parents to be responsible for their children's absences and missing homework. The school and teachers are being sued by parents who want their children's failing grades changed to passing grades - even though those children were absent 15-30 times during the semester and did not complete enough schoolwork to pass their classes. The outgoing message:

"Hello! You have reached the automated answering service of your school. In order to assist you in connecting to the right staff member. Please listen to all the options before making a selection:
* To lie about why your child is absent - Press 1
* To make excuses for why your child did not do his work- Press 2
* To complain about what we do - Press 3
* To swear at staff members - Press 4
* To ask why you didn't get information that was already enclosed in your newsletter & several flyers mailed to you - Press 5
* If you want us to raise your child - Press 6
* If you want to reach out and touch, slap or hit someone - Press 7
* To request another teacher, for the third time this year - Press 8
* To complain about bus transportation - Press 9
* To complain about school lunches - Press 0
* If you realize this is the real world and your child must be accountable and responsible for his/her own behavior, class work, homework and that it's not the teachers' fault for your child's lack of effort: Hang up and have a nice day!
*If you want this in Spanish, you must be in the wrong country

Now that's what I call honesty! Finally! Politically Correctness be DAMNED.

Thanks, Sheryl!

Bugs, Bastards, and B.S.

That's pretty much what my weekend was made of. Thanks for KJou and Roxlander for their unwavering support via text message and phone. I really needed it after the verbal abuse I suffered at the hands of an asshole named George. I'll call him "King George" since I was never given a business card, a phone number, an email or any place where I could find him or his last name.

My US Open gig didn't work out since this bastard got within 2 inches of my face and called me "useless" upon arriving at 8:08, just a few minutes after the appointed time. Sorry, but after a 2-hour train trip and four trains? I had to go to bathroom. Blame the hazelnut coffee from Steve's bagels, don't blame me. I'm not that psycho astronaut chick who's going to wear diapers just to barrel through the struggle of a work day. If I had a phone number, email or cell #, I would have certainly called to say, "Hey, I'm on the grounds, just a few feet away from the main entrance. I'll be over as soon as I wash my hands." But, I wasn't given any information to do that. I also wasn't given a chance to take away my credentials and now I realize--much to my horror--that this dickwad has all my financial information if he'd like to retaliate. My address, phone numbers (phone & cell), social security #, emergency contact, my name, nickname, and previous employers. It was part of the whole "signing up" process. That, kiddies, scares the living hell out of me. He proceeded to scream at me two more times, and I walked away. "That's it, I'm done," I said to myself. I had a bad vibe all week about this guy, and my fishy witchiness struck a perfect chord. You could call it a harmonic morning, indeed.

The fact that he was acting like a dick around nothing but black and latino people also struck me as particularly ironic. I guess he thought since I was white I'd agree with him. Um, asshole? Saturday was the 2nd anniversary of Katrina's groundswell. I was talking to a few older black guys that work the summer circuits at Randall's Island and Central Park's vendor events. They were quite impressed that this very pale lady knew as much as she did about race, politics, jazz, hip hop and stupid, arrogant white men. Funny--the biggest one of them all is named George, too. AS IN "BUSH."

Still, I slept in yesterday and didn't get up at 5.30 in the morning. I received no phone call, no email, nothing. Whew! Let's hope this ends here. The funniest thing about the whole incident is how calm and professional I was. In years past, I would have got in this person's face and cursed him out right then and there. I stood with my arms folded and looked him dead in the eye before I walked away. I think a well-placed call to the United States Tennis Association would do some good. I think they might like to know exactly how their vendors treat people who are practically begging to work for $12 an hour, particularly since Levy Restaurants has a ten year contract with the USTA. $12 an hour? After taxes, that's a bit more than minimum wage. A JOKE.

Nothing was said to me about uniforms, tips, orientation, what I would be doing, where I'd be working, or how long my days would be. King George even screamed at his mother who was sitting at the table guarding the credentials, of which now I'll never see mine. If he chooses to retaliate, well, I think the media would be a good format, particularly since I know how much money was lost last year. Those two black guys told me how cashiers walked away with tips, skimmed from the registers in their pocket, and generally didn't do squat. I've had enough of Bag of Rocks, Bitchy Conchitas, Baldos, Sad Sacks, Priveleged Yentas and other assorted narcissist megalomaniac assholes. Why should I scream and yell? It's only going to hurt my blood pressure and bring back my ulcer. I bought a lovely printer from TekServe for $65, I'll just zap out a nice letter to the powers that be. Email is too dangerous, after all, it's public. It could get forwarded. A certified letter? Well, at least I'll know who signed for it.

I will not be abused anymore by corporate assholes. Yes, my job hunt is still dead in the water, but I'm looking towards animals, one of my favorite things. Cats I'm great with, dogs fetch, sniff, and need walking. I need walking. Sitting behind a desk for six years has turned me into a cow. I could use a romp in the park with Fido chasing a stick or a frisbee. My main point? If I'm going to be broke, I'm going to be happy.

Perhaps I wasn't meant to be rich, but that doesn't mean I don't have a rich life. I have loyal friends. I have people that love me. My mother adores me. I have a few really good mentors--although they may not be in NYC anymore--that would go all out to counsel me, give me a heads up, and help me fight the good fight, whether it's with a pen or a sword.

That's worth much more than King Georges or Queen Conchitas anyday. And I'm getting my Steri-Fab to kill these damn bed bugs today. I won't be cleaning my mattress or my dressers. I'll be engaging in chemical warfare. Wooo Haaaa!

I'll keep you posted. I'll be eating cake when King George gets to eat CROW.

Sleep Tight! Don't Let the...

bed bugs bite.

Oh, wait. They just did. Yes, kiddies, you read that correctly. To add to my summer of exile, begging and horror, I now have bed bugs in my bedroom. It seems the moving in and out of certain tenants and the excavation of their empty apartments has caused the nesting infidels to attack me in my slumber. Mind you, I love a good buffet. I just never thought I'd BE ONE.

So, an order to a pest place in Georgia (they don't sell what I need in NY) is shipping me some Steri-Fab, an odorless spray to kill the eggs and the creepy crawly little bastards. Is my bad luck biblical? Was I Job in another life? I know I don't have a son named Isaah (or was it Isaac) up for sacrifice, so maybe God/Goddess is testing me? What's next? Locusts? Plague? Boils? I've got pestilence, I have sickness (fibro), and disease (my infertility/ovarian/estrogen issues), so what's next in the bible? I dig that fire and brimstone ending in Revelations, but I'm leaning more towards Kabbalah and the Koran these days. It's just more colorful and their angels are much more vengeful. This totally suits my Irish/German ways.

My cats have been instructed to bite, crush and kill anything that crawls. If the spiders that help me with roaches chip in, I wonder if they kill bed bugs? I've got three ugly, itchy welts on my lower legs. I'll have to wear trousers to my job interviews, god forbid I wear a skirt and someone thinks I'm a leper or suffer necrotizing fasciitis (skin-eating virus).

My life certainly doesn't lack color, does it. Sigh....

Thank god I'll be at the US Open. Let's see if the last of the summer mosquitoes don't join in to chew on me, as well.

Prayer. Hope. Vodka martinis. These are the only things I look forward to.

:-/

People in Suburban Castles...

Shouldn't chuck Swarovski stones. At me. Or anyone else.

Well, stupidity abounds. I'm sitting on the fence with yet another one-sided friendship to really ask myself, "What the hell am I really getting out of this?" I am constantly at the mercy of this person's schedule, whims, moods, and unrelenting materialism. Materialism, if ya didn't know, has always made me SICK.

Nothing disgusts me more than having to see, feel, and smell all the money, jewelry, cars, Gucci sunglasses and Big 10 schools I didn't go to and of which my parents couldn't afford. I am in the worst financial straits of my life, my rent is three months late and I have to worry about this person's trips to Paris and their dropping two thousand dollars on clothes? Meanwhile, squealing, tortured, hellish cries of poorhouse keep finding their way to my ears as this person is going to mint a fucking fortune when the divorce goes through. Did I ask this person to marry a narcissistic, verbally abusive, womanizing nightmare? Oh, wait. He makes one million dollars per year. Suddenly, I'm thinking this wasn't exactly about love. This is also the reason why I haven't been to a wedding in five years. I'm sick of the lying, politicizing, and bullshit "romance" that covers mortgages, two-car garages, diamonds, pearls, shoe closets and Neiman Marcus credit cards. If you call that true love or romance or a balanced relationship? I'M CALLING YOU A FUCKING LIAR.

So, as I sat in the middle of a welfare office today begging for help with my rent, my phone rang to hear the clueless, dulcet tones of, "Well, are you going to visit me anytime soon?" Does the gravity of my situation even ring a bell? What the fuck is it with people that choose to hear only what they want? Am I the asshole here? Oh, yes. But of course! I didn't dumb myself down. I give a shit about things other than well, THINGS. I don't give a shit what people think, show off my intelligence at every turn, I actually eat food (no shitting it out or puking it up), read the paper, volunteer for abused animals and poor people (some very much like myself--female and struggling with their own sanity at any given time) and care about the wellbeing and betterment of my own class. The New Yorkers, the working poor, the huddled masses shaking their heads at the dearth of condos, Duane Reades and Starbucks that are quickly enveloping all the areas of my beloved city for yuppie scumbag Midwestern HOMOGENIZED TRASH that have the balls to call themselves "city folk."

FUCK YOU AND FUCK YOU.

With the exception of Meg, Kjou, and Roxlander there are very few people that have even dialed my number to check if I'm still alive let alone reach into their pockets and give portions of their hard-earned cash to someone like me that truly needs it. My mother told me her mother (dead since 1951) used to say that you can count your best friends--the ones that will go down in flames for you without question--on one hand. And that one hand may have less than five fingers. So, to my little "gloves", I say thank you. But to those Swarovski Chuckers?

I'm done. For good. Now go.

This concludes my vicious rant for the day. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

How Humid Is It?

This is a first.

It's so humid and wretched outside that I actually saw a fat tabby around the corner sit in complete exhaustion as two of the loudest birds I've ever encountered squawked and flapped no less than 5 feet from this cat. I looked at the cat and clearly said, "Get up, do something!" The birds continued to squawk in defiance as if to shout, "Fat Ass! You'll never take us alive!"

Now that's some bad weather, kiddies.

Killing and hunting is a learned skill for most cats, but even the slightest curiosity would have made Tabby-Tubbo sit up and swat while Heckyll and Jeckyll swooped over. Just when you think you've seen it all....

In other news, idiots from my past continue to annoy. I found Dudley- who made my life a living email hell 5 summers ago-plastered all over myspace, and another vain bastard who I've commonly referred to as The Turd lurking in myspace corners, as well. This vain prick is dating a 30 year old and lying about his own age. Um, you're 41. You're not 32. Cut the shit. True to form, he's picked a lovely, sweet, princess cupcake to lie to since his modus operandi (which hasn't changed in 20 years) is have a girlfriend, but screw around on the side. I'm sure the increasing use of the internet has only made his lies even more creative. I particularly enjoy the plug where Turd mentions, "I'd like kids one day." Um, as I remember our mutual friend Howie telling me in 1995, he has a son named Cory, a product of his first marriage (which I'm sure he denies) to a stripper/hooker back in 1993. Gee, that didn't last long. Commitment? Growing up? Nahh...much better to be a selfish prick and use up all the women you can get your grubby hands on since your face doesn't age. I'm sure one day the Dorian Gray picture he's got hiding somewhere will fall off the wall or--and this is the scenario of which I fantasize constantly--a team of women he's screwed over (and WE are LEGION) will grab some hazmat suits, zip up, take Turd hostage, grab some muriatic or hydrochloric acid and fling it in his face. (Think "Hostel" with some Joe Lynn Turner playing in the background.) Just his face, since he's always used his looks as a mask to wield immeasurable power. Now THAT would be justice.

I'm still unemployed, and waiting for a place to make a decision. I'm damn near writing them off, but I did have a good interview last week with Ziff Davis media. I nagged them so they'd remember me, and I was told this morning that after the first round of interviews, I'd be picked. In reality, I'll be going over to the Welfare office tomorrow morning to discuss my options. None of these agencies have helped me, everyone's on vacation, and the summer has been sloooow. If this yenta bitch had taken care of things properly, it would have been the beginning of March and not Valentine's Day where my benefits would have kicked in. Stretch that out to six months, and you see it would have been September, where everyone begins to look for people rather than August, where budgets still languish and no one cares.

My luck really is stagnating. I just don't know what the hell to do.

7/27/87

Yes, you read that correctly. This is what I wrote exactly 20 years ago today.

my color is red
sincerity's dead
my heart is empty
and so is your head

I remember why I wrote this. Sad to say, I still know this person and it's still true.

Funny what happens when you clean out old cabinets...

The Call of the Sirens...

Well, the Siren Festival, that is.

My email buddy and I finally met after 4 years at Coney Island yesterday. Coney's a place I go to for solace, for sand, and skating. This is the first time I ran into someone who actually loves the place as much as I do.

Big changes are a-happening, due to Thor Properties snatching up every piece of available land in their frenzied quest to turn the place into Atlantic City (as if!) Let's see what happens. So, in one last working-class-NY "Take That" moment, I suppose the festival mucky mucks decided, "Who can we have who represents a time gone by?" How about The New York Dolls?

Yes, kiddies, Buster Poindexter himself and his rock and roll crew played a blistering set at sundown with two encores. I felt something actually approaching joy. That's a feeling that doesn't come to me easy, as most of you know. Sandwiched between the Wonder Wheel, the kiddie rides and the blast of The Cyclone, on they played. Some new songs, some old songs. And a strange vibe went through the crowd as I looked around--the old glamsters actually came out of the woodwork. I was seeing people who were the original denizens from Max's Kansas City, CBGB's, and the East Village scene back 30+ years ago. They might be older, but they still have that "Don't-fuck-with-me" look. It's unmistakeable.

Then, we headed over to Peggy's and proceeded to get smashed. Hey, I do that much anymore, so it seemed good to do it in a roomful of kids with Slipknot jerseys and a digital jukebox. Then, much to my chagrin, a hook-nosed idiot out of my past swarmed over. The last time I saw this person he was trying to angle in as I spoke to my friend Danny over a bottle of Ketel One. This person has no decorum, no maturity, and absolutely no sense of personal space whatsoever. He interjects himself into the conversation and started touching my back. Thank GOD a fork wasn't handy, or I would have made use of it. So, after trying to ignore this person, I resigned myself to the fact that he wasn't going away and I popped a few more dollars into the jukebox. Even Rod Stewart's "Every Picture Tells a Story" could not make him go away.

Finally, the shit band that was there went on, and so did we. My bud and I spoke about grabbing a hot dog at Nathan's before it closed and off we went.

I got home waaay past 3, he made it back to Jersey, and all is well. Other than Capt. Hook? We were fine. I'd do it again, just not at Peggy's. Why does every idiot and his mother have to show up at the one decent bar in Coney?

Sigh....

What Will It Take...

to get people on the phone?

Here's yet another job I can feel slipping away from me simply because multitasking is the name of the game over there. Their poor assistant is constantly juggling everything, and I just sent an email.

I hate summer, particularly since this is the third summer in a row I've been looking for employment. None of these agencies have been of any help to me, and now I'm getting desperate. I don't know if it's my resume, how I look, my height, my weight, or ???? It just feels like I've been singled to NOT have a job. My mother is of no help and pretty soon, with the college degree I broke my ass for, I'm going to be on welfare.

If my problems had begun in March and not February, I'd be ok. That's because September is the time when people are back at their desks. July and August is still vacation time and oh, joy! No one's around.

I feel absolutely screwed. I went to school, I played by the rules, I got the degree. And people with 11th grade educations and hustlers are the only ones making money because they know how to steal. Shame my ass is so big, I could walk into Scores and strip and have more money than god. I feel I'm living in the microcosm of American life. Corporations want those that fit into an existing power structure, not creativity or intelligence. I don't know what the hell is going to happen to me, and it is beginning to scare me.

That's really all I have to say.

Another Worthy Horoscope

In honor of Alberta, my high school buddy who turns 36 today. Your photo with my red bike resides on top of the dresser.

Another gem from Rob!

To celebrate your ramble through the most wildly independent phase of your astrological cycle, I'm offering you three inspirational quotes. The first is from poet e.e. cummings: "To be nobody but yourself in a world that is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle that any human being can fight." Your second shot of motivation is from Clarissa Pinkola Estes: "If you have ever been called defiant, incorrigible, forward, cunning, insurgent, unruly, or rebellious, you're on the right track. If you have never been called these things, there is yet time." Lastly, here's a Hindu proverb: "There is nothing noble in being superior to some other person. The true nobility is in being superior to your previous self."

A Worthy Horoscope

On this, the Triple Seven Lucky Day, Sally Brompton hit one outta the park. Finally! Some good news for us suffering fishies.

July 7, 2007 -- Everything balances out in the end. Whatever you owe will have to be paid and whatever is owed to you will be received in full. So why are you still carping about being cheated? There is no reason why someone else's lack of integrity should undermine your good mood. Forget about it. They'll get what's coming.

Karma, karma! Just what I like to hear.

And, it gets better---Monday night, Mercury's out of Retrograde. That means my job hunt will heat up again. I've been beating dead horses for three damn weeks. Someone better return my call!

Happy Solstice!

Now here's a site I can into. Courtesy of The Smirking Chimp dot com.

The Goddess

Right now, we're on the cusp until Thursday when we are delivered from Gemini HELL and go to Cancer smoothness. Thank Goddess!

My Dream Last Night

I feel an inexplicable sense of sadness on this, another Father's Day. Since I get more sleep now and less stress, my mind probes deeper. There is music when I dream and colors. And ghosts. So many.

This is the song that came to me. It never occurred to me to look at the lyrics, I only have one piece I know. If you've never heard this song, download it. It's disturbing and yet luminous portrait into despair, something I could not drag my Dad out of. He rarely appears in my dreams, it's a mood that passes through me. I see a white-haired man walking slowly ahead of me. I cannot catch up. I know who it is. He does not face me. He could not face himself.

"The Drowning Man" by The Cure

She stands twelve feet above the flood
She stares
Alone
Across the water

The loneliness grows and slowly
Fills her frozen body
Sliding downwards

One by one her senses die
The memories fade
And leave her eyes
Still seeing worlds that never were
And one by one the bright birds leave her ...

Starting at the violent sound
She tries to turn
But final
Noiseless
Slips and strikes her soft dark head
The water bows
Receives her
And drowns her at its ease
Drowns her at its ease

I would have left the world all bleeding
Could I only help you love
The fleeting shapes
So many years ago
So young and beautiful and brave

Everything was true
It couldn't be a story

I wish it was all true
I wish it couldn't be a story
The words all left me
Lifeless
Hoping
Breathing like the drowning man

Oh Fushia
You leave me
Breathing like the drowning man

©1981 Elektra/Asylum Records

Time to let my subconscious loose. It's the only way to swim, not drown.
Breathing like the drowning man

An Open Letter to the Democrats

I woke up pissed off. I couldn't sleep. I clicked on www.democrats.org and fired off this email. Enjoy. My maverick tendencies continue.

You know, until you twits get a backbone and actually put impeachment on the table and stop bitching about Edward's hair and Hilary's shrewish ways, I don't really see how you're going to win the next election. My last name may be Kennedy, but it's clear that this does not dictate my political choices. I lived thru 9/11 and absolutely would die should Giuliani become the pack leader--women, the middle class here in NYC where I'm from, minorities and anyone who wasn't a cop back in the 90's was basically thrown to the wolves. BUT! He's good on tv, he can argue a point, he knows how to bully, he's got a backbone. I voted you all in back into the house in November, and I've seen nothing but the Neocons REMAIN the "alpha dogs" and they will rip this country apart further if most of you don't wake up pretty damn soon.

This amnesty bill--yes, it's NOT immigration refom, neither was 1986, my job was given away to an immigrant (thank you, His Name We Abuse) and I'm college-educated--is a JOKE. Healthcare is in the toilet and Kucinich, the mad elf, is the only one with any progressive policy I can see since I now have joined the 48 million without insurance. I lost my job, have a bachelor's degree and am surviving on my VISA cards. WHEN ARE YOU PEOPLE GOING TO GET A SPINE AND STAND UP? Unless you do something quickly, NONE of you will get a donation nor a vote from me. In fact, I might not vote at all, which scares the bejesus out of most of you.

Bush and Cheney need to be impeached, they are no better than tyrants and war criminals. The middle class of this country-not to mention my suffering city-shouldn't have to travel to India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, or China--a COMMUNIST HAVEN DESPITE THEIR UPCOMING OLYMPICS WHICH I WILL NOT WATCH--in order to keep a job.

The only difference between a democrat and a republican are the symbols of the donkey and the elephant. Wake up, perk up, and start getting out your big sticks and learn to use them. Elephants have a tendency to trample, but another word for donkey is ASS. Hint, hint! That is what I'm seeing from all of you, candidate-wise. Moving to Canada never looked so damn good.

This country is an international joke, a disgrace, and a nightmare. I hope you can sleep at night. I'm too busy job-hunting at 2 am hoping I can crawl out of this hell I'm in. Feel free to write back, when you're not lobbying for more money. Do have a lovely day.

Now watch me get donation slips in the mail. I'm going to save them for the big bonfire I'm going to set when I do my voodoo doll ceremony to burn images of these assholes.

And no, I can't find a decent a/c.

Grrrrrrrr...

My Fedders 1988-2007

Yup, my A/C is gone. And the nickel-and-dime bastard I called charged me $130 to tell me he couldn't do a thing and that I should get a new one.

UM, I kinda knew that. But he STILL didn't take it down the stairs. So, it's sitting in a rusted lump mocking me in my bedroom.

Since NAFTA and China guarantee that I will bring home an overpriced piece o'crap that will break down in 3 years, I'm going with lesser BTU's this time. No 10K this time, 6 or 7 will do nicely. I want coolness in my room, not penguins and Walt Disney serving me ice cubes. This will also save my electric bill from a certain hell.

So, now we begin. Email me and I will shamelessly direct anyone who wants to contribute to my A/C fund where my paypal address is. I'm still jobless, but I had a good interview this week and possibly two more next week. Things are happening, but Mercury goes into retrograde tomorrow. That guarantees rotten noncommunicative fuckups left and right.

I'm thinking of moving to Australia. That way my life can go down the toilet in the opposite direction.

If you love me and don't want to see me melt, pony up. If not, I'll be sitting in a bucket of ice chewing on broken light bulbs to ease the pain of my poverty. Oh, and here's the logo. I can't throw a rent party since, technically, it's for my A/C. (if i'm going to be shameless, at least i can be correct about the funds, right?)

PayPal—the service to donate fast, easy, and secure payments for anything!

Kisses!

A/C? A/C? PLEASE COME IN IF YOU'RE THERE

Why am I up at 2.30 in the morning when I have an 11 am interview?

BECAUSE MY AIR CONDITIONER JUST DIED. I mean like NO NOISE, WIND, NOT EVEN THE FANS WORK.

I'm officially asking for donations. I found a cheapie Frigidaire for $109 at PC Richard that will get me thru the summer, but I still have to pay $50 for someone to come over and take my old clunker outta the window and another $100 on the diagnostics to see what the hell went wrong. If it's a fan or belt busted? They'll pop it in, and all will be happy. I hope.

If not, it's off to PC Richards on my measly unemployment (WHY CAN'T SOMEONE HIRE ME?????) and the magic of lay-away begins. If they even have lay-away anymore. I don't even have a fan that works, that died, too.

SHIIIIIIIT!!!!!

Send me an email, I'll give you my paypal address. I am sooooo not kidding about this. Now I'm going to open the window and try and get some sleep. Let's hope I don't lunge at my interviewer later this morning, grab her by the lapels and say

PLEASELETMEHAVETHISJOBI'MBROKEANDFREAKINGOUT!!!!!!

ahem.

Do I have ice cubes? Maybe I'll just sleep in the tub. At least I'll have time to shower when I wake up, I'll be right there.

In the words of Charlie Brown....

GOOD GRIEF.

Joy and Surprises

Well, I never thought I'd see it again--Gelsey Kirkland's back in NY. She's also back in ABT in the new production of Sleeping Beauty, which I had the privilege of seeing this past Wednesday. She played the evil fairy Carabosse in her own staging of the ballet. I was too stunned to cry or clap, I just sat there with my mouth open as the audience ROARED when she appeared. The staging is new, the costumes are new, even the music has been cut. This production is closer to the original Russian version, clocking in at 3 hours. Since I was sitting with a bunch of Russians, we clapped and screamed at the perfect Rose Adagio, a series of balances Aurora goes through while meeting her potential suitors--four princes from around the world. Soloist Stella Abrera knocked it outta the park in the Bluebird section with excellent extensions and hairpin chaine turns.

Kevin MacKenzie invited Gelsey and this was spectacular. The last time I saw this ballet was 1998 with Susan Jaffe, now retired from ABT. Funny though--Beauty was the last ballet Gelsey was in during her stay in London back in 1986, but she never technically said she was retiring from the stage, she only mentioned that she preferred the classroom. Well, I'm 35 and she's 54--NEVER did I think I'd see her again. NEVER say die, I guess. If that isn't inspiration for me, well, then I don't know what is.

I'm also loving spoiled celebutard Paris getting hauled back to jail. "It's not fair! It's not fair!" she screamed. Um, sweetie? LIFE ISN'T FAIR, DEAL WITH IT. ALL THE MONEY IN THE WORLD WON'T CHANGE THE FACT THAT YOU CHOSE TO BREAK THE LAW. THE SAME LAW THAT ANYONE POOR, BLACK, OR LATINO WOULD HAVE TO ROT IN A JAIL CELL FOR A MUCH LONGER TIME THAN 3 MEASLY WEEKS. Here's your big steaming cup of Shut The Fuck Up. Straight, no chaser. You little monstrous brat. Karma's a bitch and with all the rotten gossip, games and shit she pulled over the years has come back to bite her in the ass. Ask the rest of us if we care. And if I see one asshole with a "Free Paris" t-shirt? They better start running, because I'm going to smack them into a bruised pulp.

I'm happy to say I've got decent DSL now, so feel free to send me funny animal pics and YouTube goodies. I told Verizon where to go, and got digital cable, too. All for $120. That's $40 split three ways. A good way to save money, if you ask me.

The monster/NY Times blitz has begun, since agencies are still bothering me. I'm going to be employed by July, come hell or high water. This staying home business is starting to get on my nerves.

Ta ta!

And say a prayer for Paris.

NOT!

Stand, Salute and Be Silent

No, kiddies, it's not just another day off. It's not just a day for barbecues, white sales, and time at the beach. It's Memorial Day and we are in still in the midst of what I call a lie and what others call a "war on terror." My great grandfather died in WWI, my dad did ROTC in his early 20's, my Uncle Vincent was a Vietnam vet who died at 32 and is buried in Farmingdale cemetery. Can we remember what this day is REALLY about?

The Battle-Field

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.
Ah, never shall the land forget
How gush'd the life-blood of her brave;
Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they sought to save.
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle cry,
Oh, be it never heard again!

by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

I dedicate this post to Robert Ward (Army private), Tommy Casatelli (Marine), and Howard Rosin (Navy). I know Howie's still alive, retired and living in Hawaii. I pray for Bob and Tommy every day. I haven't seen their names on the list of casualties, and I hope I don't.

Dig for the truth. Don't support this lie. It's taking their lives and our taxes. Complacency does nothing. It's our fight, too.

Bring 'em home. NOW.

I (Don't) Love Paris

Ok, it MUST be said. I HATE PARIS HILTON AND SHE NEEDS TO GO TO JAIL. RIGHT NOW.

She is a useless product of the celebutard culture this country is sooo fucking addicted to, and it makes me want to puke. It makes me take to my bed and writhe in despair and pain (which, considering my recent circumstances, I am already doing) from complete bewilderment and disgust. Let's be honest, kiddies: If this spoiled, snot-nosed little bitch was black, latino or poor? HER ASS WOULD BE SITTING IN A JAIL CELL RIGHT NOW. Money does not only buy privilege in this godforsaken fuck-up we call a country, it also buys bullshit, lies, and special interests for those who can pay it while crying crocodile tears.

Throw this fake-ass BRAT in general population right now. I would pay good money to see, on YouTube, a beautiful violent re-enactment of an episode of "Oz"--pick any one of 'em, they were all the same--for her hair extensions to get yanked out, burned, cut off and shoved down her throat. Then we can move on to the shanking, the stuffing of her head down the flushed toilet and the crying as she gets kicked and punched into a corner. That would teach her not to use the "N" word so freely or to insult Lindsay Lohan, a nice blue-collar working class Irish girl with a wacko mom and a fucked-up dad (gee, sound like me yet? Other than the fact that I don't do red carpet events. Not yet anyway.) To use a phrase from Lindsay's greatest movie, "Mean Girls", Paris's latest perfume "creation" makes one smell, and I quote, "...like a baby prostitute." Firecrotch? How about "You My Beeyatch Now, Miss Thang!" I'm sure Lindsay's giggling at this one.

A trip to Sephora last year confirmed this for me. I quickly walked up to one of my favorite queens and asked for a wet washcloth or towlette to wipe the catastrophe off me. It was sweet, sickly, and utterly consumed by vanilla, powder notes, and musk--all three fragrances which I hate, but 14 yr-old mall rats--without a care in the world--seem to worship. Cat piss, gasoline, and lower Manhattan post-9/11 in late September smelled slightly better than this overpriced shit in a bottle. Yes, it was that bad. To quote RD, "It makes me want to go to Newark and inhale. Deeply."

In other news, watching Left Eye's documentary last night moved me in a way for which I was not prepared. She and I shared a quick moment together back in 2000 when I was standing in Times Square. We were at a red light. I looked to my left and there she was. Eyes, glowing and giant and brown, unmistakeable. She was all of 5 feet 2 inches tall, but what a presence. I was tickled that we, two different people from two totally different walks of life were standing there together, going in different directions and yet right next to each other. I said nothing. I thought, eh...let me let her be a person, not a rock star. I regret not saying hello. She had less than 3 years to live. I was hit very hard by her passing and I now know how deeply she was looking for the meaning of life. A life cut short at the age of 30. Maybe her work was done, but I'll never forget those eyes. Playful and vibrant, childlike and omniscient, till the end. Her eyes were unmistakeable. Full of questions, joy, sorrow, and a response to, "What is she made of." Stare at pictures of her and you might see what I saw that day, standing there near the Victory Theatre.

I should have said something. I should have said a lot of things. Ohh, this weird life....

An Act of Conscience

Well, haven't been blogging lately since I'm consumed with my computer for job hunting, but I had to blog about one thing. It bothered me so much.

A skincare/esthetics school had contacted me in late March, had the two interviews, they picked someone who could do accreditation, something I know very little about. Well, the woman who initially told me "no", called me back desperately three times this past week. Turns out the person she hired of one entire week "was not working out." Um, let's see--HNWA (His Name We Abuse) gave me that learning curve, too, before getting pissed off with me. Sound familiar? I get talked into meeting with her again yesterday, but didn't go. Why? Let's recap.

I remember from our initial meeting that she's had a total of four assistants in the last two years or so. Not good. She's a chemist, not a people person. She also hates the interview process and most likely does not check references. Stupid, if you call yourself a business. Also, there is no HR department in this place. Salary and benefits were never discussed, I remember they said I'd have to buy my own healthcare (which I'm doing now, pretty pricey since Cobra dropped me), and hours were all over the place. I told her I had an interview (which I cancelled, there was no website for me to do research, which is shady) and I'd see her after. She tipped her hand big-time by revealing that if I said yes, and started Monday, she could "let this woman go" tomorrow. I say "yes" and now you're going to fire someone without giving them a chance? Gee, didn't that just happen to me? Didn't that suck? That would be UNCONSCIONABLE if I took the job. My success is directly related to someone else's demise? What if she decides to say "no" to me after working there a week? This is a total replay of January and February. You don't play with people's lives in a job market like this. After consulting with a few friends and my mother, they all said it didn't sound too good. I woke up to a crack of thunder and all-around crappy day, not a good sign. I decided not to go after doing my laundry. I'd call and cancel at the time I was supposed to see her.

The clock ticked, my clothes dried, and 3 pm loomed. When I called, some assistant picked up the phone. I left a message that I'm not coming. Why? Because Fisher-Price called and I have an interview with them this coming Wednesday. The pay is superb, the location divine (23rd St.), and the woman (from HR) sounded really nice on the phone. Professional, structured, and ready to do the right thing. This I feel secure about.

I screw people that have deliberately hurt me or someone else without thinking. I need healthcare. I need a desk, not a closet to sit in. I need normal hours, my life back, and an easy commute. Didn't I just deal with miserable, scheming monsters who had an agenda and kicked me in the ass for it? Yes, I've been out of work for a while now, but I also know this may be the only length of time off I get. My fibro's still kicking my ass, and I've not been sleeping well. I must as well indulge while I still look. Something good is out there. I'm going to find it.

And I hope this assistant still has her job. A rich brat who wants to change her mind at the drop of a hat. Haven't I had enough of women like this? I'm not entirely corrupt. Not anyway, yet...

The Continual Struggle

Another rejection from a p.r. firm. Once again, I was too "colorful." I'm thinking of returning to the theater where my sense of humor and creativity will be truly appreciated. I tried living my mother's life and was fired. I tried living my father's life and found news almost killed me. Let's try living my life. And let's remember that for 15 years, I grew up on a stage.

And some thoughts from Rob, my favorite astrologer.


Summing up his ongoing attempts to understand the truth about reality, San Francisco Chronicle columnist Jon Carroll wrote, "I am grasping one hair at the end of the tail of a very large tiger, whose exact nature and intentions are not known to me, nor will they ever be. I can only hope to describe a few things about the hair. And I could be wrong." While this is in general an apt description of the quest most of us are on, I think it's overly modest in light of your current astrological omens. For the foreseeable future, Pisces, I bet you'll have the tiger's entire tail in your clutches, and your ability to extrapolate from it to surmise the nature of the whole tiger will be extraordinary. Courtesy of freewillastrology.com.

I know a lot about tigers. They've been jumping on my head and biting my toes since 1974.

:-)

We Are Legion

I am cutting and pasting this from a very important email I received. I will not say who sent this to me, I will not mention names in it, but it's too good not to post. Once again, I am right. People seem to hate this soothsaying quality. I wonder if they, too, hate the person who chose to fill out this AP exit survey. I chose not to. I looked the ugly version of Eva Longoria right in the eye and told IT I was one step ahead when they tried to get rid of me. Read on, kiddies. It's a joy to behold!

Corporate Finance Dept needs to change it's database [name withheld]. it's an old system.
-My supervisor does not dress professionally but she expects me to dress professionally.
-Her assistant, at times was only in the office on average 2 1/2 days a week.
-Most of the meetings the supervisor held with those in the department was to tell us about what we do wrong...I can only name 2 meetings (in the 3 years at AP )that were held to thank us for a job well done.
-Morale is low in corporate finance, and it seems like no one cares. For example the CFO treated corporate finance to bowling once...ONCE!!!!
-Salaries are not competitive.
-There is no growth within corporate finance.
-[Name withheld] treats her subordinates harshly...she yells at them and has thrown papers and books at her subordinates, and no warning has ever been given to [same person, name withheld]. That is unacceptable behavior for a supervisor or anyone else.
-My supervisor takes about 3 to 5 smoke breaks a day but we cant take a single 15 minute break? Please explain how that is justified. AND!!! It is common knowledge that my supervisor takes 3 to 5 smoke breaks a day.
-My supervisor uses foul language too often.
-I feel that [the company] should train its supervisors on dealing with subordinates because there are problems in that area.
-In the morning commuting to work I would get off at the A station on 8th ave at 8:40 then get to the office at 5 minutes to 9. In short, the 450 w 33rd street location is a bad choice.
-Health insurance is too expensive for the low salary I was making. I had no health insurance the entire time [I was] employed with [the company].
-In corporate finance there are too many supervisors and not enough subordinates. (too many chiefs and not enough Indians)
-Any company where a CFO [name withheld, often referred to as King FiFi] wants to get rid of an employee in the mailroom [name withheld, but a very nice and hardworking person] because the CFO does not like the employees hair is not a company I want to work for. Doesn't the CFO have more important issues to deal with?

But of course the CFO has more important issues to deal with, the first being: how does one finally come out of the closet? If this person would stop hiding behind the sham everyone knows to be a false front, perhaps this misdirected hatred would not be flung towards those who must suffer under his so-called mighty bearing. And while we're on the subject of hair, this employee's choice of hairstyle reflects a personal look that is in no way written in the current employee handbook as a justifiable offense and some would say it's this employee's religious beliefs that deem that choice viable. If I'd mentioned this person's last name, it would become clear why this employee's hair is this way.

Yes, I was truly and mightily, by the hands of St. Michael and every Angel, delivered from a festering pit of filth. Faith is everything. Go see "The Reaping." Trust me, it's relevant to today's world. The twist is not knowing what evil looks like or what it does. But I have learned that in order to appreciate the light, you must learn the darkness. It seeps in and sucks the life out of all it encompasses. And sometimes it wears a gentle, soothing grin.

As for His Name We Abuse, I am happy to report a quick glance on their website revealed to me even more of a mess than when I was ousted two months ago. Currently, the vacancies include no COO, no CFO, no HR Director, no Head Delivery Person, no Intake Specialist, no Nutritionist, no Cook, no Porter, no Head Custodian, and an open driver position. As for the drivers, the one thing I did learn is that their union locked them up in a deal for them to make roughly $18,000 a year. That would make them eligible for food stamps. And this place has the balls to link itself to the good works that Ganga Stone once held steadfast? I guess I was delivered again. As Kjou often has said to me, "Don't mess with a child of God." While I would never assume that I am so special or 'marked', apparently Providence or perhaps my precious muse saw fit to remove me from what could have been a potentially fatal situation.

Yes, I am struggling financially. Emotionally? I haven't been this satisfied since Christmas mornings when I was a child in my little Bensonhurst house. That's the kind of joy these demons would love to steal, but can never touch.

Blessings, blessings. Don't block the blessings. Evil never wins. Look it in the eye, say kind words, and walk away with your held high. That, kiddies, is the way to achieve GRACE.

Cows may come and cows may go...

But the BULL goes on forever! And I say this since we're moving into Taurus. I hate Aries, always have, always will.

I'm still hanging in there, fibro's been pretty bad since this humidity is not doing much to help, but I will survive. I'm laying low, taking more naps inbetween my computer-hunting marathon sessions on monster and hotjobs. It's what it is. If I have to give up my Cobra coverage? I will. Just to pay the rent and keep the roof over my head. It seems my former boss has popped up all over tv with the company IT used to work for. In love with political statements, lobbyists, and all that b.s. The stuff I hate. I truly adore "liberals" who feel they need to "speak up" for the "little people" when they themselves have lived lives of privilege. Since I didn't (and probably never will), these same principles actually stand for the fights--the VERY REAL fights--I've had to fight, not by choice, but by necessity. Equality is a lovely choice when you have it handed to you, it's a different concept when you need to take bats and bricks to cover the streets in protest while you're greeted with "No Dogs or Irish Need Apply" upon exiting your check-in at Ellis Island. At least I know who I am and what made me this way.

I'm focusing on planning Kjou's birthday party, which is May 3. We'll head on up to Amy Ruth's and have some honey chicken. I will blog about other things besides my bitterness, but karma's coming back around--more good people have left AP, and my spot has not been filled at His Name We Abuse. HA! I'm loving it.

This may be the longest amount of time I've had off since summers when I was in grammar school. That was well over 20 years ago, maybe I should read some "approved" books and write reports about them or something. I'm totally hooked on Mo'nique's Charm School featuring the wackadoos from Flavor of Love's Season 1 and 2, so that provides me with something to look forward to. Also, if you haven't checked out Shear Genius, it's pretty good for a reality show. It may even rival Project Runway in terms of drama and popularity. These characters can really cut hair! Funny they chose Jacklyn Smith and not Farrah, tho'. I'm sure it's because the level of "Bride of Wildenstein" facelift and Botox-madness is slightly lower than the former Ms. Ryan O'Neil. And of course, I adore the fact that I'm home to watch Lou Dobbs stick it to the Neo-Cons on CNN every night. I don't have to tape or podcast his show anymore. It spurs me on.

My lack of money aside? I'm enjoying my time off. My body and mind needed it. My goodness! I even remembered to blog today. Gotta keep that up.

Happy Friday!

Happy Easter...sort of

Ok, so it's April. Tomorrow is the Figure Skating in Harlem benefit which I will watch from the sidelines since I have no moolah to speak of to buy a ticket. Johnny is supposed to show, which makes me happy. I haven't seen any of his exhibition programs, so this should be fun. Lang and Tchernyshev are back together, as well, and she really looks like she's grown up. They're doing about 35 shows this year. Let's see if they do the SkyRink Christmas show. I haven't been anywhere near that rink since October, but we'll see. I refuse to throw away 31 years of skating, I'm just "off" again. I go back and forth. If ballet was a lover I can no longer have, then skating is my pal, my buddy. We hang out when I get the time. Belasco understands.

Cold out there today. I actually saw snow flurries this morning! Wow. Sometimes it snows in April, as Prince sang.

What else is going on? 300 was amazing. I wanted to slash and kill something when I came out. So many of the shots were straight from the book, my jaw dropped. I can't believe an obvious bunch of Canadian and Scottish actors pulled off the "greek" look, which is usually dark hair and black eyes. I guess the casting crew wanted some color in the sea of sepia, gray and red. Satisfying, really. I sat in a row with about 15 teenage boys. I fear for the bully they'll take on come Monday. If you see a bunch shackled in handcuffs after a sword attack on the evening news, yup! Those were the kids.

Christine Valmy Inc. wants to see me again tomorrow. I'm meeting with Marina de Haydu. Let's see how that goes. I just want something before May. After that, I'm fucked. I won't have enough for rent and Cobra, I'll have to pick which one I can pay for. One of my scrips got lost, too. That means I can't refill until April 25. Ick! Let's see how that goes. I'll just suffer, I guess. I'm tired of taking all these damn pills.

Kjou and I continue to marvel at the skankiness of the Flavor of Love girls--they're a bunch of stripper rejects. They're all flammable, too: not one real breast or stitch of human hair on that stage. Everyone of 'em is synthetic, New York being the worst offender. I've come to the conclusion that her mother's wig was based on the Zuni fetish doll--google "Trilogy of Terror" and the doll should pop up onscreen. I've actually looked at them side-by-side. The similarity is SCARY. Let's see if someone doesn't see fit to give her a talk show. The whole Flav thing is hysterical. One Surreal Life show onto Brigitte Nielsen to....my god. And yet, I watch. It's like Jerry Springer--you feel better about yourself knowing that really stupid people are doing stupid things and making fools of themselves. Some of these girls should be watered--they lose IQ points when they pee. Sad, but true.

And I'm still in Life Limbo. My god, how weird this feels. At least my hair and boobs are real.

Yikes

Rob's prediction this week for longstanding suffering fish like myself...yikes.

Paul Revere was a hero in the Revolutionary War, renowned for the midnight horse ride he risked to warn American militias of an imminent British attack. After it was over, he sent a bill for his work to the local rebel organization, the Committee of Safety. Four months later he was finally paid, although with a sum lower than the one he invoiced. Let's compare these details to your imminent future, Pisces. First, I think that like Revere, you should ask forcefully to be rewarded for your idealistic efforts. But second, don't be crushed if in response you're treated as he was--paid late and in a smaller amount than you wanted. Third, there's a good chance you'll receive additional compensation from unexpected sources--maybe not exactly like Revere's lasting fame, but something of value to you.--courtesy of Free Will Astrology.

I don't fame. I want a job, dammit.

A special thank you to KJou to informing me that the stupid victim thinks I should take back a former co-worker's job this week. Looks like another unsuspecting victim was smoked by the Snake Bastard. I wish this man a painful and bile-filled death. And the stupid bassett hound with him. My prediction? Newsmarkets will cease to be a department at all after this next board meeting in two weeks. Everyone will go down to digital, they'll get rid of the temp, and Wick Temple's legacy will finally be dismantled once and for all.

The AP's going down in flames, people. I am happy to say that neither place has been able to replace my position.

And that makes me happy.

Small reward, I guess. Sigh...

Happy Spring

Good thing the clocks changed. I don't think I could have taken any more evenings of darkness. It's just too much.

Pretty up and down week for me, but the unemployment funds FINALLY kicked in. Praise the Lord! Ohh, did I need that money. Now I have to do the dog and pony show for the NYS Labor Board to show them I'm actually looking for a job, but the cockroaches...er, agencies have started calling me again. I'm not in a position to say no, but I have been grilling them on the level of b.s.--is this a real job? What is the salary? Is this temp to perm? What's the history of this company? How long have they been a client of yours? Oh, these twits don't like thinking job hunters. They want me to shut up and do what they say. Well, we know how that works--it cost me my last job. Still, I'm definitely not getting screwed this time. My rent is paid through May 1, I still have some time.

I have also found a nifty program to file my taxes FREE this year: Baruch College's School of Business has trained seniors that will be charging a pretty penny in a few years to file all my forms. I'm heading over there this week to see what the deal is. I'm not in the mood to give HR Block $200 if I don't have it. I'll definitely owe money this year and next since I cashed out what was left of the mutual funds from my dad's death. If AP had seen fit to pay me a decent salary, I wouldn't have had to do that. But we know how that goes, too.

It's weird being off the clock. I sleep later in the mornings, get up at 9 or 10, and start my day in a humane fashion rather than running around like a bat out of hell. I must say it feels....well, I might be able to see myself living like this one day. My entrepreneurial spirit has awakened. I work for someone else, there's a good chance I'll have to change jobs every 5 years or so given this economy, shitty trade agreements, and the Democrat's jellyfish-absent-spine tactics. True, I think the Bush regime is dying a nice, slow death (my favorite kind), but who the hell is looking out for me? Certainly not corporations or big business. It's time for me to figure out what the hell I could do on the side. Like it or not, I'm going to need two jobs just to survive and keep a roof over my head. It's that simple. I must protect my interests. No one's really on my side when it comes to these places. They have their own rules, cliques, and politics. Was I too trusting when I walked into God's Name We Abuse? Absolutely. I didn't look deep enough, a fatal flaw that surprises even me. Time to get out the Sun Tzu and Machiavelli and learn what true power really looks like: abuse. I must protect myself from it. And it's not two-faced that I keep one eye in the back of my head and one eye on updating my resume constantly: it's simply the way the American workplace is these days. I was absolutely, embarassingly naive. THAT will not happen again.

On the job front, I've got another agency Monday (blah, blah, blah), and I've got all the locations and schedules of every library and Kinko's from Brooklyn, NYC, and Queens. Something good is going to happen. I won't let anything else make me think otherwise.

As Meg says, Onward and Upward!

I Dream of...Eddie?

Yup, strange dream for my birthday.

I dreamed that I was in a ribbon-party-holiday themed store and of all people, Eddie Van Halen was there. He was there to pick up something and he was on a limited budget. He had an old Cutlass with a white furry dog sitting in the front seat. Willie Nelson popped in to say "hello". Eddie offered to drive me home, but I had to wait for someone. He drove with the top down and the dog was wearing a seatbelt. I am NOT making this up. Why was Eddie in my dream?

Not just because he's the greatest guitarist ever to come out of rock, period, but perhaps because he decided rehab was better than facing down Diamond Dave onstage at this week's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony? We all know Dave's a bit of a pain in the ass. Is my subconscious doing something to me? Instead of facing glory, being onstage and feted with accolades, reels of things done greatly, a look back at good times, fab videos and a treasure trove of excess from the 80's, Eddie chose to face his demons. Something I need some tutoring in. Not that I was a drunk like 3/4 of my family, but oh, I've got some serious digging to do. And since I'm halfway to 40 and now unemployed, maybe, just maybe this is the time my brain sent me food for thought? Ahmet Ertegun's passed away, he founded the damn thing, as well as half the labels that put these artists in that hall in Cleveland ('Hello, Cleveland!' Sorry, had to do that Spinal Tap thing), so this year is probably kinda blah. The Ramones are dead, Ronnie Spector's voice is gone, and they haven't even inducted half my favorite rappers yet as solo artists, so this year might just be a bit boring.

But Eddie. This Eddie thing. Hmmm...really gets to me.

In other news, I've contacted Albany and there's a good chance my unemployment will come thru the next week or just before April. I have another interview lined up next week and my psychicness is very high. All my instincts have come true this week. Might be the new moon coming along, but it's pretty good. Also, three and a half weeks of sleeping 10 hours per night have rejuvenated me in a way I never dreamed possible. I don't think I was ready for the demands of a new job, all I wanted was to get the hell away from the AP. And now, of course, they're going to have to find my replacement. Please, oh please let that bastard call me on the phone and if Pinochet calls, I'm going to be so polite, it's frightening. No one, and I mean no one, can do what I did. I did the work of three people and got paid for half of one. The next person won't be able to navigate even the simplest of systems and that hole continues to lose people left and right. I'm loving it, actually. No holes have been filled at God's Name We Abuse, either. That's the funny thing about nonprofits. The money, if any actually comes in, is supposed to go back into resources and making the structure of the companies better. But, since humans are so deeply flawed and selfish by nature, the money goes right into their pockets.

Typical.

I think I'll take Eddie's message to heart. Let's start digging up my demons.

Oh, and the Kohl's near Ceasar's Bay sucks. Nothing will ever beat my tax-free flea market.

I Am Irreplaceable

Courtesy of KJou. No one can do what I did. No one. Goddess forbid I get a phone call from these twits? I'm going to curse these bastards out. Here's a modified forward of my job description, or at least what they're trying to turn it into. Note my colorful commentary. For those of you reading this at the AP? Feel free to spread amongst your friends. All names have been changed so I won't get sued. You might know who I'm mentioning, but that doesn't mean I'm getting myself nailed. HA!

Read on for my commentary. Of course, it's all colorful as I am. And I'm only worth $400? What a disgrace.

Begin forwarded message:

Dey luukking four anuthur yew!!!! (writing courtesy of our love of "Pearls Before Swine". The crocodiles speak and spell like Pinochet.)


Thanks,
KJou
-----Original Message-----
Sent: Monday, March 12, 2007 9:06 PM
Subject: New Job Posting - Description No. (25)83

POSTING DATE: 3/12/2007 ( expires 3/26/2007 )

POSITION: Administrative Assistant

LOCATION: New York City, New York

STATUS: Administrative

INCUMBENT: (ME)***Insert my name here*** has left the company.---BACK IN DECEMBER YOU CRETINS.

JOB REFERRAL AWARD: $400--how insulting

REPORTS TO: THE DOUBTFUL KILLER (private joke to Kjou)

ELIGIBLE FOR RELOCATION ASSISTANCE: No

DUTIES: This administrative assistant will provide a wide variety of
administrative support services to a department that serves AP's
newspaper members. Emphasis on marketing, financial projections,
customer databases and requests for information. Provides assistance to
the Vice President's direct reports as assigned, and collaborates with
departments throughout the AP. This person will answer questions from
newspapers and determine how to resolve issues. --translation: shoveling dogshit on a daily basis with no overtime, no yearly review, no 'good morning' or 'good night', and generally being ignored after five and half years of roughly a 2% raise.

JOB QUALIFICATIONS: To be considered, you must be detail-oriented,
well-organized and adept at problem solving. I WAS ALL OF THESE THINGS, BUT I DIDN'T KISS ENOUGH ASS.
You should be able to work both independently and with others, and work effectively in a fast-paced environment with all levels of management and clients, following guidelines and procedures.--DO WHAT I SAY, NOT WHAT I DO. ALSO, YOU MUST LOOK GOOD IN A TIGHT SKIRT.

Excellent customer relations skills are necessary to answer questionsfrom newspapers and determine how to resolve issues. Knowledge of or interest in the newspaper industry is a plus--GRANDFATHER, FATHER, AND COUSIN JACK FRANKLIN (THAT WOULD BE JFK LITERALLY) WHO WAS PREZ OF GRAPHICS LOCAL 2 UNION FROM 1979-1991 WOULD QUALIFY ME.

-Excellent computer skills. Solid knowledge of MS Office applications including Word, Excel and PowerPoint a must, as well as knowledge of Explorer, search engines and online navigation--I HAVE A MAC AT HOME, I'M PRETTY DAMN GOOD AT THIS.
-Must be able to create, manipulate and analyze complex spreadsheets---THIS WAS ADDED SINCE THE COBS (Chiefs of Bureaus) DON'T WANT TO DO IT, IT USED TO BE THEIR JOBS, NOT MINE;
-utilize Outlook to create-folders and distribution lists--THIS USED TO BE STRICTLY AN I.T. FUNCTION, I WAS NEVER GIVEN PERMISSION WHEN I ASKED 8 TIMES, 5 OF WHICH CAME FROM THE WEASEL AND THE KISS-ASS MONKEY HIMSELF, WHO IGNORED ME.
-produce presentations using PowerPoint.THIS WAS CROCKY'S JOB, BUT NOW SHE ONLY SPEAKS JAMACODILE.
-Knowledge of SAP CRM preferred. Familiarity with databases required. --I KNOW PEOPLESOFT AND SALESFORCE.COM. NO ONE WANTED TO USE IT. IT'S TOO EXPENSIVE AND OLD WHITE MEN NEED TO PLAY GOLF, SEND THEIR KIDS TO BIG TEN SCHOOLS AND LIVE IN SPLIT-LEVEL CONDOS IN CONNECTICUT.

Other qualifications include:
-Effective written and verbal communication--HAD THAT, EVEN THOUGH MY EMAILS WERE OFTEN IGNORED OR DELETED.
-organizational and interpersonal skills a must. Ability to deal professionally and constructively with vendors, members and staff at all levels.
-Must be a self-starter, able to work with minimal supervision to initiate and complete tasks --IF MY WORK LOAD WASN'T TRIPLED AND MY SALARY DOUBLED, I MIGHT HAVE GIVEN A RAT'S ASS.
-Must be able to deal constructively with vendors and staff on all levels.--DID. I WAS GENERALLY LIKED AND RELIED UPON BY MOST OF THE COBS. THEY EXPRESSED SHOCK AND SORROW WHEN I LEFT. WHEN THE SHIT HIT THE FAN, I HAD TO CLEAN UP WHAT WASN'T DISTRIBUTED EVENLY. I HAD TO PROVIDE MY OWN GLOVES AND PURELL WHEN MY HANDS GOT PARTICULARLY DIRTY FROM SHOVELING HORSESHIT PAST SIX O'CLOCK AT NIGHT AND ON WEEKENDS UNPAID AND UNTHANKED.

Must be organized and able to manage multiple tasks with conflicting priorities.--SUCH AS SLUTS WHO DON'T SPEAK ENGLISH AND TALK DOWN TO ME WHEN I KNOW MORE ABOUT NEWSPAPERS SINCE IT'S IN MY BLOOD AND MY FAMILY. I'M FUCKING IRISH, WE INVENTED AND SAVED THE WRITTEN WORD. PRETTY FADES, DUMB IS FOREVER, BUT STUPID IS PERMANENT.

Must present a professional image.--IF I WAS PAID MORE THAN $33,000 AFTER TAXES, I MIGHT HAVE BEEN ABLE TO SHOP MORE FOR CLOTHES AND NOT SPEND ALL OF IT ON RENT, TRANSPORTATION, AND BILLS. ALSO NO SIZE 16's ALLOWED. 20 YEAR-OLD ANOREXICS WITH SHRUNKEN-VIOLET MOUSE PERSONALITIES WILL BE GIVEN FIRST CONSIDERATION. FAKE BOOBS AND RESTYLANE LIP INJECTIONS A PLUS. IF YOUR IQ IS LOW, WE WILL WATER YOU WITH THE WEEKLY PLANTS AFTER EACH BATHROOM TRIP.

Type 60 words per minute.--I TYPE 70-85, WAS TESTED. I ALSO SPEAK FLUENT ENGLISH AND SPELL CHECK MY OWN NAME WHEN SENDING OUT IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS. DUHHHH!!!!!

3+ years of experience as an administrative assistant or similar job.--THEY WANT AN OBEDIENT MOUSE WHO WILL OBEY NO MATTER WHAT. IF YOU HAVE NO PERSONALITY, EVEN BETTER.

Some college is preferred.--THIS POSITION WAS ONLY OFFERED BY THE PREVIOUS MANAGEMENT TO SOMEONE WHO POSSESSED A JOURNALISM OR ENGLISH BACHELOR'S DEGREE, OR COMMUNICATIONS AS A MAJOR WITH 26 COMPLETED CREDITS. I HAD TO SHOW THEM MY BACHELOR'S DEGREE AND TRANSCRIPT DURING MY BACKGROUND CHECK TO GET THIS JOB.

HOW TO APPLY: Please apply through our quick, easy-to-use interactive
job posting database.--By talking to the ugly version of Eva Longoria.

On Lotus Notes:--NO ONE USES LOTUS NOTES, IT'S A DINOSAUR. THIS PLACE WON'T GET VISTA UNTIL 2015, I'LL BET $20 ON IT.

Please provide a copy of your application to your manager.--IF THEY'RE NOT QUITTING TOO. BETTER GO QUICK! IF YOU'RE NOT A RAT JUMPING OFF THE TITANIC NOW, YOU MIGHT MISS OUT ON YOUR PIECE OF CHEESE!!!

The Associated Press is an Affirmative Action/Equal Opportunity
Employer. --PARTICULARLY IF YOU'RE NOT WHITE, BILINGUAL AND SHOW OFF YOUR BIKINI WAX WHILE WALKING UP THE STAIRS AND FORGET YOUR UNDERWEAR. ILLEGIMATE CHILDREN AND FLAUNTING YOUR PERSONAL LIFE AND HAVING NO KNOWLEDGE OF USA GEOGRAPY GETS YOU EXTRA POINTS.

REMEMBER, KIDDIES! DETROIT IS IN OHIO, POUGHKEEPSIE IS IN HAWAII, AND CHICAGO IS IN INDIANA.

THIS IS WHY I DON'T WORK THERE ANYMORE. I HAVE A BRAIN IN MY HEAD.

SPECIAL THANKS TO KJOU FOR SENDING THIS TO ME. ONE LAST QUESTION: WHAT'S THE STARTING SALARY ON THIS? $28K? A DISGRACE.

Wick Temple is turning over in his grave. Over and over and over....Tom Curley should be shot in the head. No, better--right in the face. Useless narcissist bastard. He's ruined a good company once and for all and I hope Dean Singleton kicks his ass right out the door. With steel-toed Doc Martens.