Charlotte Perkins Gillman would understand

The bathroom is de-lovely!
I walk in there and don't feel oppressed and become filled with anger toward the world everytime I have to pee. My only regret is that I didn't save a piece of that wallpaper as a reminder of how truly ugly a thing can be. Not that it isn't burned in my memory like so many images I'd rather forget. I'll probably never fully recover from that wallpaper. It's only in having it gone am I able to think about the fact that I lived with it for two years. I hated it everyday and everyday I tried very hard to forget how much it was the wall covering equivelant of a week of eating nothing but brussels sprouts.
The room is so big and not striped! It's nifty as can be!
Now of course I realize that I have one nice looking room (nice-ish it still has some issues to be honest even with my careful patching the wall is far from what you might call smooth. I blame the person who thought it was necessary to use concrete to affix a mirror to the wall. I am not kidding.
But as long as I keep that crazy looking 1980's Men of Blanche's Boudroir Mirror the worst of it is covered. And as long as the shelves stay where they are most of the worst of the messiness is fairly well covered.
I'm happy.
And I'm watching a video of Cleveland Weather that is probably a decade old. I have no idea why I taped this. But soon I will tape over it-I'm just trying to get a date or some idea of when it was on.
So I can destroy what is probably the last remaining copy of that broadcast.
And now I know-1997.
Alright. Not quite `10 years.
Weird wacky stuff.

Man, what're you doing here?

I am so afraid of what will happen to the bathroom when I attack it with paint and brush tomorrow. I've lived in this joint for almost two years without doing any improvements (and none were performed before I moved in--I can guar-damn-tee that) so it is only with great trepidation that I approach any kind of work.
Trepidation, or, you know-boredom.
I'm over $30 down in this endeavor and it better damn well work out or I'm going to be really pissed off right now. Besides, if paintin the bathroom goes well I might slap a coat on the other walls. The whole place could stand a coat or three. Always could-but I hate this kind of stuff painting and wallpapering and shit. It is not my forte to say the least. I'd rather just leave it as it is than make it worse by attempting improvement.
Litte Man isn't exactly enjoying the renovation either. He kept walking into the bathroom in the midst of the destruction and looking at me with a face that clearly said "Mum, you've gone mad, haven't you?" then he gave me a look that said, "I miss Auntie, can I go live with Gran and Granddad? They're not as loony as you." (I don't have the heart to tell them they're far worse. He needs someone to look up to.) Then he went and curled up on my pillow and took a nap. He's upset by the state of affairs, but not enough to give up his precious sleep.
Speaking of Mum and Mik-they'd gone shopping for new work clothes for me before the sister went off to Jersey. I got the package today. So many nice sweaters and shirts I wish I had a job so I could wear them. Mum says I shouldn't think that way-that one day I will have a job, and I needed new clothes anyway so I shouldn't feel bad that I don't have an immediate need for them. I'll need them soon enough.
Here's hoping.

Failing that-I could always take Dad's advice and study really hard and get a job at a piano bar.

Here-cuz I don't want to leave you on a down note. Watch this uplifting music video. It'll give you that fuzzy feeling inside we all enjoy.

I'm on my fifth viewing in two hours, it's that good.

Cheers.

Oh, screw down my diodes and call me Frank!

Since I have no big time plans I'm thinking I'll go home for the 4th holiday weekend. This will give me a chance to go to a BBQ (in the midwestern sense of the word-that is to say, there'll be grilling out) on Saturday with my Aunt's family. And who doesn't love a charred hot dog on white bread made soggy by store bought potato salad with green Jell-O with unindentifiable fruit in. I'm just guessing on the menu mind you-it might be macaroni salad.
That sounds fantastic compared to the weird concoctions I've been dining on lately. Tonight I had couscous and vegetables I was able to find in my fridge with fresh herbs and a hella lot of salt to make it edible. It would be a classy and beautiful dish if it weren't for the fact that all the veg were on death's door and I had to douse them with huge quantities of dressing to bring any life whatsoever to them. Everything tastes fairly alright with enough vinegar.
Anybody have any recipes for a number of tough and pip filled oranges? Cuz I have a lot of those I need to get rid of pretty soon before they metamorph into billiard balls. Note to self-do not buy giant economy bags of fruit or you'll be stuck with same.
Oh, and what elsewise? Sunday night TV has been eaten alive by some St. Jude's telethon space filler. I hope they raise a lot of money but I was looking forward to re-watching the Simpsons. So-since I am everything awesome is not-I'm re-watching Black Adder III. (Or, I have it on, I'm watching it like I watch most things-distracted as I often am) I think I will return these DVDs to the library tomorrow so I don't find myself re-re-watching them in my Monday evening boredom. And I must say-BA I was so ufunny I couldn't even bear to watch it and if I had checked it out and tried to watch it before II, III, or Goes Forth I would've written the series off again. Cuz that first series really bit the thing-y shaped turnip. I never would've given it another go. And yet, I am deeply amused by the rest of the series. So unbelievably funny.
I totally need to go to the Red Dwarf collection next. Now THAT was a show! Brilliant. British Comedy is such a good time. Except for Are You Being Served? What a steaming pile of crap that show was. And it makes for grand references that no one understands allowing me to feel superior...I am such a loser. Really I am. Not that you needed reinforcement.
I applied for a boatload of jobs today. Groovy gigs like "call center-incoming calls" and "part-time writing tutor" the sort of things that inspire people to get advanced educational degrees. Soon I will be employed at a job that provides me with so much money I am unable to deal with the excess of funds. I can feel it.

But then-I drink a lot.

Nice day to start again

Here it is, 24 June 2006.
I was supposed to be in a wedding today.
And the sister's former was supposed to, in a completely seperate event, get hitched this early summer's day as well.
No knots were tied today.
Not by anyone I know anyway.
Odd turn of events from far too many matrimonial ceremonies among persons with no right entering into the holy bonds to no such events taking place.
Since the wedding in which I was intended to participate featured an asshole cut from the same cloth as the sort that I was unfortunate enough to date in my youth I can say with no fear of debate that no one is sorry to see that event fail to take place.
As for the other one, I get the distinct impression only one person was interested in that shindig. It would have been funny as hell to see that take place-but only because I delight in the suffering caused by Big Shottery. But it didn't, saving my sister some amount of pain I guess. Or caused more and new different suffering.
I can't really say-since I'm anti-social and thus not that well versed on what to expect from relationships. Perhaps it's perfectly normal for your family to despise yr betrothed or for an OTP to be seperated by idealogy and/or a continent. As I said, I don't mess with that stuff. Not because I don't want to, but because I am not going to settle for some imaginationsless, straight jobbing, $9 haircut having, Star Wars action figure collecting, Drew Carey looking motherfucker.
For the record, I'm ok with Star Wars action figure collections or straight jobs or $9 haircuts provided the owner is good looking and creative and an individual.
Ahh well, no weddings today. Even Mik went back on her promise of marriage to Coupland--they had planned a small ceremony this afternoon. It was a grudge wedding anyway-don't tell Mr. Dog that. Course, he's forgot all about the ceremony. It's too hot for such frivolity. And his mistress is being annoying and refusing to turn on the AC.
For me the sum of this tale is that I do not have to appear in public wearing a lime green teadress and thus, there will be no photographs of me wearing a lime green tea dress and that is really the best thing to come out of this whole series of affairs.

Be careful what you say to someone with nothin'

The very small dog and I have been working on our couch indents for the last few days. Since the temp incident, don't you know. I won't be pursuing that employment opportunity further.
I hear Kroger is hiring, "experience a plus" something I have. I have spent quite a bit of time at shit jobs that sap the very soul, I am more experienced in working jobs without redeeming quality than a peron of my significant student loan debt should be. I assume that's what they mean by that.
When I completely run out of odd ways to amuse myself I'll be heading to the grocery store to apply for the position of cart retreiver. I figure, if I'm going to do a hideous job I might as well aim for complete and total lowest rung possible. The sort of job the homeless guy collecting empty beercans looks down upon. By doing this, I am, I suspect you're thinking this already, putting on airs that I'm acting the roll of the working class much more than submitting to the role.
Mum says if I'm going to do something below me I could at least look for something that attracts a better quality of person. Yr Whole Foods or yr Trader Joe's kind of store. That way I might find the occasional discarded iPod and Blackberry in the carts as I retrieve them. After all, anyone that can afford the shop at Whole Foods is a wealthy piece of yuppie scum, a much preferable person to serve than my neighbor from two doors down. If you must be a servant at least aim to be a gentleman's gentleman and not a dogsbody.
All seems basically the same to me, a job that requires no mental capacity whatsoever is what I'll be looking for come the start of July I'm giving myself a pass for the rest of the month. I have nothing to do.--by the way when you read that last sentence it's: "I have nothing to do" As opposed to "I have nothing to do." I'm beginning to hate the pleasure of my own company--what must I sound like to someone outside of my limited world?
A little bit crazy I'm going to bet.
Crazy and a lot bitchy.
"Oh poor me! Poor misunderstood mistreated me! I will have to take a job that is below me and work MUCH harder than my education should require! I will be forced to much more effort than I'd been planning on doing! Oh woe!! Woe!!! I am wailing in sorrow, have you no words of comfort for a life gone so higgledy-piggledy!?!" At this point, I would probably throw myself across the nearest couch in a swoon.
Somehow I suspect if I had any human contact at all, and I can tell you I haven't had a non-business (i.e. "Will that be cash or charge?") since Tuesday and I see no reason to think that I will be speaking to anyone in a friendly, casual manner in the next week. It's really quite viciously lonely, the whole situation. But, I don't have a decent conversation topic so I'lle keeping to myself until such time as I do. Maybe I'll run into someone interesting at the grocery store or something that will inspire me to call everyone I know. Not that I could-since my cell phone has no screen and thus I can only call people with phone numbers I have memorized. This means I can call Mum and um, quite a few people that have passed away. As those are the only numbers I remember, the numbers of my earliest life.

Yesterday I treated myself to a Cadbury candy bar. I actually wanted one of those awful creme eggs, but they're seasonal so I went with a candy bar. A special treat to aid my mood. Today, all over the news "Cadbury recalls millions of candy bars due to risk of salmonella."
Of course they did. What a suprise.
At least the recall was in Europe, where I most certainly am not. But still-the vague sense of stick out jaw recieve slap remains.
I have a persecution complex.

Oh yes, and due to my lack of income I most likely will not be going to NYC to see Stephen or otherwise. A person with no job has no right or ability to be going on larks. That realization certainly improved my mood.

I just can't help thinking about Tony...

As far back as my memory stretches (which, courtesy of mental illness, drugs and determination isn't terribly far) I've been one of those insufferable sorts that can quote entire poems, speeches, or comedy sketches from memory. No moment can be allowed to pass without a reference to some preferably obscure moment in literary or entertainment history. Not enough to have a near perfect phonographic memory I'm a Truman Capote I am capable of remembering entire conversations, those in which I am involved and those that I watch or hear on recordings. If this were a marketable skill I would have much less time to myself as I would be tied up with the talk-show circuit all of the time.
Instead, I just remember things and I feel it is my civic duty to spread the limited expanse of my knowledge. Innocent victims of my altruism are often caught off guard in the midst of their coffee.
"Oh-man, I was watching MTV2 the other day and I saw that Outkast video with that guy from that comedy show. Remember?"
"No."
"The one where the guys wore dresses because there were no women in the cast. You know the one."
From two tables away I mumble under my breath, "Kevin McDonald and that would be every show that doesn't star Dawn French or Jennifer Saunders."
Anglo-phile git.
I will put up with the conversation until they make me long to cry with their foolishness. How could one not know these things?
"Excuse me, I'm so sorry to bother you, but I couldn't help but overhear..." following which I will walk away with a self-righteous glow. It's one of the rare moments being caught in my head is pleasant. Usually it's very much prisonesque. That's why I keep a distance even with the people I'm close to-I'd hate to let down my guard, if you'll pardon the phrase, and subject a bystander to my punishment. Best kept quiet. Even in these interweb confessions there's a lot of emotional angst kept nice and quiet. I'm here to amuse-not depress.
Back to the original note...
On top of my annoying habit of remembering if I enjoy something I obsess upon it until I have amassed every scintilla of information available within the realm of the law. So say I like a candy, I will read about that candy, look for references to the candy in popular culture, I will learn about the history and changes of ingredients of said candy. If t is information to be had about the candy I will know it, and because knowing isn't enough I will tell you or anyone else all about the candy. I will talk about it obsessively, think about it all the time, eat it at every possible moment. I will become completely consumed by candy.
Until I get bored, usually halfway thu a snack. Then I'll drop the remainder, walk away and only revisit the candy in moments of nostalgic whimsy.
Some things last long, ages, and not everything falls out of favor, but even the things that do I still have all of the facts.
I am one of those misdirected intellectuals. Rather than use my memory for advancement in school or work (not that I have any of that) I can act out with a fairly decent bit of mimicry if I do say so myself entire Kids in the Hall routines.

Someday I'm going to write my memoirs (not that a person pushing thirty should be writing memoirs--that doesn't bode well so I'll call it something else reflections or anecdotal evidence or something) and that, I think, is how it should start.

(S)He hates being a disappointment--You know what I figure is worse than watching your (child) become crippled? Watching (her) be miserable

I have just under an hour to get this out of my system before my precious evening of television begins.
It won't be cleared up by then. I fully intend for this to fester and grow until such time as I feel like treating the cause of my frustration. I think I've earned the right to be at this point. If I haven't yet, please forgive me for jumping ahead in the narrative-the plot was getting repetitive and I have begun to despise the main character.
This morning I got up, full of hope and excitement at the possibility of a full month of steady work ahead of me. Over a thousand dollars in my pocket.
Tonight I am wondering how much of the cheap whisky I'll be able to pour down my throat before I am forced to make a mad and futile dash toward the proper receptacle. God forbid any sodding thing go right.
Now, at this point I could go about explaining what happened. But I don't fucking well want to and so I will not. Needless to say, I did what I was told, followed instructions as they were given me--no, as I understood them, I should clarify, I did only what I understood to be acceptable that is all I did. What I believed to be acceptable was not and thus I find myself unemployed, and judging by the scolding tone of the agent to whom I spoke at the office, fairly well knocked square to the bottom on the list of people who will soon find themselves employed in a position steady or otherwise.
In fact, I would go so far as to say that the conversation was reminiscent of one of those dreaded brush off 'don't call us we'll call you' or perhaps more appropriately 'you have 15 minutes to gather your things, please don't make me call security, let's save ourselves the embarassment, shall we?"
"You should never even let an employer see that you HAVE a book, that's just unprofessional."
Cunt.
Yes, I said it.
I'll even so much as say it again with adjectives
Fucking stupid cunt.
I have a book with me always. I read. I fucking read that is what I do, it is my joy and it is my solace and who the motherfuck are you to tell me that I shouldn't have a book with me. I always have a goddam book and that you would insinuate that it makes me less worthwhile employee indicates to me that you wish to employ people that I am not and perhaps we are not such a good fit you automaton bitch. Why don't you go get raped by a gang of syphylitic sailors. It's never appropriate to do anything but exactly what you are instructed, and the instructions are screamingly clear: Take it like the bitch you are. It might be easier if you grab ahold of something, and pick a nice spot on the wall upon which to concentrate. To take your mind off things.
I am very tired of being some Wicked Twist of Fate's Bitch.
So ridiculously fed up with it.
Every damn week it's a new thing. And I'm strong, I can bloody well buck up like a good little soldier and take it---I've taken enough.
Screw it.
Screw joining in and being a cog and playing nice and dressing in khakis and curling my hair.
Screw smiling and creating small talk with strangers.
Screw 'Yes, I'll drive across town on 15 minutes notice for a one day gig.'
Just in general screw everything.
I have tried and I have bucked the hell up and I've---
Well, I've been on the phone for much of the last hour with my parents.
As usual, Mum hung up on me when she decided there was 'nothing else to say.' This means she didn't want to give me an emotional outlet. I'm not allowed several emotions with my mother. I don't fault her this, really, I damaged her very severely long ago by feeling. It's best for all involved if I don't. At least not with any particular strength. If it is not your family, I suspect this sounds wrong. She angers me, hurts me sometimes--but it's only because I earned being hurt. I did.
Dad-well, what to say about Dad-he takes the calls Mum won't and demands I 'buck up and take it like angry and not with tears' failing that-I should 'cry it out and move on.' He can say to me what Mum can't--he was harmed by me, I hurt everyone in that wounds that don't heal kind of way--but he sees that it is not that harmful creature of then that he is facing now. I don't know why he sees that-I suspect it is because of how he grow up. He will accept the instability of his children, lest he become a parent the likes of which he experienced while growing up.
Mind you-I'm guessing, I could be very wrong.
I don't really know what his childhood was like
We all face life in our own way.
If we didn't it blogs and autobiography would be some of the most boring reading this side of instruction manuals.

I mean, who would've noticed another madman around here?

As we all know despite my posturing to the contrary, I am phased quite notably by drastic endings.
For an example I recommend my thoughts on Brokeback Mountain.
I get choked up at the simply profound. That event that is written and performed with the goal of being intense but for reasons personal to the individual has particular effect. Another well trod example, I can make myself cry on cue simply by thinking about the scene in It's a Wonderful Life when George is begging "Get me back to my wife and kids." My sister, an actress of some skill, can not make herself cry with the readiness I can simply by thinking about that scene.
It's actually a rather useful tool. Should one find herself pulled over for speeding or in the midst of some other police-type interrogation. Don't look at me that way, we do what we must when we must.
As I was saying. There are certain thing that rarely fail to make me go all soft. Jody and the Kid by Kris Kristofferson is well known to leave me crying like a bitch and I would prefer if Guitar Town wasn't played when I'm in my cups. You see, it's all a matter of perspective. I imagine most people would find Jody and the Kid to cause some stirring of emotion but few people find themselves pulled over to the side of the road sobbing into a Wendy's napkin at lyrics such as "Gotta keep rockin' while I still can/Got a two pack habit and a motel tan." But then, my parents, married over three decades claim 'their song' is I've Gotta Feelin' Sometimes it's best leaving the audience wanting just the smallest bit more information.
With this bit of I really should be in bed now since I have work tomorrow but I' reading a memoir so I'm feeling self explanatory information all yours now, Gentle Reader, I will go to the trouble of explaining myself.
Those of you who are regular readers of this column may recall that I had drawn my summer of all things Hugh Laurie related back to the days of yore with viewings of Black Adder.
It has crossed my mind that I am really catching up with two years of my life over the last few weeks. That horrid little experience the ages will call graduate school robbed me of the ability to enjoy what gives me the most pleasure: weird cult television programs. Here I am, two years behind in my viewing of weird cult television programs and it is a crying shame. Other than my dedicated viewing of Breaking Bonaduce (and my noticing the brilliance of the Report as soon as the commercials debuted, of course) I've been completely out of the loop of my beloved series television. Hell, I've even had to catch up with my soaps of late, several characters had changed actors and I'd been thinking they were whole new people. Damn you Western Kentucky University. Damn you to hell. That isnt sarcasm, it has come to my attention that as far as employment goes, I spent a decade at university to become a receptionist. A re-wanking-ceptionist. The sort of job I was told if I didn't buckle down with my studies and do well at university I would end up doing for lousy pay and worse respect. I am, of course, bloody pleased for the opportunity to dedicate myself to such a noble, and dare I say, well paying (compared to serving coffee to yuppie scum for example) pursuit. I also would like to damn to hell the teachers that put that stupid idea that I was better than the jobs for which I am qualified. Damn their eyes.
Oh, where was I? Right-this has a point, I know it doesn't seem like it, but what that I do does? I was saying, in the midst of my summer of Hugh Laurie (heretofore refered to as the SOHL-and which, should I not have been Folk Studies bitch for far too long, should have taken place last summer at the latest) I've managed to watch a decade worth of Blackadder in 3 days.
II mad me laugh like an idiot. The third was brilliant and I nearly choked on my couscous on more than one occassion. By tonight when I turned on Blackadder Goes Forth I was feeling pretty cocky, can't be all that funny, said I. Until I took I drink of water and a particularly funny line (probably involving pooh or some equally classy subject, I suspect) sent me nearly into convulsions. After recovering from that I took a bite of pork chops and almost choked following the rattling off of some clever bon mot. British comedy should not be hazardous to one's health.
Each series ended with someone, or several people dying an ironic death. As long as that ironic death is not mine I'm likely to be amused. I don't like stunt endings either-nothing pisses me off more than one of those twist endings I don't like being twisted. Give me a nice clear understanding of what's going to happen or just did as the case may be but I have too much watching paint dry to do to spend my afternoons trying to figure out the psychological implications of a television program.
That being as may be-and I am the last on the planet to see this, due to my unfortunate avoidance of all thing Rowan Atkinson for the last 2 decades-but I was by damn struck watching Goodbyeee
. It was quite brilliant-in a sort of, 'I wish that was just anachronistic in its starkness...Fuck...I just...fuck..."

Kind of way.

Oh, that sounds a bit rude, doesn't it?

As part of the festival of British comedy currently being held in my apartment I checked BlackAdder II out of the library today. Actually, it's the second time I'd checke out such a thing. The first time inspiration to actually WATCH it did not strike. But, TV being uninteresting on Saturday afternoons I had no other recourse but to turn on the DVD. Call it a mood or something, but despite my repeated not-getting it of Black Adder (admittingly many and many the year ago, like, about 15-ish at least, and only the first series, which my research shows is considered the least of the lot) and being fairly sure I found Rowan Atkinson not amusing (is Mr. Bean funny? Really?) I put the disc into the player. And spent the next 3+ hours laughing like an idiot. Alright, alright, decisions about the comedic merit of a program made when under the legal age to operate an automobile need to be re-evaluated at some point. For example, I used to be amused by Blossom. Somehow, the idea of Blossom:The Complete First season does not sound quite like a good source of amusement at this current stage of my life.
Upon the ending of my available BlackAdder amusement I went to the library website only to find out some wicked bastage checked out the rest of the DVDs. Luckily, everything's available on video (and it would seem I am the only person in the Greater Nashville area with a working video player as there were no noticable gaps in the VHS selection) so I can continue watching this program throughout the course of my week. I'll have plenty of time it seems, to watch 500 years of British history in comedy form, what with how there doesn't seem to be any work next week.

Then, whilst making dinner, I tried to watch disc 2 of Series 1 of the Office. The disc went wonky and for a bit I was afraid it wouldn't come out of the player. That didn't please me, so I gave up on that and put in Series 2. Which played quite smoothly until the third episode when it started skipping around and acting insane until such time as it imploded and I got the blue screen of death. Now I'll never know what happened with David and Gareth and Tim and Dawn. As it will likely never be re-run on telly or anything.

In less British news, something has made my dog more flatulent than usual. He is, as one would expect, acting very cuddly and affectionate. So much of a dog is he. I think it might be pay back for my having gone out for a drink after work yesterday instead of running home to pay proper heed to his dog needs. Speaking of which, don't miss your chance to add a small pissed off cross-dressing dog to your myspace friends list.(www.myspace.com/littledudecoupland--for some reason the linky bits refuse to work) If you don't have a myspace, I recommend at the very least checking to see if any of yr pets have one. You have to watch what they do online. They grow up so fast these days.

It's always been a matter of trust

As I sit in my aparment, Friday disapating leaving only faint traces of the heat and slowness that comes with summer afternoons I amuse myself with a Billy Joel album complete with 'new' recordings of songs I own in at least 2-4 previous releases. I had to pick it up, in case he slightly altered one of the lyrics to a classic song in a topical manner. I am aware of at least 3 greatest hits collections that I personally own, not including live shows and the 'Essential' Billy Joel. (A collection that does not include 'Scenes from an Italian Restaurant' or 'Sleeping With the Television On' or 'Laura' and spends way too much time on 'The Bridge'/'An Innocent Man'/'Storm Front' era so it's essentially inessential.)
'Laura' is about his mother-I found this out from Chuck Klosterman. Awhile ago I had a brief but entertaining run in with a person-I quoted Chuck to him. What, I can't remember, tho, I suspect it had something to do with Glass Houses. He said he'd never heard of the guy. He sounded dismissive, as men often do when discussing things about which they do not have expertise. Or perhaps he was drunk. I suspect most of the time I am best to be around when one or both of the parties involved is extremely intoxicated. I told him he should, tho I didn't see him again and I have no idea where he went (if anywhere) and what he's been up to it came back to me through channels that said individual was reading Fargo Rock City. I might not be interesting enough for more than a brief distraction in the midst, but I can influence reading at least. I should start a book club for the wayward and cynical.

This month's reading selection is The Gun Seller We'll be discussing it in two weeks. Arrive having eaten and read the book.

Back to the rambling.

Ways I Padded my Clinic Hours This Week:

-Creating radio stations on last.fm and pandora.com
-Watching YouTube clips of The Daily Show from the Clinton administration
-Shopping for bumper stickers that appropriately state my feelings of longing for the Clinton administration
-Calling the temp agency to inform them I was available to work next week
-Looking for satellite images of my neighborhood on Google Maps
-Trying to get my personalized radio stations to play 'We Didn't Start the Fire' or 'Conservative Christian Right Wing Republican Straight White American Male' preferably back-to-back
-Failing at that but somehow managing to hear 'After the Gold Rush' at least 5 times in 2 days
-Calling the temp agency to see if they have any work lined up for me for next week
-Doing tasks by hand that could have been in 1/8 the time with a simple command prompt
-Creating a myspace for my dog
-Wishing I smoked
-Trying to type in rhythm with whatever song was currently playing
-Reading House fanfiction
-Drinking Icees
-Calling the temp agency back just in case we got disconnected last time
-Typing first place winning stories in a local writing contest

This is really, really funny.

Here's a picture of Stephen Colbert as Leopold Bloom-isn't he charming? That isn't even the best picture, but I'm lazy.

...the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountains yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes...

...I was a Flower of the mountains yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him and yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes.



Ha ha! Literary!

The Devil You Know

From the man himself...

the devil you know
tsnider

helicopters over the house again
we got the projects two or three blocks from here
they pull the kids over for driving while african
and the ones with the warrants always run in fear
so i sit here waiting for the coast to clear
wishing once again i had a gun around here
turn on the news and what do i hear
some kid shot the bank up on gallatin road
ran away from the cops while he was trying to reload
he beat them up to eastland street on feet
now he's probably reloaded and running down my street
better turn the alarm on and lock myself in
helicopters over the house again

sometimes you rise above it
sometimes you sneak below
somewhere in between believing in heaven
and facing the devil you know

poor kid probably never had a chance to give a fuck,
wouldn't know good luck from a debutant
he's gotta find a way to be steve mcnair or young buck
or he's just tough luck looking for a prison to haunt
and you can fuck, getting any kind of job you want
unless you really want to work in a fast food restaraunt
and who wants to do that? do you want to do that?
i wouldn't trade that for my crooked hat
or my gang or my gun or my waist full of pagers
for a job deep frying shit, for richer teen agers
if that's where it's at and no one's gonna help
how you gonna blame a man for helping himself
there's a war going on that the poor can't win
helicopters over the house again

sometimes you rise above it
sometimes you sneak below
somewhere in between believing in heaven
and facing the devil you know

womack.rocks.....

black and white cops shining lights in the bushes
can't see how this kid is gonna get very far
unless he finds a way to make it back over to barry street
and he can't do that unless he steals a car
man the way things are they just don't seem right
all the white people talking 'bout the hope and the light
there ain't no hope in sam levy just guns and drugs
we ain't building bridges we're just training thugs
then i hear a terrifying kick at my back door
and in comes this kid i say hey i've seen this kid before
i see him all the time at that bar on woodland street
now he's bleeding in my kitchen tracking mud off his feet
and he's looking at me like i'll either help him or die
until he sees in my eyes that i'm on his side
i hand him my keys i say you better move fast
there's a J in the ashtray and plenty of gas
he throws me the cash and says i'll be back for this
i say yeah well don't be surprised if theres' a little bit of it missing
his gold teeth glistened with a big old grin
he said we'll talk about that when i see you again
he shook my hand i shook his back
i felt like i was about to have a heart attack
until he finally drove away i thought "gaaaawd damn!??!"
helicopters over the house again

sometimes you rise above it
sometimes you sneak below
somewhere in between believing in heaven
and facing the devil you know

you're facing the devil you know?
Transcribing lyrics is hard and I don't recommend it unless you're trying to figure out the lyrics to a song that no one else has gone to the trouble of deciphering, but you simply MUST have the lyrics so that you can sleep at night. And trust me-that song needs deciphered at times. There's a good three lines I totally can't even come up with a theory on what he's saying. Anyway, that's the gist.

As for why it was bothering me-other than how awful much ass the song kicks. I love how so many shitheads talk about OKOM but then the spokesman puts out an album that just rocks-not like rocks like House rocks, but balls to the wall barroom rock'n'roll full of guitar solos and sing along drive along choruses.
Not that I'm biased.

There were helicopters over the house today. Usually they fly over at night, so I can pretend to ignore them. I remember when the murder happened, just 3 blocks from here, Baxter whined at the window while the cops drove by and the helicopters flew over. Even with the TV on I could tell something big was going on. I told him, we'd probably be okay. What could I say?

But today, I was just barely home from work at 4 out walking the Coupland when the chopper flew so close that I could practically see the pilot's facial expression from my position in the yard. I wanted to go back in the house but Little Man wouldn't be deterred, and we had to keep walking. Hell, in our half hour walk we only saw 3 cruisers. That's normal.

No, it isn't.

There was something goin' down on Scott when I drove the other way on the way home but it didn't seem like much. 'Course, it's summer in the 'hood. I'm used to this kind of shit and refuse to let it intimidate me. But I lock the house when I walk the dog and I keep the place pretty welled sealed up as much as I can. Rather pay the A/C bill than have someone pounding on my window.

Call me crazy.

When I was talking to Mum yesterday I told her I was going to spend three days in NYC. She said, "New York? All by yourself?"
Mik can wander about the country without calling home, but if I go to New York for holiday it's worthy a question. But then, Sis would call home if there was trouble, I'd try to muddle through it alone. I'm a headstrong beeyatch that way.
Sure it's exponentially bigger than Nashville could ever be, but it's a city. I've been to Chicago and Pittsburgh and Detroit, Cleveland and Columbus and Cincinnatti, Louisville, Atlanta, Phoenix, Memphis, New Orleans, Boston, Dublin, Killarney and Times Square at Christmas time. Probably others I'm forgetting. What haven't I experienced? Stop laughing. I know that's a silly question.

On my way home from work today I saw two license plates:
CUNHVN
and
ALL4HM
I ran thru my 10 commandments. Isn't that kind of ego breaking a commandment? False witness or idolatry or something? One of those less popular commandments. Either way-I think these people need stoned.

In more ways than one.

I did dig the dude with the "NIN" "BNL" and other acronymic band name bumper stickers with a sign in the back window (and yes, I saw this today, I was beginning to think the rapture was going to take place on the Jefferson St Bridge--at least if it had I would've had smooth sailing the rest of the way home) the sign said "JESUS!"

Guess the driver must've had a good seat at the reunion tour.

Padding the Clinic Hours

I owe the occasional update to my adoring audience. So, let's see. Today was day three of a 5 day gig. If I am honest, which I usually hate, but this time shows not vulnerability but my mad skiils, I could have finished the job today. But I'm not doing this for the love, I'm doing it for the money, and I'm not getting paid for pages typed or efficiency. It's hours spent in front of that computer, and I am by God going to spend 40. I'm making unnecessary work for myself. This afternoon I got a memo that I should remember to bring my MD player so that I can listen to One Life to Live tomorrow, for research purposes.
It's going to take quite a bit of doing to drag this job out 16 more hours. But I have faith in my abilities.
Didn't go out last night. As I had to watch House and Rescue Me. That more than filled in for any groovy show that might've taken place last night. And honestly, do I care? Hmm-no. Not really. I suppose if I had gone out I would've had fun, but I have to say my seclusion is tons of blue lit, wordless, whisky and soap opera good times. What's not to love.
Now I am watching Mommie Dearest for the 456th (approx.) time. I like to watch it, and yell all the best lines along with the over-the-top ultra campy acting.
"Clean up this mess!"
"How?"
"Figure it out."
"No wire hangers!"
"I AM NOT ONE OF YOUR FANS!"
"She has the last word."
"Does she?"
Etc.
I love how Faye Dunaway manages to over-emote in the role of a corpse. It's an amazing feat of acting.
My Mommie Dearest (she SO hates that, with good reason) called when I was watching. She apologized for interupting my good times.
I am such a fag, I'm cereal.

Do I have anything else going on? I am planning my trip to NYC to see Stephen mothafuckin' Colbert. (I'm hoping that there are no mothafuckin' snakes on the mothafuckin' plane I have to take to get there.)
Gotta couple of hostel picked out that are within walking to the Report and the subway and all that good tourist stuff. Right in Manhattan.
Speaking of Colbert-how much do you love Stephen Jr moving into his own attic like Greg Brady? They grow up so fast.
One other thing-the fake phone calls last night-Fairlawn is the upscale corner of Akron, OH. That's hi-LAR-ious. To people from Akron-bravo Mr. Colbert. Bravo.
RIGHT-planning to go to New York Town. Awesome. I'm going to get to ride a subway and share a room with 5-7 strangers with whom I share no common language. A total New York experience.

Beyond these total non-updates I have nothing going on. I like this. Anti-social behavior is not a bad thing, despite what American society might want you to believe.

Helicopters over the house again

In all the years when I've dedicated the off night to listen to music at levels that are detrimental to my hearing I've only been told to turn that music down twice.
The first was when I was living in Cuyahoga Falls. I was rocking out to Elton John's mid-80s forgetable vinyl collection "Ice on Fire" when the security guard came to the door and told me to (and I quote) "Turn down that loud rock'n'roll music."
I would like to reiterate that I was listening to 80s era Elton John. A musical styling that has not been ever otherwise described as "loud rock'n'roll."
The second instance happened about an hour ago whilst I was sitting on my stoop watching the asphalt grow singing along absentmindedly to "Piece of Work." My landlady opened her door to tell me that "the neighbor had called to complain about the noise." Which neighbor I wondered? The Section 8 kids next door that play hip hop from 8am til they pass out from constant basketball playing. No, it was the couple I'm on good speaking terms with next door that like to grill out and listen to classic rock on the occassional Saturday. Oh, no maybe it's the white trash behind us that keep their dog chained to a tree and pay it no mind. Wait, it's the couple across the street that disrupt the peace of the 'hood with their screaming violent fights. No-no-I know it's the girl two doors down that's my age and throws parties that last until 2am complete with singing and laughing. I'm sorry, Ann, who called to complain? If it was you, that's alright. Cuz, you own the house and all. I don't want to bug you. You are, after all, recovering from open heart surgery. I just live here. But don't pawn it off on someone else in this ghetto, I don't imagine anyone that spends most of his or her days around here really gives a fuck how loud I play my Todd Snider CDs you know? I bet they can't even hear my heartland rock and folk music over their misogynistic bass beats, if you want to get technical.
But it's cool. I love that I was told to turn down my loud folk music. That's hi-LAR-ious.

Don't worry about a thing-Every little thing-Is gonna be alright

I have come to the conclusion that my bank is run by a trio of moles with only an abacus to keep track of the finances of the people that bank with their furry blind little rat selves. That's the only explanation for why 5 days after I deposited a check (a student loan check, which is, correct me if I'm wrong, from the Federal gov't I do believe) it isn't listed as having been cashed. The bank seems to say-sure, you put in a check, but it might be one of those religious tract 1 million dollar bills-we gotsta be careful you know.
Stupid fuckers.
Like I don't have enough issues. Honestly.
On the bill front-once the money is showing up in my bank account I'm going to spend it on the hospital bills. Just write two checks, sob as I mail them off and wait for the money to be deducted and the memory to start fading. Suffering a bit because I don't have the loan money cushion is better than knowing that bill is hovering over me waiting to be paid. A lot of people would disagree, but I can barely think straight with the bill out there. It's some weird--I'd go so far as to say psychosis--with me. The idea of being in some debt that is not school or mortgage (should I ever have one of those) makes me want to get destructive on myself. Especially since I have come to the conclusion that I got what I deserved. That's what that church I was raised without taught me-you get what you deserve. Oh-and never more than you can handle. I must be really damn strong. Hell, I keep going, don't I? I am so very very strong. And when those bills are paid then I'll get to pretend that I'll be okay. If you pretend long enough it comes true-right.
The really well paying gig I had or the weekend felll through. I've only worked one day this week and that's probably all I will work. But next week I have a 40 hour gig and it could last into the next week. So, I'm down $300 but I'll make a little more than that next week.
They keep me working and I keep pestering them so they know I am available. It will lead to a job. Eventually.
Ever get tired of waiting for the man?
Today when I talked to Mik she already had the good news that we had tickets to see Colbert. (Cuz Mummy tells all my good stuff. Mean Mummy.) She pointed out that it was highly likely that she would be unable to get the day off or even see me since she only has one day off a week and that she's way down the Jersey shore not near the city. So, while we are psyched, we are also reserved. At least I have found a hostel that I can stay at for three days for less than $100 and if I can fly from Akron/Canton and the 'rents will watch the big bad beastie then I can get to NYC for about $100 (or maybe less with AirTran-again reserved about all this some grandparents don't like watching little dogs---it's over $300 to fly from Nashvegas to NYC but only about $150 to drive-or I could do round trip to Akron for about $80, still cheaper than flying from here) so I can spend the rest of the money I don't have on good stuff like food and tourist-y crap. Cuz-I am so serial when I tell you-I am going to be such a tourist in the Summer in the City. The hostel I've picked out is right by Central Park-I hope to go to the zoo and see the Penguins. I admit-when I see Central Park in my mind it looks like Shelby Park only flatter. And featuring more hot dog sellers. I'm such a member of the bourgeoisie.
So I flail betwen misery and joy. Reality and madness. One minute I'm okay and the next I want to down the whole bottle of hydrocodone (which would succeed in making me feel icky at best.) I just want to get work and make enough money to get by and then move to a job that pays enough to survive. I don't want to be wealthy or anything but I'd like to know my rent was paid.
Oh well. People keep telling me I'm better than what I'm making but when your combined earnings for two years wouldn't buy a used Camry it's hard to feel terribly picky.
I'm reminded of the immortal words of whoever wrote the theme song to "One Day at a Time"
This is it, This is life, The one you get, So go and have a ball
Keep on doin' what you do, straight ahead, we'll muddle thru
One Day at a Time

I only remember this because I was named after the older daughter---sorta...I mean, Mum and Dad weren't big Mackenzie Philips fans but that's where they got the name. They needed a different name for their baby.
I'm named after a smack addict.
And Miki's named after my dad.

as we stand upon the ledges of our lives

it's either sadness or euphoria.
I do love Billy Joel.
As we know.
And I also love Stephen Colbert.
Today I got word that on Aug 10, 2006--the day before my parents' 33 wedding anniversary--I will be seeing The Colbert Report. You would think, that due to the fact that I love Stephen in a way that is probably unhealthy, I would be immune to any bad news after hearing that. But then I got the bill from the hospital.
Yeah-so that bill I got was for the doctor.
The hospital bill is twice that.
For a total of--about 2 grand.
It's okay.
I keep telling myself it's okay. I'll pay somehow, however long it takes. It will get paid. Maybe soon, maybe in a long long time.I deserve to live. Whatever it costs.
But when I got the bill I very quietly went into my room and stripped out of my work clothes. For a minute I stood there, looking at the picture of Blue Dog that always reminds me of Baxter. My legs gave out. I fell to the ground, and screamed. I. Just. Screamed. And screamed. I wanted so much to put my fist through the wall or a knife to my arm I wanted to feel pain like I imagined would be appropriate for a $2000 doctor bill. I couldn't imagine any kind of pain I could inflict that would be anything but new medical bill inducing. That's how it felt. For a few brief moments, I hurt so bad I wanted to slice myself open.
My wailing called Coupland into the room. He pushed his head under my arm and whined. I couldn't hurt myself. He needs me.
If that's what it takes-then fuck. Thank God for someone who NEEDS me so much RIGHT NOW. The way I feel right now-and I know, I do, it'll pass. It'll get better, but right now I am so glad I'm needed. If I wasn't I don't know if I'd be coping (ha) as well as I am.
That's kind of sad. I don't think I know a number as high as the number of times Baxter just being there saved me from hurting myself-bad. I think they're angels, dogs. I do.
But, I am working.
Fairly steady.
Things can't stay like they've been for the last two years. I'm going to work and make money. My bills will get caught up someday soon. And I'm going to New York to see Stephen Colbert in 2 months.
Ain't it something.

That's the Way that the World Goes Round

The kitchen was the worst of it, of course. Not too surprising really. Stoves and ovens and stuff those are messy things. I'd still love to replace the flooring since I ripped it during a past cleaning expedition, but I'm not really sure that I can. It would be great to have new floor, maybe a fresh coat of paint. Or any coat of paint at all-I swear that room has never seen paint. I'm not too sure about the living room either. Alternately, I could move in a year and save myself the trouble. Except I'll probably end up paying for the new floor since I'm the one that ripped it. Nobody wins. No, my landlady wins either way. I don't win.
BUT-after the terror that was the kitchen was cleaned up I moved into the living room. Not hard, as my biggest failing in that room was that I tend to not put stuff away. Once things are where they belong the room is clean pretty much. But I cleaned the carpet, it looks lovely. All free of stains and non-descript. I really dream of the day I can have carpet that isn't rental until beige. Eventually. I've got a really great altar by on the bar. My school books are stashed away on the bar's shelves. I won't have to look at that damn things for months and even then only for a few minutes.
That's about ten times as often as I expect to use the degree.
A phone call to the temp agency connected me to someone who asked me if I was a "people person."
As we all know, I am the people-iest of people persons. I freakin love people, especally strangers, even especiallier stangers with questions. (I really do love strangers with candy tho---oh! delicious, delicious candy!) Something tells me there's no candy involved in whatever mysterious job Temp Agency Guy was hinting about.
Nothing yet, he said. So I'm kind of thinking I have tomorrow off. But if I don't, the I'll work.
And if I have the day off, I'll busy myself doing laundry or going to the store to buy fun stfuff like vinegar, peroxide and those stove tray things that sit right under the burner cuz the ones I have all burnt all to shite.
OH-and it's 6-6-6. So I will also dance with the devil in the pale moonlight.
Like ya do.

for Crissake's don't get hurt

The bill for the hospital $593.
Just fantastico.
But, hey-I'm alive. And I do place the value of my life at or above $593.
My wit alone is insured for about twice that, actually. But unfortunately, the hospital visit was a non-wit threatening event. So it wasn't covered.
Best comment re: the bill.
Mum: As a member of the Colbert Nation you should contact Stephen and enlist his help.
Me: A true member of the Colbert Nation would have no need to go to the hospital.
Mum: He probably would say you should support the President and pay the bill.
Me: Medical treatment is only for the most sniveling, whimpering and weak members of society. I think I proved that I was as loyal as could be.
Mum: Loyal to the point of being a sniveling, whimpering mess.
Me: It's all for the good of the cause.

Me and Mum rock.
She said they'd help with the bill. I said I would've rathered an iPod video like I asked for. She said that was never an option.
Extenuating circumstances.
O RLY?
YA RLY.

Furthermore, my campaign to get them to buy the first season of House on DVD and then give it to me failed. Something about they'd been watching House since episode one and didn't need to buy any such DVDs to catch up. Dammit. Now I have to get employed to get precious TV Shows on DVD. The form impressive rows on my shelf.
Or-to be more specific-they form tidy section of middle shelf. Not that impressive really.

My first temp assignment is over. I really had fun there too. I'd go back in a heartbeat. Not much work hardly at all, but I was very comfortable with the people and the job was good.
Next week-no known work.
Oh well, I'll clean if I have enough time to myself.

How much time would it take until I WANT to clean?

Place yr bets.