Again, you are welcome.

Big kisses to the one who sent this to me at work today. I think that others might've objected to my raucous laughter permeating their office walls. I say fuck 'em.

http://slog.thestranger.com/2007/09/everybody_needs_to_spew
_sometimes

Autobiographical minute:

One of those all-consuming weeks dedicated to "The Man".

Organizing meetings, attending meetings, staying awake during meetings, eating too much meeting food out of sheer boredom, sitting in meeting chairs for too long, driving to and from meetings, catching up on email not attended to during meetings, fixing crises arising post-meeting email from others, dealing with co-worker lout, finally eating properly and going to the gym, and finally getting an evening to relax and go to bed soon.

That's all.

And it was successful. Because there are times when I do actually rock the house. And the free world. Maybe even smallish parts of the unfree world. Hard to tell. Since they're unfree and all.

Over and out.

Dear broken boys and broken girls,

I've been thinking about you. Because of the solidarity of the tribe. Whether self-inflicted or just victims. Of others' problems and personalities.

For some reason, and I haven't been able to parse it out, we carry it within. You know what I am saying. The pain of the parents. And their parents. And the historical imperative that says that we shall never be healed fully. But we can overcome. There are plenty of stories of these.

Fables of the Reconstruction. Buy the album. It might help convince you. That the healing can happen in increments. Ask around. Be careful where you tread though. Because part of you is broken, you can fall more easily than others. Because there are corrupted wounds and empty spaces, there is also a need to anesthetize. This is dangerous. And foolhardy to ignore.

The ground can still shift alarmingly underfoot, and the air can become chilled and inhospitable without warning. Think of it as an adventure. Think of it as something with a potential positive outcome. And more than anything, have hope that it will be fine someday. Maybe not normal, maybe not horribly happy, but just fine.

Because it's not always possible to turn back time and fix everything. I've tried. And failed so many times. It just happens. Ask around. Again be careful who you ask. Be sure to vet them carefully, as they might have a vested interest in your pain. Always be aware of their motives when you can. Paranoia does have its upside. In that paranoia doubles as self defense. And can be the right thing on occasion.

But it can also be the boundary to getting on with things. So there is a balance there, as well.

Well, boys and girls, I have gone on too long. And not made as much sense as I would like. But it's all done in good humor, and with the best of intentions. Carry on. Drink your milk. And eat your fruits and vegetables. Grow strong. Grow healthy. Grow up.

Love,
me.

Seasons are doing their march forward...or something like that. We put the tshirt sheets on the bed. Meaning serious lethargy in the morning. Because tshirt sheets don't want to let go.

Meaning that it takes me twice the time to wake up and find words.

I'll adjust.

Note to self:

that 16 oz coffee that you chugged before the 2.5 hour meeting seemed like a good idea. But it wasn't.

Fun Fact:

Belgian style beers give me migraine!

How cool is that?!

Ahhhh shit.

Colin McRae and his son, with two friends died in a helicopter accident yesterday.

For those who don't know who he was, do a quick Google search- he was amazing. His son was just a little guy. Crap.

I finally am starting to get it.
I see where I've been with moments of clarity, and understand how it all came about.

I no longer play with matches at the gas pump
I no longer have the full-on urge to self-immolate.
I no longer have the need to dive so deeply into someone else's reality and lose my own.
I have more stubbornness than is probably good for me.
I am surviving.

Things I have lost- partial list.

Absolute faith that it'll all be just fine and that my parents will fix anything.
Absolute faith in anything, really.
the ability to subsume myself in any relationship.
blind obsession.
ultimate narcissism.
obliviousness of my own actions and how they effect others.
that feeling of being freshly in love and the accompanying rush.
partial skin on my back.
clavicles that could cut paper.

Do I miss these things?

not sure really, haven't fully processed it all.
Don't know that I want to spare the time and manpower to get the job done.

Same venue...different day

Crowded with families. One table- three intensely concentrating petite Asian women are having what appears to be a very serious conversation. One table- a large white woman with poofy blond hair is laughing and talking about eating here often. One table- six likely virgins are playing with their "Magic- the Gathering" cards. One of these could pose as a Hassidic Jew, as he has the bowler, the long white sleeved shirt, the black suspenders and pants, and the beard. But he lacks the side locks, and somehow I'm not sure Hassidic Jews are known for their affection for "Magic- the Gathering." I could be tragically wrong.
At the end of the Magical table a round man is studying obtrusively for something that only he finds important. He is complaining to a woman near him about the noise of the Magic table. Which begs the question- if you're so damned busy studying, and need quiet, wouldn't the library 15 steps away be a better choice than the food court on a Saturday afternoon? Idiot?
An Indian man walks by with the red caste symbol on his head, leading a small girl by the hands. She is hanging back, obviously wanting to stay where they were.
At the large chess game, two young boys in baseball uniforms are playing their fathers, while onlookers offer suggestions.
At the table behind them two older men are playing timed chess. They are quiet, and no one offers suggestions or commentary.

All on one walkby to the store.

Yesterday at lunch at the mall south of here.

Among the food court restaurants from many countries, and surprisingly good food.

A table under the skylight.

Two old men. With hats and jackets from 40 years ago. Playing cards. The cards were bent and dull- the arc of fingernails. The game wasn't recognizable. They spoke in tongues. Of some kind or other. Just not immediately recognizable either.

But I suspect it was slavic in nature. Just because.

And I think that they probably have memories of apple trees in bloom in the old country and the thighs of young peasant women. And the smell of the soil after it rained. And the smell of the machinists shop. And the smell of the ocean while crossing. And the smell of cabbage in the apartment hallway in the new place.

What I've been reading

There is a forbidden blog out there in bloggoland. It's all about workplace. And even big cheeses at the company read it. But no one admits to reading it- and certainly not on company equipment on company network airspace. Bad form, that- stupid really.

But I read. Because I just can't leave well enough alone. And lately the discussion has been the company get together recently.

What gets me in a huff is the clubbishness of it all. That as one of the new employees, there is some status to be gained. That people doing my kind of job are definitely not top drawer. Funny that. The same people who lack respect for me and my job, are the first ones to come whining to me when they need something. No, no bitterness at all. (well, maybe some).

It's the biggest thing that will bite me in the ass there. The hierarchy, and my inability to either understand or respect it. Seriously. Just do not get it in a fundamental manner. Always escapes me- as I don't attribute it as a cause or an effect. Which is stupid on my part. Because it is a preoccupation of many, and really does have legs. I have GOT to get it into my skull- that many, many people are absolutely obsessed with the standing, and where they fall. That it is important to them, and by the very nature of the beast should be important to me.

Here's where the MT background is not an advantage. Growing up in a place where the richest folks wear Carhartts stained with cow shit, and drive 30 year old trucks didn't prepare me for this.

On a nice note, however, yesterday I drove to work next to a guy driving a DeLorean. I love him. But only if he did it with full irony intact.

Scenes from a wedding

The bride was a tad unhappy that her table decorations were hijacked by an enthusiastic relative. But it did provide us with ongoing pleasure and a standing joke.

At each place setting was a little card with a picture of the bride and groom, a plastic gem (resembling D & D dice), and a little quote on the back. Most were biblical, thus making the gem not D & D dice in the least, but some were funny as hell.

Here are the best (because yes, I had to collect them and bring them home):

"May there be an Angel that will always sprinkle the spice into S & R's shake! ...and the wiggle in their dance!" (shudder....)

"May the 'Peek-a-Boo' Angle always mind his own business."

and the best for last:

"When the Tickle Angel slips by to visit I hope she leaves you one pink and one blue 'Headache'!"

We had a lot of fun finding definitions of the Tickle Angel that probably would leave the author of the quotes cranky and bewildered. And I really want to give my friends a pink and a blue t shirt with Tickle Angel on the front. But I know that they wouldn't wear them, so I won't bother.

Ah Kentucky.

More thinking about this one

The idea of death was with me yesterday all day after I fired off my diatribe on disrespect. Basically I was thinking of what makes people stand in line to see a dead body. What makes them want to tear apart the mistress of a foolish man because his ex-wife died. What makes them think that their actions in these cases matter in the least. Because they do not. They are not involved in the dead person's life/world/reality in any way. Because the dead person is DEAD.

And there you have it. Starfuckers to the last. Which is probably harsh, but I'm calling it as I sees it today. Not to say that I'm above it, either. I got up at 4:00AM and watched the Princess get planted. I cried. It wasn't what I see as my finest moment, either.

I have an aversion to the self-serving nature of this kind of thing. That somehow it pulls me out of the mundane to be able to tell everyone that I was there. That I saw this happen. That somehow, even tertiarily I was involved. When in reality this is not respect. Respect is giving the family privacy. Respect is reserved for those who actually loved and cared for the dead person. Respect is reserved for those who actually knew the person. The rest of us can basically opt for sadness, regret that someone is gone who we admired from afar, and that's basically it if you want to remain classy about it. But this kind of sick fascination with these dead folks, as though there is some sense of implied ownership? That's not in any way, shape or form respectful.

There is nothing to be proud of to have bullied the Royal Family into some kind of massive theatrical display. Just as there is nothing to be proud of to have a handkerchief with Lincoln's blood on it (or Louis XVI, or Marie Antoinette, et al.). Basically it's akin to tourism- the collection of mementos of someone famous. And it's kind of icky.

Now. That's what I spent time pondering yesterday. The physical part of the phenomenon. The spiritual/mental side of things is something entirely different. Perhaps I'll think about it today. Or maybe not- the sun is shining and I want to go play.

Yup, it's me the disrespectful one.

I just gotta say it. Because someone anonymously accused me of being disrespectful. And I'll admit it up front. In fact, it would probably be good to put it in the masthead of the site. Because damn straight! Disrespect is us!

Let me explain. I don't waste a hell of a lot of time and energy proselytizing about how bloody wonderful the dead are. That seems to be a problem for some. Bummer. They're DEAD, get over it. Saying nice things doesn't bring them back. Saying mean things doesn't bring them back. And neither makes your time or my time living any longer. So I choose not to waste time coloring everything in pretty pastel colors. Fuck that shit.

Too much time wasted in regret. Too much time wasted being gentle on the feelings of others, all the while slamming them in private. Too much time wasted lying to ourselves and others. Fuck that shit.

If that bums you out, and if it makes you all sad, and if you think I'm a big meany, total bummer. Because that's the lay of the land hereabouts, and I'm not planning on overhauling my character to please some anonymous commenter. Fuck that shit too.

Heh. Guess who woke up not particularly cheerful today? Well, actually, I'm pretty much ok. Just not very respectful. Which is no surprise, I'm sure, to you who know me.

So the man who sang and wore a cape is dead.

Are we destined to chew on that one for a decade? And trot it out annually and have celebratory fountains in parks and have concerts featuring creepy old pop stars?

Are we destined to see the old guy on magazine covers as we re-ponder all of the assorted scandals and highlights of his life?

Ah, no. That is all reserved for the other one. The one whose fine ass he grabbed one time, and got slammed in the press. All because no doubt, there were plenty of editors who would've loved to have copped a feel. But never got the chance to hug the little hoochy mama.

All this death worship- maybe we are indeed Egyptians at heart still.

What I didn't do for a living

For some reason it appears that in Louisville it's ok to wear underwear in a bar and collect a paycheck. Probably a larger one than I get, btw. But I'm guessing that there aren't really great benefits, and the shoes hurt one hell of a lot more. And there's probably also one hell of a short shelf life for the girls who go this route. With their pretty little bottoms on display, and dead eyes...

When not slinging drinks and expensive colored fruity shots in silly containers, they get to dance. Dance for us all! With their pretty little bottoms on display, and dead eyes.

And the hungry boys watch.

And the scary boys think things I don't want to know about.

Did they plan to get these jobs when they were little? Was this all part of fulfilling some kind of dream?

Is my sadness and angst about the whole thing inappropriate? Do the dead eyes lie?

Playing the George Thoroughgood game

On Saturday we went for a walk together. And decided to do lunch.

We saw the unfortunate street fellow who had been beating the shit out of an ashtray the night before. That day he was just making strange hand gestures and speaking in tongues. Nothing malevolent about it. Just move along.

We then went to the Makers Mark bar and had shots. One bourbon, one scotch, and then shortly later, one beer. I loves me Makers Mark. I have decided. But I liked the Laphroaig 10 year better. Reminded me of a warm wool sweater. But hell, this is one instance of When in Rome, that I will embrace.

It was probably the best part of the trip. Just being together and seeing parts of the town. Knowing that we won't be back soon, and won't see much of the place at all- but still seeing something. Not understanding the context, but that's ok. The big mystery- why the Thomas Jefferson statue at the courthouse? Wikepedia didn't answer the mystery. And yes, we returned directly to the hotel to consult the Wikepedia oracle.

And yes, it is a Michael Graves building- the Humana building. I spotted it, and declared it such. And others disagreed. In their faces. I didn't blow tens of thousands of dollars on the Art History degree for nothing, chumpy! I knows me my Michael Graves architecture. Not that I like it all that much, just never doubt the eye. Ditto the Calder sculpture. Heh.

When in Louisville, if you have the budget, stay at the art museum hotel. Only problem with the amazing room was the lack of refrigerator for our stuff- only had a mini bar.

But they did have a very unusual mint soap in the shower. Must be experienced to be described properly. But suffice it to say, brisk, tingly, and well, brisk.

I'll post photos later.

Now I know where Girls Gone Wild comes from.

And I really don't quite know what to say. Literally speechless about elements of the trip. Which is probably good.

Very fun overall. Just... not sure how to interpret being rubbed upon by single boy/men. While Kbot watched and laughed at my discomfort. Probably just not drunk enough. But still... I don't remember being that nonchalant about the whole game back in the day. Guess I was just too damned serious for my own good. Never had it in me to dance on a stage with my girlfriends to EXTREMELY LOUD CRAPPY MUSIC. And the saddest thing- I was saving that small percentage of my hearing for the White Stripes concert. Fuck.

I don't remember girls from MT being quite that... uninhibited. But that probably has changed. I am old, remember. And no doubt the age of some of the participants mothers. Eek. But still.

All were blond, or some variation. All were showing knockers galore. All were just naughty girls. And then there was me. Hee hee. Kbot and I were just amazed.

Some seriously skeevy dudes in residence, as well. Including a trio of what had to be severely gay guys who were hiding out at the titty bar to throw their jarhead buddies off the track. They were doing an awful lot of back rubbing and touching eachother to be straight. I'm just saying.

So skeevy that there was an actual attendant in the men's room- no doubt to keep the shall we say, occupancy, moving along.

Overall, the thought, "Well, I NEVER!" kept repeating itself in my head. And I tried to ignore it. Because I refuse to become my grandmother. But that doesn't mean that I went totally Roman. I would like to think of it as more of an anthropology experience. Watching from the fringes, and trying to understand where my youth went...

And wishing that they would just turn the FUCKING LOUD, CRAPPY MUSIC down.

And Kbot kept repeating that they needed to clean the fucking beer lines. Gak.

So I'm not the only old one. Hah.

Postscript: I think it necessary to explain- in this instance I was wearing Kbot's gray tshirt (there was a luggage mishap involving cuticle oil and my clothing....sigh...), my comfy jeans and my Converse slipons, topped with a black sweater. Very sexy, no? No. Just a touch out of place.