Riding With The Manny-Goat

March 6, 2018 at 12:13 pm (On the road again..., Sweet sticky things)

Explorer’s Spirit Animal

Arrgh. 7 AM. Usually when I’m drifting from hard sleep to REM. When the TV gets muted because the ads will keep me awake. (Enough with the miracle spring water, already.) But on Wednesdays I bounce out of bed, as bouncy as this old bag of bones gets, and make a frozen waffle breakfast. Kelly green butter is the first of many pretty colors I will be seeing.

By 9 AM, I am dressed and sitting by the window, waiting for Mizelle and Lily to pull up. Wednesday is road trip day!

Read the rest of this entry »


Permalink Leave a Comment

“Where Ya Been?”

February 24, 2018 at 12:35 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Sweet sticky things, That's not funny...)

Ya Big Silly!

Hey strangers… It’s Stranger Yet!

Yeah, it’s been a while. I’ve been a negligent blogger, watching life’s moments pass by without stopping to note each one. Been spending a lot of time pondering the universe, and sometimes the thoughts that wander through the brain need time to age, ripen, ferment. Not that I’m any kind of genius. I just needed a break.

Sunshine passed away last week. Rain’s new boyfriend and Sunshine were best buddies, and Rain was crying when she called to tell me. Sunshine had a major case of ass-cancer, and was a hard-living old coot, so it wasn’t unexpected. (Anyone who can smoke three packs of American Spirit full-flavors in a day is living on borrowed time.) How he lasted as long as he did is a tribute to the stubbornness of the human spirit. I’d been holding up okay, but then I saw Werner Klemperer on a Law and Order rerun, and noticed that Werner and Sunshine were dead ringers for each other. (Literal.) I’d thought about reaching out, but our chats lately involved lots of his get-rich-quick schemes, usually needing my financial support. (Sorry Sunshine, you can’t get blood out of a turnip.) The doctors, frustrated with his use of street drugs, cut off his prescription meds and told him to go for it with the heroin and meth. I don’t know if he passed from natural causes, or got a fentanyl hit, but Sunshine has faded into the night. RIP, you giant teddy bear.

I have a sneaky feeling my beloved cousin has also moved on to the next level. He’d not been well, and moved to Arizona. All phone numbers are disconnected, no news whatsoever. I’m going to write him a long letter, in longhand, to tell him goodbye. Whoever says adopted relatives aren’t as close as blood relatives has not met our family. WE decide who is family, and if you burn us you might find yourself unadopted, bloodline or no. You can choose friends but not family, the saying goes. Our best family are the ones we’ve chosen, not those thrust upon us.

A lot of other stuff has been going on, which I will eventually write about. I needed time for life to percolate. Also, there have been major changes at work, and I don’t want to pontificate too much about that in a public space. I love my job at Master P’s, and now, other than the bookkeeper, Grinder and Master P himself, I have been there the longest. Art East is behind me by about six months. Everyone else, my bosses? I’ve trained them all. I’m feeling a bit of burnout, it’s been thirteen years. But I’m not so burned out I’m ready to jump. I took a sick day, creating a four-day weekend, and it was just what I needed. I sat around just long enough to be restless, but not long enough to appreciate being bored. I came back to work a half-hour early, urging Southie to bank those minutes for the next time my bus is late.

It’s been a dark time in my world. Ain’t no Sunshine to brighten it up. It will be a long time before I forget Sunshine. He was a sweet, thoughtful career criminal who gave me more smiles than I ever realized at the time. Save me a fistful of happy pills, bud, and I will see you when I get there.

Permalink Leave a Comment

RIP Mr Burns

January 12, 2018 at 8:00 am (Sweet sticky things, That's not funny...)

So long, little buddy. You will be missed.

We have had a plethora of wacky pets over the years. Mostly it seems like a science experiment; can dogs, cats, mice, fish, guinea pigs and other critters live under one roof? We have tried, and yes, it can happen, often with amusing results.

Mr Burns came to us a couple years ago. Sister bought two male mice at the “feed store” and put them in a cage. Boys will be boys, and since they seemed to do better in their own areas, we put them in separate cages. Creeper, the black one, died after about a year. We thought he’d be the hearty one. But he had half the lasting power of Mr Burns.

Mr Burns was chosen for his craftiness. When Sister got him home he was “hiding” by clinging to the roof of the box. Smart little feller, huh?

He got his name from his stature. He had something up with his front legs, so he tended to scoot around on his butt. He’d hold his paws in front of himself and wiggle his fingers, like Monty Burns from The Simpsons. He’d wobble over to say hi when he heard my voice. Mostly because I bribed him with toffee peanuts and popcorn.

He’s looked ragged his whole life, and each day I would wonder. Last night when I went by, he was sleeping in an unusual place. I blew on him, that usually got a movement, but not this time.

When I came down the hall, I saw the cage had been cleaned, and my little friend was gone. Sister had pronounced him, and he was sleeping with the fishes. Specifically, my niece’s several pet goldfish from over the years.

I salute you, Mr Burns. The hounds have been released for the last time.

Permalink Leave a Comment

Footprints In The Snow

December 25, 2017 at 7:07 pm (Sweet sticky things, That's not funny...)

My buddy, the Mighty Hunter

There they were, Django’s footprints leading from the front door toward the neighbor’s house. He loves hiding under their boat, or perch majestically atop their recycling bin. He’s a smart cat, he’s lived outside most of his 10-12 years. For some reason I found his footprints unsettling. He’s been spending time indoors; the kitchen is like his Florida, he goes there in the winter. He’s a big eater, but his 17-20 pound frame wasn’t totally subsidized by us. I have a feeling he had two or three homes he fed off of.

Lately he’s been moving slower. He can still clear a six-foot fence, even with his girth. The last time I saw him snoozing in the kitchen, he looked like he’d eaten three or four canna-brownies. He was nodding, and was uninterested in me. I found that odd. He’s a macho cat, lovey-dovey in the house, but you best not pet him in the driveway. “That shit is for sissies,” his upturned nose and high tail would say as he moseyed away. “I have an image to upkeep!” But if I pulled up a chair in the yard to play harp or smoke a doobus, PLOP into my lap landed Django. Always the gentleman, his talons were retracted when he climbed aboard. I swear he knows how to read a clock. Almost every night at 1 AM, he’d be waiting at the front door to come in with me. If I were early, he’d sit outside looking for me. If I was late? I would hear about it. “Mrawrr…”

I understand why you’d go indoors, buddy. It was cold last night. I’ve been listening for your knock. (He rattles the screen door when he wants to come in.) I hope you’re curled up in front of the neighbor’s fireplace, staying warm and well-fed until the snow and ice melts. You know you’ll always have a home.

When I got up Xmas morning, my sister was upbeat, yet blue. “Christmas is starting with a bummer.”

Before I could ask if it was Django, she said, “I found Fuzzball in my horsey room, curled up dead. And we haven’t seen Django since midnight.”

“Oh man…” Fuzzball, while not my favorite cat ever, had become quite a character. My brother-in-law has always good-naturedly grumbled about the critters, especially the cats. (“At least the dog barks at the mailman, what the fuck do cats do? Knock over the Christmas tree and turn on the stove! Fucking cats…”) But he’s a big softy at heart, and when he saw Fuzzball sitting abandoned in a cardboard box marked FREE in front of a Plaid Pantry, he stuffed her under his coat and and brought her home. (“What?” “Oh nothing.”)

Fuzz was tiny, and may not have been a kitten. A year later she was the same size. I called her Scaredy Cat. It was like living on the Nostromo when she was up and about. She’d sleep atop (or inside) the kitchen cabinets, and come bursting out like a deranged alien looking for a place to hide.Something had been wrong with her fur, she was hairless on her back-half for a few months, looking like some sort of psychedelic jackrabbit. She had the prettiest blue eyes, like a Scandinavian princess. Over time, her hair grew back, and she wasn’t quite so skittish. She’d adopted my sister, riding around on her shoulder like a parrot. She, however, wasn’t as kind with her claws. I don’t need no cat-scratch-fever.

So long Fuzzball. I will miss you jump-starting my heart on a twice-daily basis, those big blue eyes suspiciously watching my every move. It took you a long time to accept us, but I’m glad you did.

And Django? You can come home any time now.

UPDATE 3:20 AM: Lord Django rolled in about 3:20 AM, and is currently sleeping off his Xmas dinners.

Django Hunter

Permalink Leave a Comment

From Prettybird to Jailbird

August 11, 2017 at 10:29 am (Sweet sticky things, That's not funny...)

Oh morning, why hast thou forsaken me?

Behind the Fence

I haven’t been around much. Well, haven’t been here. Work has kept me busy, and I have been trying to keep it together. Cat-sitting, yard work, I been truckin’. The weather has been hot and sticky, and the air is worse than Beijing’s. I’ve been having trouble breathing, and even walking to the MAX takes it out of me. God please make it rain.

And then there’s Rain. She’s in jail, and I don’t know when I’ll see her again.

Read the rest of this entry »

Permalink Leave a Comment

Out In The Country

May 31, 2017 at 11:17 am (Cosmic Encounters, On the road again..., Sweet sticky things)

After a fifty-hour work week, lots of work drama, and a phone that won’t stop ringing, I needed a respite.

Read the rest of this entry »

Permalink Leave a Comment

May Day Play Day

May 2, 2017 at 3:21 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Drunk and disorderly, Sweet sticky things)

May Day and I go back.

Over the past two decades, I’ve encountered big romance, lost said romance, gotten jobs, but the one consistent has been the protests. Every year there are May Day protests, and I end up in the middle of them. Unintentionally, for the most part.

It was a Monday, and the news warned of mischief and mayhem. There are always respectable protesters, the ones who bring their kids to teach them about democracy in action, or older folk recapturing the glory days of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. “Power to the peepole!” Of course they aren’t the problem. It’s the 25-100 black-garbed goons with Molotov cocktails, spray paint and chunks of concrete for the windows that get all the attention.

You know, the assholes.

Read the rest of this entry »

Permalink 1 Comment

Erectile Dysfunction

April 29, 2017 at 12:20 pm (Cosmic Encounters, Cussed Dumbers, Sweet sticky things)

Lunch Buddy

I’ve been keeping a low profile, trying to work as much as possible without burning out, and trying to stay upbeat in dark times. Talk about easier said than done.

Eva Braun has been treating me well, schedulewise. I did a full week’s residency at the Nightclub Store, much to the chagrin of the thievin’ locals who come by, peek in the window, see it’s not someone who treats the job like they’re being paid to play games on their phone for eight hours, slump their shoulders and move on. I let them in if they behave, unless they are infamous or I have had specific issues with them. I am a motherfuckin’ elephant when it’s a personal transgression. “I can hold my breath for a long time.”

Read the rest of this entry »

Permalink Leave a Comment

Closing My Third Eye

March 29, 2017 at 4:20 am (Cosmic Encounters, Sweet sticky things)

So many things we’ve known all our lives are going away. Some of it is evolution. Some is common sense. Or, in the situation of weed and the counter-culture, you become obsolete.

Who’da thunk potheads would become a recognized, respected, government-regulated bunch of tax-paying citizens? (I didn’t, in my lifetime.) Even more so, who would think that such government approval would cause things like head shops to fall by the way-side?

Such is the case with my favorite surviving head shop, The Third Eye on Hawthorne. All good things must come to an end.

Read the rest of this entry »

Permalink Leave a Comment

Sasquatch Approved!

March 23, 2017 at 10:40 am (Cosmic Encounters, Cussed Dumbers, Sweet sticky things)

Holy Cow

Aah, three-day weekend, how you taunt me. When I want you, I can never get you. When I want to immerse myself in work, you are there insisting. When I want to run off with a girl for a couple days? Oh, we can’t spare you…

I’m getting by, still getting used to being alone. This has been one of the easiest breakups ever, maybe because we’ve had so much practice? I am happy for Rain, and she seems happy. I’m supportive of her, and I’m glad someone is there to take care of her. Boy howdy.

But I also have to take care of myself. It would be easy to fall into over-medication, or have a few drinks. That’s not where I’m at. But I still wanted to cut loose. Is there anything left out there, weedwise, that will give me a buzz?

I found something while stocking up on vapor cartridges. I looked at the young budtender and asked, “I have gotten high off spaghetti sauce and chili, but beef jerky? Really?”

“Oh ho ho,” he chuckled wisely. “Look at the numbers, 150 mgs…”

“Seven dollars? I’ll take three.” If they sucked, I was out $20. If good? I have a new bestest friend.

There were eight pieces. They tasted like kippered beef, I had no idea how they got the drug on there, spray? Is this what my lungs look like? (I saw an ad for Motel Hell; human jerky has been on my mind…) I nibbled about a third, fifty milligrams. Repeated later on, it was a nice, even high. I hate having pepperoni breath, and bits of meat in my remaining teeth, but the slow-creeping buzz made up for these inconveniences. I saved a dose for work. Who knows, it may save someone’s life.

Life rolls on. I have been trying to pick up as many hours at work as possible. I chat with Dizzy. I helped Dr T pay his phone bill so I have someone to text randomly. (He was cool without a phone for a week, but apparently I wasn’t. He can catch up with me after payday.)

Festus has disappeared into the country. Maybe he quit paying his cell phone bill, I dunno. He’s quit talking to me.

The other residents of the burned-out hotel will visit, or text. One of the locals called me, all excited about some pills. When I looked up the numbers, it broke his heart. Those aren’t oxys, those are furosemide. AKA water pills. Talk about pissed!

Work has its share of drama. I’m just trying to keep my head low, be useful and productive. I was given yesterday off, freight day. I usually run a till and put stock away; it takes the whole shift but I have most done by lunch. My coworker, at 11 PM last night, was still knee-deep in cardboard, no idea how he was going to get it all done.

Well, I’m not going in early today. I figure I’ll get there about the time they get yesterday’s work done.

Permalink Leave a Comment

Next page »