Merry (bleep) Christmas
As Christmases go, this has been the darkest in a long time. A loved one has been going through some trials and tribulations, and it’s affecting the whole family. Not because of what they did, but because they feel so bad about doing it. (Sorry for the vagueness; it’s an ongoing legal thing. Healthwise everyone is fine.) Someone I love dearly is hurting, and there’s a lot of sympathy pain and commiseration coming from my camp. Things are bleak right now, but they will get better. Read the rest of this entry »
I’m Not Sorry
“Those are some powerful words.”
Mizelle said that to me once, after reading a long, soul-baring letter I’d spent days writing her. I get occasional accolades, but that is one I’ve always remembered. I’ve always enjoyed spinning a yarn, and have missed my time here. I’ve been revisiting this site the past few days, dusting off the cobwebs. Read the rest of this entry »
Grinding Grinder’s Nerves
This year’s Christmas seems kinda grinchy.
Dealing with the public keeps one’s finger on the pulse of society. While the crowds haven’t been so bad, those of us behind the scenes have been showing signs of wear and tear. I’ve been trying to remain chipper while others grump and bitch, but sometimes, as Popeye would say, “I’ve had all I can stands and I can’t stands no more!”
I had to push back a little… Read the rest of this entry »
I’m Back In The Saddle Again
Hey, what’s this old thing? Picture me blowing dust off old, leathery volume. (Metaphorically speaking of course.) Well hello, my old blog-buddy!
I haven’t been spending much time here lately. Except for funny haircuts and friendly fingerings I haven’t been inspired. Life has been going on, things are okay, I just felt the need to regroup a bit.
My subjects of choice aren’t as easily accessible these days. Mizelle, Lily and the Frenchman (the wee one and the oui one) are living the high life on a vineyard outside of Paris. (France, not Texas.) While she’s written to me more times in the last six months than in the last ten years, we can’t just meet up spontaneously for a MAX trip to Abhiruchi. The next time I see her, Lily will be grade-school age.I get separation anxiety sometimes, but the fact that she’s living in France in a happy situation is worth the sacrifice. She’s not dropping off the radar like the last time she got married. Last time, after a five year separation, we were caught up within an hour. Let’s not do that again. That’s what e-mail is for.
Clairissa? Yes, the TMI tales of haircuts and debauchery will continue, even though I’m a state away from her and growing my hair long. (She gets paid well to shave my jugular…) She’s moved to Ashland for the winter, building a hair salon somewhere down there. Things have been rocky for her, but we are in constant communication via text messaging and her spirits are high. I’ll be posting info about her shop when it becomes available, but the topless haircut conversation will have to be kept on the down-low. Apparently it’s illegal to be naked in Ashland. That’ll just make it extra naughty…
I still have work-related stuff to write about. Boy, do I have work stuff to write about. Slappy-fights with Grinder, chronic masturbators hogging the bathroom, chasing way-out-of-my-league girls from the neighborhood, oh the work-related fun I’ve been having! I’ve been stockpiling the adventures, and am feeling that it’s time to unleash the beastard one more time.
The one big hurdle is Twitter. I’ve become addicted in that crack-like way. I don’t want to look, but I have to. (And then an hour has gone by, and it’s time for work.) 140-character writing has reduced the number of run-on sentences I have to watch, so that’s good, right? Twitter, you are a blessing and a curse, and I love you like a mistress.
Now it’s time to check Twitter and then head off to work. I wonder what kind of misdeed Grinder will be dressing me down for today…
The Bum’s Rush (Speed the Plow)
I had a doctor’s appointment the other day. A while back I had a funny-looking dark spot on my toe. Fearing gangrene or some other horrific condition, I hurried to the clinic. The spot turned out to be a callous that darkened when I showered. While I was there, it was suggested I get a full annual physical. A believer in preventive medicine, I agreed. The upside? I will get to see my doctor one more time before she graduates from medical school and moves on to her million dollar practice somewhere.
I’ve been going to Providence PACE Clinic for a long time now. I’ve lost count of how many times they’ve pulled my ass out of the proverbial medical fire. Grad students get to practice on me, and I get a sliding-fee-scale bill. Win/win. Most physicals involve a barrage of questions and a blood test or two. I figured this would be no different.
Being digitally sodomized by a pretty girl was the furthest thing from my mind… Read the rest of this entry »
Dr T and the Dollar
Part of the fun of working downtown is dealing with the wide variety of people. They don’t just come to where I work; they occupy sidewalk space with their dogs, backpacks, pierced heads and spacebags. (A spacebag is box-wine without the box. They put the bag of wine in a pack or hide it on their person, and fill cans of Arizona Ice Tea for surreptitious street drinking.) As they get drunker and drunker, they also get meaner and more entitled. It grates on the nerves.
Dr T lives downtown. He’s been around, seen a lot. He oversees me at my job, and we all know how adventurous that can be. He works the worst shift, the daytime crowd. Upside: He gets hottie office workers and lunchtime waitresses. Downside: He has to deal with vendors, salespeople and other monetary vampires that only come out in the daytime. (Thank you Sir!) He also gets the dirtbag crowd as they are waking and crawling out from under the bridge. In all he’s a tolerant fellow, but the other day he was driven to extremes by an annoying gutter bum.
Rite-Aid on 6th Avenue has long been a magnet for panhandlers and shoplifters. The store does the best they can, but merchants can’t regulate the sidewalk after a certain point. So they camp a few feet from the door: “Change? Got a cigarette? Are you gonna eat that cheeseburger you’re carrying? Can I finish your soda. Got a cigarette?”
SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DON’T ASK ME FOR SHIT ALREADY!
As Dr T came out of Rite-Aid the other day, a particularly whiny fellow asked him for change.
“No, sorry.” Dr T is nicer than I am. (I snap “NO!” and if they push it I get snappier.) He pulled out his pack of Camel Straights, which cost $8.39 a pack at our store.
“Dude, can I have a cigarette?’
“No,” Dr T repeated.
As he fished for a match, Whiny Hiney went into a tirade. “Man, you people have no idea how hard it is to be homeless. I have to sit out here and beg every day just to-…”
Dr T reached into his pocket, pulled out one of his last three dollars, lit it on fire and used it to light his cigarette. He dropped what was left of the burning dollar at the young man’s feet.
As he told me later, “You should have seen the look on that little fucker’s face when that dollar went up. I’ll gladly sacrifice a day’s Top Ramen for a moment like that. It shut him up…” A sly grin washed over his face. “I’d always wanted to do that.”
And now I want to do it too. Next spring, when the “Road Warriors” bring their dust-spewing dog-abusing caravan back to downtown, I may just give it a try…
Dingleberry Gazette 