The Home Economics Story

"Four years in the lives of four home economics students at Iowa State University." (1951)

This is 25 minutes, but if you are interested in the fabulous professional possibilities available after four years of undergraduate homemaker study, you'll be glad you watched.

Actually it's a great production and an interesting period piece. (If you think 70's home decor was awful, have a look at those 50's drapes, revealed in color.)

The girls are pretty. The film puts your mind at ease about living in a woman's dorm... (He wrote with a straight face as if there were nothing odd about this observation.)

55 years is a little late to show this to the (still vanished anyway) Phooka, I guess, but anyway...

If the film breaks, or the music skips click here,
then please return to your seat.

"a benign but mischievous creature - very fond of rumpots, crackpots, and how are you, Mr. Wilson?"

My Phooka has left me again, and is now chumming along with some girl reporter, so she can be written about in the local paper.

"A lot of us would recognize I Like Your Hat! as the woman who works most days in the Dollar General checkout line, standing at the cash register behind a stainless-steel counter and ringing up the purchases of customers who’ve just run a gantlet of last-second temptations: pens, magazines, gum and the kinds of candy packaged so perfectly that children can’t resist begging parents for it.

Shopping can be stressful, but I Like Your Hat! does her best to make it a pleasant experience for her customers. Her hellos, thank-yous and goodbyes are sincere. Still, there’s a tired tone in her voice, reinforced by the shadows circling her eyes, that belies her enthusiasm.

That’s because I Like Your Hat! works hard — and not just at Dollar General. There’s a good chance you’ll also see her ringing up the register at Break Time convenience store just a couple of blocks down Hobgoblin Drive. She splits most of her days between the two jobs, trying to make ends meet.

Since May, Dollar General has paid I Like Your Hat! $6 an hour, but it cut her from 40 hours a week to 25 or less.

“I took a second job because I can’t pay the bills at $6 an hour,” she said.

Break Time pays I Like Your Hat! $7 an hour for 25 hours or more per week. While it boosts her average wage to about $6.50, it also has her working 50-plus hours. It’s easily enough labor to keep her exhausted but brings barely enough money to cover rent, utilities and groceries for her family. "

Now that's accomplished, perhaps she will come back to me. I mean, if she says "I beg your pardon" and everything, I'll let her come back.

Oh, I miss you, sprite. We laugh at the same jokes. We hate the same people! and that means a lot! The world goes dark when you're gone, and I become jealous.

I prefer you, Fauna. Dont' you prefer me?

A job? You...think I should work more than...Well, yes I can understand your point of view. ...
____
That reporter is mixed up. You told me you paid THEM so you could have some sport catching inside embezzlers and discouraging shoplifters. I'm confused, as usual.

No, we're against raising the minimum wage. I'll try to explain...when you come back.
____
UPDATE! She politely disagrees!

Second Season

We have a new character, and I'm tempted to name him "Spin Off Reb" because he should have his own show. Actually he is called "Hillbilly Reb" or just Reb. I knew him a hundred years ago in another life and we got along fine, in that sort of "sorry,what's your name again?" way. Unusual thing about it though is that back then we were like, nine. Nine or ten.

Meh. Drunks. Everyone here graduated to dangerous drugs but no one goes to N.A. because we all started drinking young, and we figure A.A. is our root solution. Wouldn't have dropped that acid or shot that heroin if I wasn't drunk and stupid in the first place.

So we're 45. Reb moved in on his birthday, in fact, which makes him three months my junior. Sober four months and he's already got a sober red head who can shake it, brethren and sisteren. A nice bit of calico, a bombshell actually, with an intellect that makes her personality float nicely. A nearly down to earth sprite, I mean. Karen is her name, and she knows where your pressure points are and charges.

No , no, no. You don't tell about your characters, you show them in action and in that way reveal their personalities.

First, I'm going to have to get an ear for the language but Rebs a self-narrator so that shouldn't take long. I attempted a transcription for the Anonyomous Doctor the other day. How did it go. "s'well turn this clothes bag upside down and shake it. packed it in such a hurry. hm. lots of socks. how'd i get so many socks".

As he was moving in and packing his side of the suite with family heirlooms, he noted my framed Van GOG and I think I almost blushed. He didn't say "Art, eh?" and look at me and look at it and look at me and look at it again, thank goodness.

Said, I got art! Mostly the dog and fowl kind, though.

(OH, are you familiar with the works of Maynard Reese?)

(I'll ask him someday. Reese used to live across the street from me. I don't know if he was a drunk or not, never saw him in the bars.)

This weekend there is an AA convention in Branson, of all places. It couldn't be more perfect if it was in Bugtussle, such a coincidence. So Reb is away on AA business and his absence makes me even fonder. No reason to think the phooka shouldn't materialize, I'm sure she knows I've missed her.

Thanks for the visit! (and thank you, Exclamation Mark, for my Davey and Goliath Favicon, which appears in the address bar now.) Now I will have to change the casting list on the right, there. (Left to you, of course.) (An original old joke from my first days of blogging!) It appears this interloper is going to stay, what with his good nature, four months sobriety, and hubba hubba girlfriend...

Enjoy your weekend! I'll be back when I have something to add, and that will surely be very soon.

I go out, and I come in

Aeroplane advertisement for a cell phone company


Floating TV image in my room at night



brought to you by...

30 years ago and it still cringes

Jack Paar: Rona Barrett vs. Clement Freud

I've wanted to share some of this "Live Tv at it's best" so you might get an idea of Youtube's potential as a sort of museum of broadcasting history. And here is an important TV moment, since it certainly captures Jack Paar's anguish about ever becoming a TV talk show host.

It's 1973! I can't explain why it's black and white, or even why Jack Paar is on, since he'd long before given up the Tonight Show to Johnny.

The wit of Clement Freud (grandson of Sigmund, member of parliament) may be on some rough road here, dealing with the "new power in Hollywood", Rona Barett, but in my opinion he rightly puts her to shame.

This was supposed to be typical Hedda Hopper type gossip but Barrett starts off by telling the nation that Bobby Riggs "picks up chickens" and was recently robbed and "plucked" but that's "what happens when you are a woman beater."

Whoa! We were expecting some lighter fare here, like who is Elizabeth Taylor marrying next?

What to do? I'm not sure, but if you know Jack Paar, he must have decided to retire for good after this evening.

Part 1



Part 2 is found here.

You are respondsable

Taped to the men's locker room door today.

You note the helpful editing scratches through out this meeemo regarding someone cretins leaving their stinky uniforms in their lockers.

Up close, down close

My new bunkie Bickerell lasted two days. There was a mix up with the law. Turns out he wasn't to have been let out of jail in the first place...

So he showed up at his regularly scheduled probation officer appointment and lo! She had him shackeled hands and feet (and gagged him too, I believe, such was his surprise and angry protestations, according to his girlfriend.)(She's forgiven him for trying to strangle her. They're fine now.)

Everyone was shocked and angry. I was momentarily in accord, but then, "say 'meh'".

I don't mind him going down the chute. Fucker could kill somebody with that drunken, 23 year old's temper of his.

I was walking down the hall from the kitchenette with my morning cup when Murf the Surf (who I count as a one of my two friends in this six man house) called from his room, "So what'd ya do, John, drop a dime on Nick?"

A Dylan line jumped to mind, from Idiot Wind. "I can't help it if I'm lucky," I said, entering my suite where Florie was still asleep.

He laughed and it was a typical exchange between us. But now I've come to a point with my other housemates I don't care what they make of me. I can be a pompous ass when the situation calls for it, and I'll be downright loathsome and offensive if I'm challenged about the 'unfairness' of of it all. Screw 'em.

One even proposed that they raise my rent, after the sexual offender had to be turned away. No fair I should have that double room to myself. But then someone pointed out that I pay the same rent as every one who has a room of their own. Maybe I should pay less, not only for having to share a room but for the suspense when there's a vacancy.

Let the record show it! My door is open, 'gate. I haven't made it difficult to fill this vacancy.

Meanwhile, "Web 2.0" , with youtube and Google Earth has been freaking me to pieces. Especially Google Earth, since I learned how to fly.

Get down to about a hundred feet over a city, find a highway, get a lateral view, click twice and you're a genie on a flying carpet.

I go about 40 mph. Trying to remember my way around Nashville, for instance. I get lost and go up to 14,000 feet to get my bearings, then zoom back down. Nashville breaks my heart. Finally found the bookstore.

Then of course you realize the world is yours. Fall back in your chair when you hit the Space Shuttle button, go around the earth to Baghdad, say. Drop down to balloon level, float above some Jihadi neighborhood. No wait, pull up here again and go into the mountains of Pakistan.

Ten years from now, maybe some of us can buy our own robo-copters and some stinger missiles. Go on the hunt from here at home. Anyone in a cave there has to be up to no good, (reminds me of what a girlfriend's father said once: "anyone out after 1 a.m. ...")

Ready, aim...DAMN! Suddenly the my controls are gone, the mouse isn't working. I'm flying straight toward that, ...pull up , pull up! Can't do it!

But it's over-stimulating. Also it's too much for my XP sometimes. This machine has never crashed before, until this week. I wasn't hurt but I was badly shaken.

My town? This is pretty much it, here.


I was reluctant to move out to this neighborhood, since it requires a car. But here we are...


I haven't even gone on safari to Africa yet. (Challenged Anony-doc, which of us could find a herd of zebras first and get a picture).

I'm also thinking of taking Lindberg's flight over the Atlantic, to see if I can stay awake and if four sandwiches is enough to sustain me. Get low, see the waves. Maybe see a fishing boat and circle around them.

I wonder if Google Earth has storms. I suspect not. The space shuttle and all those satellites meant to get a picture of every inch of land, they must have made several passes over certain areas , waiting for a clear day.

This isn't scholarship, I admit, but I chafe at any suggestion I may suffer from an internet "addiction". You wouldn't say that about someone spending all his time in the library would you? It's not interfering with my life. Modern miracles are.

I can't help it if I'm lucky.

Florie is gone and my suite is a bunk room again. I dropped her off and got home and opened our chat box, of course. Hello! How are the plants?

The plants are dead?! How can that be?

Been awhile. We about forgot all about the place.

Take a right here, right?

"I think."

You know what else I forgot is that I never mind it very much, having a new room-mate. And Bickerell is no stranger, he's lived in this house before, a year ago, and has been a friendly (n.) in AA meetings since.

He's a kid, about 23 I think, but makes up for it by exaggerated conscienciousness. (He woke me up, being so slow and quiet entering the room and making his way to his bed last night.)

Alcoholic roofer, gonna break his neck, hit bottom on someone's driveway if he doesn't use the prescribed good, orderly direction.

Sometimes I wonder, is everyone the same around here, or am I just dull and unable to distinguish them. I think sometimes I'm dull in the sense of being indifferent and uninterested. Sometimes I imagine an individual
has materialized in my life, and I go, yeah! But even then I pretty quickly lose interest.

Mom was a car. Best friend a Martian. The lady I'm seeing is a sprite. My pen-pal is a complicated woman, for all I know she's some famous novelist incognito.

It's old age. I'm a crank already. Very few leave an impression here.

Open your mind, open your heart and that may open your mind. I wish I were more outgoing, I will always wish that. I relate to this man. "In Postman's Death, A Mystery..."

" Mr. Gagne was, by many accounts, socially awkward and had problems striking up even casual conversations. He was often heard mumbling to himself and complained about how heavy the mailbag was.

“Being social was extremely difficult for him, said Jeff Kline, who lives on the street. “He would answer if I spoke to him, but he wouldn’t strike up a conversation.” "

But his story, his secrets remind me of myself. Reading the article I thought of the Rehab notion of "Alcoholic Shame". Whatever this guy's problem was, it reminds me of my own secretiveness in my teen age years. What's left undone, piles up. Abandon yourself and nature takes over. "Do nothing, somethings going to happen."

Even if he were caught, never worked up the courage to confess but was just caught, I'll bet in the end he would still have been tremendously relieved. The Incredible Lightness Of Being. Where have you been officer, I've been waiting twenty years.

Dead at 54.

Our baffeling, cunning, powerful inversions

We interviewed for a new housemate again Sunday, three weekends in a row now. Thankfully our finances are good for awhile, but we need to get the other half of my "suite" rented.

Now we've agreed to take in a youngster we kicked out last year.

His interview was not bizzare. I just love my housemates, whom I now refer to simply as "Modern Man".

In the last year this fellow has been mostly drunk. (Honesty! they note.) He told us that when we kicked him out last October, he actually wanted us to, and he'd been smoking pot all that time anyway. (Very, very honest! Ten points!) Now he wants structure. (I almost piped up there.)

Last month he wrecked his girlfriends car and then tried to strangle her when she got mad. This landed him in jail for two weeks (He's hit bottom! He's coming clean about all this too! Obviously his chances of recovery are better than ever!)

Another fellow showed up. He'd had a year and a half sobriety from 2001 to 2003, and was in trouble with the law now, for the first time. Pled guilty to domestic assault and for cruelty to animals (he killed a pit-bull, somehow) He's now in a treatment house.

He is older, has had a salaried career in upper management before getting hooked on crack during his head-long fall. He'll have to see a P.O., who will regularly test him for drugs. (Not true of our former housemate, at least not yet).
___
Shouldn't it be obvious to an addict when another addict is conning you? You can't con a con, they say, but you can fool a fool, can't you.

So, he was honest! Any addict knows to throw in a little shameful confession to show his humility, and explain his new outlook on life.

They voted our previously evicted back into the house. I raised my hand last, after grumbling that everyone seemed to have their credit and debit columns switched.

At least he won't have his pit bull this time (it was stolen, not killed.)

God forgive me, I hate man-killer dogs. And often find that I dislike the people who own them.

Ha! I just rewrote that so mildly.
_____
I think it's cowardly not wanting a stranger in the house and preferring the known asshat to the unknown asshat(and yet they wanted a stranger last week , who was on the S.O. list! go figure!)

Possibly last night was just automatic contrariness, which sets in whenever I voice my opinion. I am the resident jerk when I materialize.
________
UPDATE: maybe the problem is with me. Thanks for the comments.

Hyperlinking Sunday

Newspaper comic strip fans will enjoy the "Comics Curmudgeon" for snarky commentary on many of your favorite and least favorite strips. The writer has the sensibilities of Stereo Lab Rat, and can you imagine Stereolabrat taking on "For Better Or For Worse"???

Laff riot, let me tell you. And there is a great, active comments section of like minded nihilists. (I don't mind nihilists outside of politics and real life. I love 'em when they're let loose as art and restuarant critics though. The meaner the better.)

I stopped reading the comics when I got online in '98, so I've mostly lost track of FBOW. Elizabeth "Lizard Breath" is apparently quite a flaky girl with no direction in life, and her old high school flame, the pustuled and bespectacled Anthony, is back wearing a mustache. He looks 70 years old and they call him "Granthony" at C.C. The current story line is, as you will see, creepy indeed, as Granthony is trying to rekindle the adolescent romance of ten years ago (comic strip time).

Also there is the baffling Mary Worth story line, you can follow better with the Curmudgeons' help. Apparently an "intervention" with an alcoholic went way WAY wrong for the meddler. (Poor fellows DEAD! Way to go MARY!!)

This is going to be a daily read for me. In fact I'm starting in the archives.
____
Meanwhile, as I consider rolling backwards in life and trying for a bookseller job, I've been exploring some literary blogs, some of them written by booksellers. ("Bookseller Chick", yes that's a start for me.)

Also, I like this fellow for his little essay about Emerson.

This bookseller 'nerd' writes "I work at an independent bookstore in New York City's SoHo neighborhood. Someday I will have a bookstore of my own in Brooklyn."

*sigh*

It's been ten years since I worked at Borders. That ended a ten year "career", so far the best years of my life probably. So many co-workers I remember for their sometimes endearing eccentricities. Some of those who rose to the top of my heart charts, I actually managed to befriend. (Don't know how I do this. In other areas of life, people don't realize or care much if they realize you genuinely admire them. Well, they were all artists, in a sense, and artists need to be loved don't they, most of them.)

Swear, after all these years, I could write a list of 40 names here from three stores where I worked. I don't remember people from any other area of my life, not even school.

(well that makes sense, i didn't really ever go to school)

I can work on an assembly line in a loud factory, I can be a programmer, or I can work in a Borders or Barnes and Noble.

Need a new dream, now, a year and a half sober.

Maybe a reporter. No, a TV cameraman, following a local TV reporter (female) around. That would make a blog. Not a life, maybe, but a blog.

Soup Exile

Spare Tie Clip photos

The Way



I don't even know what this is. The Baler they call it. I don't even wonder. Actually I do know what it is, but I don't tell myself.



This is a secret empty place I go. I'm not supposed to be here. Many visits, never have run into anyone.


brought to you by elmer's

Reorient Express

I always mosey on my way out of the little publishing company where I labor. Make a five minute walk ten minutes, as I need to carry 20 dailys across the street for the newspaper "morgue".

From the factory floor, through a series of combination lock doors, I come out into a beautiful hall that reminds me we have a public face. In this hall is a mural and I tie clip a little section of it now and then. All in all, it's an "Our Town" melange. Some is very good, some is contemptable. I guess that means it "succeeds".

It succeeds with me when it's good.

Got out of work early so Florie could go in early. Took me a minute to realize what I was doing, at first it seemed like I was doing her a favor somehow. Then I thought, oh my, (and an inner demon, which ever one of those is still hanging around, goes HAHAHA!) oh my.

Then it turned out well. I dropped her off at the kip and just as I was pulling out onto the busy highway to go home, she set my cell phone vibrating. "Come back! I'm off work today!"

Oh, good! Nice she gets a break sometimes. Well. 180 then. Happy North Point.

So we've had a good afternoon and evening, actually napping a lot. Not sure why, for me, but I know why she sleeps.

What I'm learning about the poor. I'm poor too, I guess, from now on. Good to be together, that's one thing. Also learning about uncanny bad luck...that or prejudice, and I'm coming to believe it's the latter.
________
I feel good after an after meeting, far ranging conversation with my new foster Sponsor, Grehgory I, a fellow anti-commie iconoclast. Good for the soul to share some hilarious agreements for once, instead of hilarious debate. Also, being a former Greenwich village 'artist', now living in rural Missouri making a living as a mechanic (has his own shop! Lives there!) makes him ideal as a sponsor , for this east-coast-phile.

Tomorrow is a good day. Because I will go to work and finish and be back here feeling amazed I've done it again. Each day in recovery can be like that when you remember to contrast.

It's just not me. Wow. Not me at all. That also is good.

Sand Bagged and not Boardered

There was a mixup, ha ha! Our sex felon, Hoke, didn't recieve the message that we'd found him out, and arrived here on his appointed day, taxi-vouched from the mental hospital.

One of my housemates was home, and he's soft hearted perhaps. The night before, he'd felt terribly guilty for looking up Hoke's criminal record, like that was similar to snooping in a man's office file cabinet.

He sat and let Hoke tell his side of the story. There was a mistake in the online records, he could prove it! There is a detective in the Sheriff's office , who could bring by papers tomorrow and clear his name, and then if you'll all let me explain some more too, why I didn't tell the truth, which I knew I should have.

It wasn't a "A" felony, it was a "D" felony, or something. No sexual assault. All wrong. Had to do with his mad mad angry ex who stabbed him in the head.

I came in from work and my housemate laid it all out and then some, as he is a talker without brakes. Emergency meeting! he declared. I got that put off until the next night though, until we see the evidence.

Hoke Sad Sack on the couch. I gave him ten buck (because I didn't have a fiver), to get him to going more quickly. Locked the door. Went downstairs to my apartment and locked that door too.

Much controversy, I believe due to Modern Man's literalist interpretation of 'Thou Shalt Not Judge'. But I'd have none of it, didn't want to participate in controversy with these housemates who regard me, (most of them) as an irritating fellow if closely engaged. (Fine if you don't talk to him about anything serious, come to think of it!)
. . . .
Comes today this mysterious detective, who left a mimeograph of one sheet, showing a class D felony for "Attempted Sexual Assault".

My housemate stood over me and said, see?

Yeah.

Well, No actually.

"It was 'attempted' , man! It didn't happen!! Read there."

I got up and grumbled away that he would not have my vote tonight. Closed the door as he was pointing out something about my character, hypocritical or something. Or my intelligence, contradictory (I prefer 'complex').

Back to the computer I was looking for case law , because our house is already an exception to a law about felons sharing a dwelling. I thought perhaps I could quickly put this to rest and not have to fight for the privilege of not having a loathsome, possibly criminally insane room-mate.

(Now, it might be kinda funny if this housemate of mine were trying to force me to accept a roommate with a G.I. problem with flatulance, but this isn't any joke of any kind.)

Then I returned to Hoke's public records and discovered he'd made a mistake. This class D felony wasn't the crime that put him on the Sexual Offenders' list. He was on there for "Sexual Abuse of a Minor". So, there was a second crime, Holmes? Yes, said Dot Gov.

And possibly worse? Sounds worse.

That wasn't enough though, somehow I sensed I still didn't have the "here, now shut up" information I needed.

So I called our heroine Jacky Lockett, who's state job is to keep our Sober, exception-to-the-law home safe and carefree for all.

What a wonderful woman. I put her on the speaker phone just so Florie could enjoy it too. She as usual went OFF, with some cursing and then some captivating stories of how she'd had to roll with this before and sometimes failed.

"What you do is step out your door. Look east, west, north, and south. If there is a school, a church with a daycare within 1280 feet, he cannot legally move in there. You got that? And if you can't find one, you call me back. I know that neighborhood. I know how to make sure."

That was enough. I went and knocked on my housemate's door. Related the info in a case-closed tone of voice.

Could I cancel the emergency meeting ?

"What? It's your meeting," he said. ("My" meeting after I'd asked him to postpone his last night.)

Anyway, I want to show you something about appearences. It's interesting, sickening but interesting.

This sad-sack but affable, modest punk. Three pictures. You can click to enlarge.

Presenting himself in 2006, poor kenneled dog nosing the fence:


In 2004, cross-eyed Ozzyphile, or possibly trying for the mad Manson look:



In 2003, when he was first captured: a Street Know It All! Come on , baby, I know where to score and kick it.

What's To See?

We voted in an affable, somewhat self-effacing Iowan last night, only he wasn't really Iowan, his parents moved him as an infant to Mallard, Missouri, pop 13.

Rural man, head to boot, and in retrospect, creepily apologetic about it. He said his favorite meetings were the ones with (he dared say it) 'upper class' people, doctors and lawyers (not dentists! they're middle-brow of course, if I remember my Paul Fussell).

He was direct from the Second Floor, on his first pass after a six week stay. He said with some wonderment that he'd been there so long the staff was treating him like staff, and he was taking care of some of the newer patients.

How did your troubles begin, friend?

In 1997 my wife stabbed me in the head and then got a restraining order on me. I went to a friends to live and got off my meds and I was sad about my father's death so I stole my friend's car and drove it to the grave up in Iowa, intending to blow my brains out. They caught me with the stolen car and the gun and that's how I ended up in prison for three years.

In prison they had me on very strong medications. That was good. I learned how to get along. Then they released me and gave me a bag full of these pills and said do I want to go to a half way house in Kansas City of St. Louis City? I chose St. Louis because I heard there were better social service agencies there.

I thought, "St. Louis City?" All the brethren went gawd, jesus, no, and then I knew he meant East St. Louis.

Immediately began apologizing for having some knee-jerk racism, he was trying to overcome.

"Oh well, yeah, when you're the only white dude in the ghetto man..." someone said.

In St. Louis City I threw away my pills because I realized they were so damn strong and I couldn't defend myself. It felt like prison , you know, you have to always be looking over your shoulder. So I started to drink because you see, that was self-medicating. I have an anxiety disorder and Major Depression. I mean without the pills. Well, I mean, with the pills it's ok [laughs], and for awhile with the alcohol it was ok. Only the alcohol stopped working.[laughs]

We were nodding, understanding completely, and he got very happy and said "You guys are completely different from the Tideweil House, they were shooting questions at me the whole interview! Like, what would I do if someone in the house offered me drugs? Man, I'm from prison so I have this anti-snitch thought process, you know and...

I like it here! John told me you're all from the second floor too!"

Jackson shifts uncomfortably on the davenport. It's true! I did say that!

Why did I say that? Hm!

"You just seem really cool here, it's a relief!"

The men started to soak this up a bit. "Ah, yeah, some of these Sober Houses are uptight man, I think we've got the best one going, we stay out of each other's business but we're aware of one another too, we all know what's going on in each other's lives pretty much. You pay your rent and stay sober , you don't isolate and make us worry, you're fine, man. You know."
___
Man. I liked this kid. Stabbed in the head and a little stupid maybe but he likes doctors and lawyers, that's smart! I bet he reads newspapers. He might even read books.

After the interview Greg the Pedant interrupted our unanimous agreements to wonder, "she stabbed him and then got a restraining order?"

I said, "Way of the world, man. She probably felt bad for stabbing him and bailed him out. Then he was mad."
_____
So, come to find out today that the man has a criminal record from your elbow to your typing fingers. We'd got a tip from one of the Phooka's coterie that this fellow was wanted in 53 states. One of the brethren told me he prayed about this, it seemed wrong to look him up in the internet records.

Like hell.

Adult Abuse, 1997. Hm. Wide area of possibilities there.
click DWI click click DWI
Vehicular Assault, 2001. Hey. You could kill someone.
click Illegal use of fire-arm click DWI click DWI (Hey. You could kill someone.)click Adult Abuse click click
Sexual Assault, 1st degree, guilty plea.

Spasms of disgust and anger.

Look up the S.Offender list, then.

There he was in a lurid color mugshot, a plug-ugly if I'd ever seen one (and I guess I can see 'em and not notice).

A god damned rapist, out of jail after only three years.
_______
I don't know what to say about the flying debris of my thoughts for the next hour, except that I don't know myself very well. I did come to a conclusion though that some people just need to find their redemption while serving life in prison. Maybe on death row.
____
Also, to get back self-centered here on the old scroll-down, it's a reminder that I'm still homeless and "in the system" , for having given up on my life and sitting around waiting to either starve or be committed.

I'm happy to be saved, and to be sober, but I am in the eye of a mad, mad world here. This devil would have been my room-mate and probably my pal.

I am a year and a half sober. But care-free as after a June eye-opener with the morning paper. Rich and jobless with a lunch date, care-free.

Someone is saying , move on now. Danger, gently. Real world, gently.
___
no edit, tarred and blurry eyed, thinking of life up north where there is nonesuch winding roads up and down right left , nor yelling nor arguments.

Second Floor North Doodle

by Florie

We interview again today for my new room-mate. Last Sunday was a disaster, and what a relief, the faux-mo's just didn't click with that crop of rummies and junkies, and so my suite didn't become a bunk room again.

I ought to ask for a break on rent when it does, but that could backfire. Oh, I've looked in the brethrens' eyes. It's occured to them to raise my rent when weeks go by and I have the double (w/private entrance) to myself.

Anyway, I just checked the board and I notice we have one man coming directly from the mental hospital (usually they are moving in from a treatment center).

All six of us in this house have been on Second Floor North. It's like "GO" on the gameboard of life, for us. ("Go back to Go, man, you're delusional"). But it's unusual to go directly to "win".

My guess is that anyone coming directly from SFN is going to be loamy. Slightly and pleasantly intoxicated on prescribed nerve-balms, in other words. Subdued and obediant, I'll trust.

How to keep my phony baloney job (2)

The Boxx wanted to check up on me today and found me outside.

Ah, HAH!

He became for a moment as tall as he is wide, but 'lo ! Bad luck for him, golly luck for me.

By an incredibly happy coincidence there just happened to be the homecoming parade passing by. So, of course I'm standing outside.

I heard the tap-Tap drums, Boxx, and marching feet, and martial bells. Thought maybe there was an occupier in town, came out to welcome our new masters. Look! The marching band has new uniforms! The homecoming queen is female this time (my conclusion, anyway) and pretty!

Hey...they're marching into our parking lot across the street. Parade must end here. Tie clip cam, quick! Not good from this distance, though.



They're starting to slack a little, that last block, too. But here come the flags!

Hail hail Freedonia!
We're not allowed to tell a dirty joke!

Of course I'm always hanging outside, and I shouldn't. But what am I gonna do with this good luck, he's caught me and looked up and seen roses and pom-poms and they're chanting now,

"How about,
How about,
How about a color shout?
crimson, crimson
gold, gold, gold, gold, gold , gold, gold,
crimson, crimson
gold, gold, gold, gold, gold , gold, gold!"

The street side crowd clapped and I clapped. I don't think he did.

Then afterwards, it was "say, John. You know, I think this is ridiculous, you having to stand around three hours a day like this. I'm going to talk to Hank. I mean, how many customers do you have now that we got those new procedures?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Well, I only got the Ghandi Jihadi team now, and they take, eh, ...But Mondays and Tuesdays, you know, that's Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday papers, eh...after that, just a few carriers who don't want to phone in their return numbers. Never know. I close at three but I bet we could...eh..."

"We need a smaller window. I'll talk to Hank. Like, what , an hour?"

"Yeah! You're right! Well, no, I'd say two or two and a half. We could cut it down to two and a half. Maybe two." (Great Smirkin' Enemy Skeptics, I'm gonna have to talk to Doof, hope Boxx forgets his good idea or I'll be back in harness eight hours a day.)

"Write me an email, John, tell me who you're dealing with each day, how long it takes, what you have to do and all. Come up with the most feasable time it should take for the Returns Processor. All right?"

"Sure thing! Hell, it'll give me something to do!" I said. "Ha, ha!"

"Good. I appreciate it, John. Everything in for today?"

"Nope, still waiting on two of Ghandi's men."

"Ok, then. Oh! And how's the , eh..." He pointed to his cheek.

"Fine. Just another couple weeks of anti-biotics."

"Oh? So it was infected!"

"Meh." My mind flipped through the ten jokes I've come up with regarding this over the last ten days.

"I got a forgetful face," I said. Whatever that means.

The french horns started to play so I raised my voice. "It's not botherin' me. "

He turned to go back inside, had another look at the spectacle. From the corner of my eye I think he took my measure for a second, a sincerity check perhaps. "Ok, I'll see you tomorrow then. Thanks, John."

I'd like to report that I then raised my fist and shouted "GO TIGERS! YEAH!" But now, my scheming mind was a-reeling and a-hatchin' already.

Must talk to Doof.
______
There is another side to me though, you know. The smart angel.
Maybe I should give up my phony baloney job. When he gave it to me, shook my hand and said "onwards and upwards!" he didn't mention that I'd be working six days a week, sometimes thirteen, once twenty.

Back on the line, eight hours. It would sturdy me up, I'd make more money, and I'd have two days off a week. All I have to do is summon up an instant of doleful determination and say the words: Can I go back to my regular job?

No! no no no no no no.... I'd be a fool!

and yet...

NO. no no no. I'll just have to initiate some new reforms , contrary to my selfishness. Keep the plum job, they think it's important and might actually look good on my record.

WAIT.

I'll talk to a moral philosopher about this.

Like, ...hmm...surely I must know someone who's a good moral philosopher. Course if they're real good, you don't want to talk to them...hmmm....there are my two older brothers, ...not the lawyer, no...There's my sponsor but so far he's only teaching me about women (and man am i on to them now)...There's Anonydoc, I could take or leave her advice and she'd never know since she never reads this scroll after I used that one word. ... Mrs. Applebones, my former supervisor at work...she shouted at me once for sneaking a smoke on the loading dock, i'm not asking her...Pa Kettle...yeah, right, ask a musician , John! haha. I wonder what my dad would say, he was a practical businessman so succesful he must have cheated just a little. Say, today was payday, and i haven't pressed all this cold cash to my face yet...

Well, so long folks, we'll visit later.

Autumn swoosh

Something was wrong but now it's right again: for one thing I'm not thinking about work except when I'm at work.

One trick is to go to work and remember it's not so bad. Before that, announcing to Florie that I didn't want to. That was prerequisite. She didn't say much except 'sure you are!' in a tone like she believed I was mistaken, that I'd mis-read myself.

They were happy words, and lightly perplexed as "Don't you remember? The car's fixed."

Anyway. I maybe coming out of a dry drunk finally. I have been going to more meetings, sticking to the same group this time, and I have a new sponsor.

After an easy day I picked her up and we drove a few blocks off our usual path just to see, and then take pictures. It's fun with the digital camera.









brought to you by:

Contempt 2

Contempt

From a mural at work

Puck And I never know what's goin' on

Puck, a.k.a. Robin Goodfellow, is on a visit to a strange land due to a mix-up in court. He will be back soon.

His Godmother spright took this photo while 11 streams of tears were falling down her face, but I didn't notice until she pulled back the camera.

Puck's mother is being strong. She could use some prayers. It's all I know to do, that helps, and praying that I know what to do and say at such times as these.

Dime Frappes , This Girl Only

Florie, whom you know I'm making up every time I write about her, (but never mind that) is one tough mama, 'gate. Let me tell you.

Yesterday I had to swing by and hang out for an hour at her very busy, tiny Get And GO! go on get the hell out of here it's crowded store, which is just off the interstate, half way between two major cities.

She radiates scary, frightful danger to anyone who might act up. I saw her deal with every type of Rhodes Psycho you can imagine, that late afternoon hour. The sarcastic out of towner miffed at the unexpected, the menacing punks in trios playing with butane lighters at the register, the harried 30-something suburban mother impatient and thoughtlessly blaming, the drunk who'd already had it up to the chin, the obsequious would-be armed robber, the nervous meth heads, the young illegals wanting to buy beer without an i.d., the dumb kid without a f'ng shirt ("next time you come in, wear a shirt," she said to the cash register), and most infuriating of all, the common ninnies who hold up the line while trying to decide if they want the lottery ticket with the balloon or fireworks theme.

The Phooka has a dead-pan M.O. I'm learning to mimic back to her (just to see what I get in return).

When she complains about what will have to be done about some injustice, she reminds me of my six year old nephew Noah, a high minded child we actually have to take serious.

Her eyes narrow and she faces you square on, stares straight in your eyes, speaking in measured terms like a bail bondsman. Yeah, like my six year old nephew.

She deserves to be at home with her kids while her husband is out making a million clams a year.

If only there were a husband. If only there were some kids.

I don't get her. I hardly ever know what's going on. When I stop by, it's like I didn't have any idea I was going to stop by. It's not like me. What am I doing here, wha,...but I'm getting off subject.

Then when there is a good customer who makes a good natured joke, though she will not laugh, when she hands back the change she allows him or her to see a glimpse of friendly (n.) in her eyes.

I witnessed this. It was kind of a relief.

When by some strange coincidence the whole world stopped coming long enough to allow for the store to be empty for sixty seconds, she'd come over to me at the end of the counter and put her forehead on my collar bone.

A couple of her co-workers from one of her other jobs came in and were all happy to see her and teasing her about something and noticed me. They were youngsters, kind of cute,



and they surprised me with forward friendliness: so you're the one, haha, we thought she made you up. (I almost said, no i made her up.)

Anyway, I'm someone somehow. Someone around.

Don't fade away...

Begrudging some credit to the devil Warhol

as i found it



'waffle house' (I like the slightly imperfect looking lettering)



'waffle house outer space'

Walk Around

Dropped Moe and his S.O., female, off somewhere with doctors and pills and bandages. They are poor and prone to self-injury. (Moe rides his bike through back yards at night, for a short cut, not thinking there might be a clothes line drawn over the vacancy).

I didn't want to stay at the E.R., so I gave them money for a cab back home. Made clear "it's a gift!" and they said in unison "Thank You Honest John". He's a good guy, she's a sweet girl. I don't like them, though. Hell, I don't like anybody, I swear sometimes what's left of my heart is in a cardboard box.

Then I pulled over to see what I could do with my camera.



It's still in business. Sometimes you get this abandonded appearence because you're so busy keeping up the front.



My mom says of the rural south, "yes but there is so much color!".

I wouldn't permit her to see this.

Note which way the arrow points.



That's not Bossie. And those eyes aren't merely mischievious. They go with the horns.
That's a demon bull. And what a greivous misuse of the cartoon medium.



Back around. You could tear this kip down by handfulls of stucco.



Small building. Is that the entrance?

I stayed too long.