TeleVirgin SuperMac

Yes, you read that correctly. I have not one, not two but THREE part time jobs.

Virgin Megastore called me. Music, books, politics. That's so me it ain't funny.

SuperMac is a Mac and Cheese catering place. My favorite dish and the one part of soul food I love the most. Plus the tips are phenomenal.

And last, the one I don't like, the telelmarketing job. Of course, it's about the arts. I get to discuss the symphony, the ballet, plays, musicals, and all that. BUT! I have to persuade and schmooze people into buying tickets. My thing is, you either want them or you don't. I won't be keeping this job too long. Once Virgin gives me my hours?

I'm outta there.

Let's see if I can keep my Medicaid. That's the part that scares me the most. I need my medications. And Starbucks called, too.

Didn't I say it would be feast or famine? Never fails, kiddies, never fails.

And my roommate is still not giving me enough money. There. I said it. Stupid is not taking a bad job, stupid is keeping a bad job. When you get paid shit and only get paid two times a month? There ain't enough to be spread around. I had something like that for one month back in 1997. I walked out after 33 days and never looked back. Time for her to do the same.

Yes, if you're reading this, now the world knows. You're worth more! DEMAND IT.

Not Much to Say

More great interviews, though.

Ricky's, Starbucks, 2 agencies, Virgin Megastore, Working Families Party, SuperMac.

For those of you reading this blog? Stay tuned, you might be getting a phone call very soon.

None of the places America Works has sent me to led to anything. Typical. All they have is menial, minimum wage jobs for the "lesser-thans" that cling to welfare. I'm not one of them. Myself and and a lawyer whose firm disbanded actually give each other knowing looks each morning when we talk. Yes, my superiority complex is coming out, but I'm not about to dumb myself down for the masses.

I'm convinced that this country wants obedience, sheepishness, low self-esteem, and outright stupidity to fit its ranks and rosters. I will NEVER do or be that.

My parents, from what I can see in this corporate narcissist haze in which I am stuck, did me a huge disservice by making me read news and books, making sure I worked part-time in high school and college, made me GO to college, and had me question what I saw and experienced all around me. The Robber Barons have come home to roost and are now pecking my flesh bit by bit. Inch by inch. Hitchcock couldn't have divised such cruelty in any of his films, and he was the master of suspense. Once again, I will not be obedient, I will not be nice, I will not be politically correct.

I am intelligent, hardworking, and am smarter, faster, and learn things quicker than any of these twits I'm dealing with. Mob rules do not apply to someone like me. I am a leader, not a follower. I will be slaughtered alone in protest and with a smile during my last breath, not packed with the lemmings going over the cliff, smashing into the rocks.

Contempt led me through these past five years, and contempt will allow me to rise above. I will put on the mask, play the part and dazzle. I grew up on a stage, who better than I to charm them with cooing words and a demure smile? It's all a game.

One in which I WILL DEVISE THE RULES. Should I die trying?

Well, these assholes couldn't carve out my dignity with their knives.

The demon is back. Say hi to the little bitch. I can tell she's gonna be around for quite some time this summer.

Public (Non)Assistance

Well, the middle class is officially dead. We are also officially in a recession. Don't let Bernanke fool you. The only things I can find are part-time, and I'm struggling. So, I got my benefits (purely a title by attrition) to the tune of $31.50 per week. Yup, PER WEEK. I can't pay my bills, can't find a job (although the interviews are coming fast and furious), and I am seeing the death of the middle class.

I sat between two people the other day: one man had a PhD, the woman had a masters in teaching. No welfare queens or assholes bilking the system in this bunch. This is good old-fashioned Reagonomics coming home to bite our heads off. If you're not rich? Well, go bitch somewhere else. We don't wanna hear it!

Never in my lifetime have I had such a difficult time simply surviving.

And as for my living situation...well. Oh, boy. Don't get my started. Eccentric, selfish, mixed jumbles of yuppies that can afford this place and the blue collar chumps that can't get by? Let the class war begin.

I've fucking had it. Really and truly.

Hi again

Well, I'm back. Turned 36, found my Russian fotog Vlad (he gave me a pic of Gelsey for FREE), roomie's doing well, but our $ situation is not. I'm trying out NYC's emergency rent program and then if nothing happens, it's on the dole for me. NO pride at this point, it's all about survival. Since I've been running into people with masters and PhDs, it's not surprising that we're all struggling. Nothing's going to change until the next election, so I'm not going to freak out. I've cried, kicked and screamed and that's been a waste of my energy. The economy's in the toilet, and NAFTA's fucking us all. If people don't wake up by the time November rolls around? We're all doomed.

Other than that, I'm happy to see Spring breaking thru. After an entire year that felt like winter, it's refreshing to see the sun out a little later in the evening.

In the meantime, it's off to Sephora and Starbucks for me.

(To apply there, not to shop. Please, kiddies. I'm not that stupid.)

Two Things I'm Known For

Anyone who knows me realizes that 1) I love Christmas; and 2) I was raised with Italians up to the age of 9 in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Once upon a time it was THE Quintessential Italian Neighborhood. Now it's mostly Russian and Chinese, but I like to think of the Pasta/Pizza/Tony/Bakery days.

What you might not know is that "The Godfather" was released in New York City on the same day I was born: March 15, 1972. It was a Wednesday, I was told. Maybe 5 or 6 theatres. No one realized the epic saga it would become. People thought Brando was just hamming it up with an orange tabby in his arms. Little did Scorcese realize he'd crafted one of the top 100 films of all time. Even made men--REAL MOBSTERS--revere Mario Puzo's tale of family, secrets and revenge.

Here's a spoof video to celebrate my two loves: the holiday and all my Italians. I was given (and boy, do I hate this word) Honorary Wop Status back in 1997 due to my pasta-making abilities and my full knowledge of opera in lyrics and the ability to sing some of those arias. Some of these lovable nutjobs even refer to me as "Kennedini" or "Kennedizzi", which never fails to make me collapse when I hear it. My mother rolled her eyes and my dad's spleen almost burst while laughing when I received that particular birthday card. I know it's in storage somewhere.

Enjoy!

A Dog Barks....at 1 am, 2 am, etc

Yes, Animal Control has been called. Why?

For the past TWO WEEKS the asshole who lives beneath me has been unable (if not unwilling) to keep his dog quiet. A barking dog in an apartment as small as mine equals

1) the dog is stressed.

2) the dog is not being taken out on a regular basis, hence the stress.

3) the dog is sick, hungry, or otherwise neglected.

I watch Caesar Milan. DOGS NEED TO BE WALKED AND ATTENDED TO. THEY NEED TOYS, PARKS, WALKS, AND PLAY. My own father raised german shepherds upstate when he was a child through his teenage years. I think I know something about animals. I worked in a pet store. I've done volunteer work in Brooklyn and rescue work in NYC. I'm an animal lover. THAT IS WHY I CALLED 311 LAST NIGHT AT 12:51 AM AND PUT IN A COMPLAINT ABOUT THE ASSHOLE BENEATH ME. It's not about him. It's about the dog.

First, in my typical Stormtrooper fashion, I banged on his door. Asshole refused to open it and face me. Instead he spoke macho bullshit to me behind a lock. How manly!

If a dog is barking and someone is home, why don't you try to calm your dog down? Then, I walked up the stairs screaming about he should watch Animal Planet or The Dog Whisperer, and I get, "I never bother you when you're banging upstairs with the tv on. Maybe I'll come up and visit you more often?" I answered, "My door's always open. Come on in if you need to!"

Now, here's the stupid part of the argument. My noise at night is the same as anyone's in this building. You can hear the floorboards creak and the toilets flush. It's called living in a tenement apartment built in 1929. The walls and floors are paper-thin. However, once my noise stops (and within a reasonable hour), all is quiet and there are no cats wailing or yowling. People noise is not the same as a stressed-out dog barking. Noise is tolerated, as specifically stated in the lease (which Asshole obviously did not read) between the hours of 8 am and 10 pm. 12:51 am is LATE AT NIGHT, THEREFORE VIOLATING THE TERMS OF THE LEASE. Does it take a lawyer to know that? NO! READ THE DAMN LEASE.

Mind you, this asshole has only been living here since October. In those 5.5 months, he has managed to piss off his neighbor, my next-door neighbors, my superintendent and his wife, Kathy. Kathy, is like me: Irish and German. Except she is older, less tolerant of bullshit and has seen and done it all. Frankly, she is what I will most likely turn into by the age of 50. Loud, brash, and more frightening than anything Stephen King or Wes Craven could invent. I admire her greatly. This took time, but I realized that we have the same values. She did not take kindly to being referred as Hughie's (my super and her husband) 'ball and chain' this past summer before Asshole even moved in. This comment was made in front of other people who know Hughie and Kathy. You don't fuck with the people that will help you open a lock, fix plumbing, or unclog a toilet. Hughie refers to Asshole as "that piece of work", my neighbors refer to him as "Oh, yeah. THAT guy." No one likes him. I guess his dog doesn't either.

And now, neither do I. My complaint # has been filed. Asshole will get a letter in the mail from the city of NY stating on how to keep his dog quiet. I know he doesn't know how to keep his dog happy, because this is the only companionship he can find. Very much like the dickhead I live underneath. He beat his girlfriend to a pulp two summers ago. If you think I'm not big on animal neglect, ask me my opinion on domestic violence. I called the cops on him and he happens to be a cop himself. Do you think I cared? Ummm.....NO. Kicking your significant other around like a Brazilian at the World Cup doesn't sit well with me. He knows I called. Now he sheepishly avoids my gaze and has kept his love life (and his boxing skills) OUT of his apartment. I did not care that he is a member of law enforcement. I did not fear that he has a gun and might have turned on me. If I could battle pneumonia, survive almost being miscarried twice inside my own mother, chronic bronchitis, fibromyalgia, acne, cysts in my breasts and ovaries, and recurring staph infections when I was a kid? It's obvious that I, like my cats, have nine lives. A bullet would only take away another one of them. My life force and my will is THAT STRONG. Plus, I could sue him, I could sue the management company for leasing a place to an obvious mental defective, I could sue the NYPD for not properly profiling a member of their own psychologically, and then I'd go to the media. My rolodex is fat and full of names I took with me from my former job. He'd be a disgrace, and I'd be a survivor making the rounds of CNN, The Times, The Daily News, and maybe other talk show outlets. I wouldn't shut up. I'd be a damn celebrity. I'd make sure of it.

So why should I fear this asshole beneath me? From what I can see, he drives a truck. He told Hughie he has his own company, but when Hughie asked him about his "fleet", he said he only has one truck. That's not a company. That's you driving a truck. And keeping strange hours. Hours that your dog is neglected. Hours in the night when I don't see your lights on, or even see you in the hallway. I think I saw asshole walking this dog ONCE. At least dickhead above me takes his own dog out twice a day. Dickhead might not be nice to the women in his life, but he is nice to his dog. Asshole seems to neglect dogs and it's clear to me he hates women, given his lovely veiled "threat" and his 'ball and chain' comment. Through a locked door, no less. Oh, I'm soooo afraid. Don't you love cowards? Aren't they fun?

So, the City of NY has put the letter in the mail. We'll see what happens. I know housing court pretty well given my parents travails and my own journalism school trips, and if it gets to that? I'll see that he's either brought up on charges, evicted, or has the dog taken away from him. It's about the dog! Not Asshole!

I will stop at nothing anymore to ensure my own peace of mind and the province of sleep. I've had it with assholes, dickheads, and morons. PERIOD. Like Kathy says, "Don't fuck with the Irish. We're really not that nice in a fight."

To be continued...

One of my Favorite Stevie Wonder songs...

Performed by my immortal skating beloved. This coverage comes from Russian tv (god, I love the internet) and it was from Cup of China. The announcer is stating (my translation is rough, but I do know some Russian) that he's the winner of Cup of China at the Grand Prix series and that he will be awarded a special prize known as "For the Love of Russia" later that year.

Another interesting thing you don't see on American television: the extra 2 minutes comes from the magic of editing. The first time you watch it, you'll see how he doubles a jump and his last backspin travels. They invite him back for an editing "encore" to fix the spin, centering it! American television NEVER shows this, which is why most people think skaters nail all their jumps and spins on the first try.

WRONG.

They get "do-overs", a nasty little secret the USA networks don't want you to know. HA! I love this.

He'll be in Sweden next month at Worlds. Since he's half Norwegian, I'm sure they'll be watching their American counterpart. Like me, he's Irish, German, and a bit Norwegian. My Norse roots are very distant, but I like to think it keeps my hair blonde!

Go, Johnny, go...