The World According to Pete

2006-04-09T15:22:00.000-07:00

[[ MY DIRTY ROTTEN PAPER EATER ]]

My cat has an eating disorder. How does this happen?

She comes from a good family. I've never mistreated nor neglected her. She's well fed. By all accounts she should be happy and content...and yet, here we are.

It's called Pica, which is an eating disorder typically defined as the persistent eating of nonnutritive substances for a period of at least 1 month.

My cat has been doing this for several weeks. Her non-food item of choice is paper products. She started with newspapers, worked her way up to notebook paper, and now I believe she's sneaking the occasional scraps of wood - after clawing them off the doorframe - when I'm not looking. Some of my bills are just plain gone and I have to keep my money under lock and key for fear she'll devour that as well. The paper money, not coins which - at least for now - she has no interest in.

Among individuals with mental retardation, pica is the most common eating disorder. But my cat ain't retarded, so I don't know what her deal is.

As for treatment, I've looked up some recommendations such as:

1. Remove targeted items. Since my place is stacked with papers and books, short of leaving everything behind while I relocate with my cat to a nice roomy cave, I don't see that happening.

2. Provide lots of structured play. If that actually worked, I'd start eating paper just so my friends would provide me with lots of structured play.

3. Make targeted items aversive. The recommendation I read stated: "Occasionally, applying aversive substances (e.g. hot sauce, Bitter Apple, etc) to an item may deter a cat from chewing it. If this is not possible, spraying strong smelling substances (e.g. citrus air freshener, potpourri) on an object may prevent cats from approaching." Yeah, that'll be great. I'll just splash some hot sauce, and for good measure spray a little citrus air freshener, on every piece of paper I own. Nobody will talk to me because that'll be a stench that won't ever wash off but, hey, at least my cat will stop eating paper.

4. Provide alternative items to chew or eat. Do you mean like plastic bags? I've got plenty! And nothing beats that yummy chemical taste.

I'd like to think there's a simpler solution so, instead, I'm trying to find a high-fiber brand of cat food so she won't feel the need to consume her own inappropriate dietary supplements.

If that doesn't work, then the next time I catch my cat eating paper I could just give her a couple of good whacks with a rolled up newspaper - but she'd probably eat that too.

Maybe, to teach her a lesson, I should crack open a copy of War and Peace and tell her, "Start eating and don't stop until you've finished all 992 pages!"

If all else fails, I could take her to an 'animal psychic'.

"Your cat tells me she's depressed. Also, she was once a human being who worked in a paper mill in a previous life. It was the early 20th century and the workers barely made enough to put food on the table, so they'd sometimes eat wood pulp just to survive. This is a habit she's carried over into her new cat life. Also, she says the taste of paper and ink makes her taste buds dance."

Like I originally asked: How does this happen?

2006-03-30T04:28:00.000-08:00

[[ Vive Idiotez! ]]

I made the mistake of driving with a friend through downtown Phoenix on Tuesday afternoon.

There I was, the "designated white guy", surrounded by hundreds of cars filled with Mexican flag-waving Latino youth. Street traffic was moving slower than the DREAM Act through Congress.

What should've been less than a ten minute trip turned into over forty-five minutes, as these young activists made a slow crawl toward the State Capitol in protest of federal House Bill 4437, which would make it a felony to be in the United States illegally.

I'm all for peaceful organized protest. I believe addressing the illegal immigration issue is long overdue. Hell, I don't even care if you know how to speak English but if you're going to live in this country then you damn well better learn how to drive!

You don't stop in the center lane to let your friends out of the car so they can run over to, and climb into, another vehicle that's a half block away. You don't get out of the car and stand in the middle of the next lane, blocking traffic, so you can talk on your cell phone for several minutes. And the only time there should be over a dozen people packed into the back of a pick-up truck is if they're hidden under the floorboards and you're taking them across some country's border illegally.

The police were of no help. Standing on the sidewalk while calling over your radio, "There's a situation on 5th Ave, we need back-up!" is not help when nobody can get near 5th Ave because of Latino high-school students playing in traffic and gumming up the street with vehicles going every which way - all going as slowly as possible on the rare occasion the driver doesn't decide to stop completely even when there's several car lengths of space ahead. So, instead, a few police cars parked blocks away and the officers spent their time videotaping the scene and calling over the radio - probably calling for more back-up because, after all, you can never shoot enough video, now can you? It almost made one nostalgic for the good ole days of fire hoses and rabid dogs, when the line was firmly drawn and both police and protesters knew their place.

Up until now, I really hadn't taken a position on the whole illegal immigration issue. Now I'm leaning towards deportation, just as long as we don't let those deported drive themselves back across the border. An exodus by car would take several years, there would be numerous traffic accidents, and nobody would get in or out of either country for the foreseeable future.

I'm sure all my French-Canadian friends, who've been living quietly but illegally in the U.S. for decades, would be mighty disappointed in my attitude. Habiter et apprendre! Habiter et apprendre!

2006-03-14T00:12:00.000-08:00

[[ 21 Wishes ]]

I wish I could forget.

I wish him luck. He's sure gonna need it.

I wish I could be better.

I wish unicorns were real. I also wish I had a hunting license.

I wish I could quit you, ma bell!

I wish you were here. And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts? Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze? Cold comfort for change? And did you exchange a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage? In that case I'm kind of glad you're not here. I'm so disappointed in you and, for that matter, so is Roger Waters.

I wish art museums would make a special pass for people who only want to look at one or two paintings.

I wish people would stop being obsessive. I've been wishing for this one a lot.

I wish I had a reason to use stamps.

I wish I knew then what I know now. Alternately, I wish I were as blissfully ignorant now as I was then.

I wish when I wished upon a star it made no difference who I are.

I wish you would.

I wish it would rain today.

I wish Trix weren't only for kids.

I wish we could talk like we used to.

I wish I could fly like Superman. But I'd settle for the x-ray vision.

I wish I could, I wish I could… but then, I'm no little engine.

I wish for world peace - or a year's supply of free groceries. One or the other, I'm not too picky.

I wish I was deserving of a second chance when I know others who've done far worse, far more often, were given third and fourth chances.

I wish I were more careful about what I wished for.

I wish I'd known this when I started.

2005-12-31T07:05:00.000-08:00

[[ MY NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS ]]

Resolutions are as old as the New Year concept itself going back to 4000 BC with the Babylonians. The most popular resolution then was to return borrowed farming equipment.

Like today, after about two weeks people gave up on their resolutions which means the borrowed farming equipment was never returned.

To avoid the trap so many others fall into, I’ve decided to make resolutions I know I can keep.

Here are my New Year’s resolutions:

Gain weight

To accomplish this I must first give up salads, fresh fruit, and any other healthy crap that’ll keep my weight down. I must also increase my junk-food intake. Not only does this mean larger portions – two Big Macs instead of one, for example – but also side orders. Do I want fries with that? I sure as hell do! And a milkshake would be nice too, thank you.

Instead of snacking on fruit, I’ll eat potato chips and plenty of them. I will eat them with dip – plus an assortment of jumbo pretzels, cracklin’ pork rinds and heaping helpings of cheese whiz.

Be less organized

I had something really witty to say here and even went through the trouble of writing it down in advance. However, I’ve now lost my notes. See, it’s working already!

Increase my smoking habit

I’m barely finishing one pack per day, but resolve to smoke two packs each day in the coming year. To aid in this, I plan to start smoking in bed – no matter how tired and/or drunk I am at the time. Certain sacrifices must be made if I’m to keep my eye on the prize.

Exercise Less

Mostly this involves sleeping more and only moving my body when absolutely necessary.So, for example, if a truck barreling down the road jumps the curb and is headed directly at me I’ll jump out of the way. That’s exercise.

However if the phone rings, and I have to get out of bed to answer it, I’ll let the machine get it. When I later have to move, like if I have to get up to pee or something, I’ll make it a point to check my messages. Otherwise, that would involve – in some small way – exercise. Of course, if I keep an empty bottle next to the bed I could reasonably avoid a trip to the bathroom for days or even weeks. Yes!!!

Initiate sex less often

I may buy the ladies drinks... and plenty of them. I will say things that are enticingly charming but not mean a word of it. However, I will not initiate the sex act. But let's face it, the words "initiate" and "sex act" are somewhat open to interpretation and that's a gray area only a court of law can define. I'm not on trial here, goddammit!

But for the record, masturbation doesn’t count as “initiating sex”. Neither does looking at free Internet porn. I just wanted to make that clear now, so nobody can come up to me later and claim I broke this resolution.

Stop dating flaky women

With God as my witness, I will stop dating flaky women. I might as well rename this resolution join a monastery and take a vow of celibacy because, you know, we are talking about women here.

Luckily, there’s a built-in loophole with this one.

“Dating” implies taking the woman out in public, to a restaurant or movie or some such, but if you simply pick them up at a bar when they’re drunk and just take them home with you… well, that’d be o.k.

As long as you don’t call them the next day or “make plans”.

Usually, if she's really drunk she'll initiate the sex too -- so I can still avoid that. In the morning, as an added bonus, when she doesn't remember what happened I can tell her how she wantonly seduced me in a sloppily drunken sexual frenzy the night before. Then I doubt she'll even want me to call. Sweet!

Save money

See previous resolution. Also, I resolve to stop blowing my money on bad porn and questionable investment schemes. God, I'm going to save a lot of money. Sad but true!

Spend less time with friends and family

Friends are overrated and most of my family lives too far away to make a visit practical. This one is a slam-dunk.

Don’t take a trip

I hate flying and am not too keen on driving either. In fact, stepping out my front door is often a hassle. I think I’ll stay inside for 2006 and silently stew in my own bitter juices instead. That sounds much more productive than going to places I really didn’t want to visit in the first place. This also helps me to avoid friends and family, killing two resolved birds with one stone.

Be more of a jackass

Some reading this may argue that it isn’t humanly possible for me to be more of a jackass. I beg to differ. Every so often I have a weak moment and do something kind for somebody else. That’ll stop in the coming year.

2005-12-23T08:19:00.000-08:00

Here's a little something I've stitched together for your viewing pleasure...

Triumph of the W.

2005-12-12T12:05:00.000-08:00

[ SOMETIMES I WISH... ]

Sometimes I wish I could snatch a beautiful moment in my hand and put it in my pocket…

Riding the carousel as a child, as the horse rose and fell, with the twinkle of bright fairground lights and the taste of cotton candy on my tongue.

The early morning after first being intimate with somebody, bodies tangled in sheets while intertwined with each other, simply enjoying the after-glow of the previous night.

The bittersweet taste of an especially good cup of coffee, sipped slowly between bouts of engaging conversation with friends.

…I’d tuck these away, only to be pulled out when times and circumstances had changed and the moments were nothing more than vague memories.

I’d pull one out of my pocket and open my hand so the moment could be experienced again.

And I’d pray for deep pockets.

2005-11-22T12:29:00.000-08:00

[[ CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG? ]]

I am but a simple man with simple needs trying to make some sense out of this crazy complex world.

I just happen to write about it online as well.

Then there are the detractors. Derivative and reactionary, IMO. But sometimes good for a chuckle or at least for a good head-scratchin' moment. Or so I’ve thought.

This one has been around for a while:

The World According to Pete According to Me

Now there's a strong up-and-comer looking to make a name for him/her/itself at:

I Really Hate Pete

But yesterday I received what amounts to a wake up call, from a fan in Norway no less, who wrote in part:

“I enjoy reading thine observations, so knit to the point, and so, well, so true.

Without wanting to scare thee, having thine post of October 8th on the subject in mind, kindly let me make thee aware of the blog “I Really Hate Pete“. What is here being given is not funny.

Keep up thy good work. Christ guide thee.

Anders”

That got me to thinking. Good God, what have I done? Why do my simple observations inspire such passion? And such hatred? It’s like Proverbs 10:18 all over again!

I took a long, hard look at what I’d been doing and the various and sundry reactions. And I had a moment of inspired revelation! It was something straight out of Romans 12:18-20.

Yes, my life had become so empty. I had a crisis of words. So I did what any level-headed object of idolatry would do.

I decided to accept Jesus Christ into my heart.

Jesus is now resting comfortably in my heart. With that knowledge I find wisdom. Just like Psalms 111:10 told me I would.

So today I went out for a walk. Jesus walked with me. I stopped at the convenience store to buy a coffee. I wanted one of those fancy flavored cold bottled coffees. The Starbucks brand was $1.99 while the same-sized generic brand was only $1.29. So I thought to myself, “What would Jesus do?” I figured he’s buy the cheaper brand so I did too. I saved 70 cents. Praise Jesus!

On my way home, I swung by McDonald’s and ordered a hamburger. Before eating it, I said a little prayer for the cow who died so that I may live. In a way, that cow was a little like Jesus.

It’s about time for me to go to work now. I will be doing the Lord’s work today.

And when I get home tonight I won’t be sleeping alone anymore.

I’ll be sleeping with Jesus.

Amen!

[]

2005-11-14T13:00:00.000-08:00

[[ THE MENU ]]

“Sabuddy's is an Israeli restaurant featuring the standard list of Middle Eastern dishes, but noteworthy for its chicken shawarma. Tempe has a number of Middle Eastern restaurants not far from Mill Ave., but Sabuddy's has by far the best shawarma. Cooked on a spit and scraped off for pitas or the entree version, this dish is highly recommended...

…The menu also has some other entrees unique to the restaurant (like Jerusalem meatballs, I think), but I never paid much attention to those since the shawarma (which comes with funny kinds of pickles) is so good.” – from a review on igougo.com

My housemates and I went to Sabuddy's – or as I call it, “that A-rab restaurant” – over the weekend. Its simple décor and casual atmosphere belies an elegant class that even some of the fancier eateries can’t quite capture.

I felt woefully underdressed and said so, adding I might have been more comfortable had I strapped some explosives to my chest before getting dressed. All three housemates furrowed their brows collectively when I made that comment. But such attire might've made the staff a little too nostalgic for the old country so it's probably better that I went "non-suicide casual" instead.

While we were looking over the menu, the waiter came over and sung the praises of the chicken shawarma. He kept referring to it as "the most popular dish" at Sabuddy's and went on and on about how delicious it was. We asked for a few more minutes to decide so he went to take some other orders.

A few minutes later my housemate Chris excused himself and went to find the restroom. While he was gone, the waiter returned so I asked, "What's the least popular dish?"

He looked a bit stunned then went on to say it was the Jerusalem meatballs, quickly adding, "But not because it isn't good. It's good but just isn't ordered very often."

Trying to reassure him, I said I understood then added, "Meatballs just aren't as popular as they used to be, you know, back in the day."

The waiter wandered off looking dazed and Chris soon returned.

None of us mentioned that whole "least popular dish" episode to him; sometimes it's better to just let sleeping meatballs lie.

When we finally ordered, Lindsey and I both got the beef stew, Dena had her heart set on the chocolate mousse, and Chris… well, Chris ended up asking for a big heaping plate of Jerusalem meatballs.

And was slightly taken aback for a moment when the rest of us looked ever so tickled by his choice.

[]

2005-11-08T11:06:00.000-08:00

[[ STRANGE ENCOUNTERS ]]

Just the other night, I was hanging out at the bar with my friend Rachel and a few other people when the subject of attracting weirdoes came up.

We all agreed that, for whatever reason, we all seem to attract the strange ones. Or as Rachel put it, "They always come up and want to talk to me."

When I pointed out that I've had my share of random conversations started by odd strangers, she replied, "Yeah, but do they also hit on you?"

I had to admit that – No! - I couldn't recall that ever happening. Mostly they just wanted to talk about all manner of high weirdness.

But, you see, God has a sick sense of humor.

The very next morning I was walking down to the convenience store when I was approached by this guy wearing a pink shirt and tight black pants.

"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked.

I told him I didn't and, in fact, I was headed to the store to buy some.

We parted ways, but a moment later he called me back and asked where I got my hair cut because he was a hairdresser so if I was looking for somebody, well...

...and he handed me his business card. Then he extended his hand, we shook, and he was off and running with some kind of slick Q &A...

"Sometimes I'll cut hair at my house so I can make a little money on the side. What's your name? What do you do for a living? Do you like the neighborhood around here? What are you plans for today? How about that weather we've been having?"

And on and on and on. All of which ended with him saying...

"I'm just going to get something to eat. If you're not busy we can meet down at the store in a little bit. I only live a few blocks away. I can show you my place if you'd like."

All of a sudden I didn't think it was about giving me a haircut anymore.

I felt so dirty and uncut.

So I made up an excuse, telling him I already had plans with my redneck friends that mostly involved riding around in a pickup truck looking for random homosexuals to beat up, and made a quick getaway.

On my way home, I recalled the conversation I had with Rachel the night before and realized I had just gotten a little taste of what she must experience on a regular basis.

Then I thought to myself...

God, sometimes it must really suck to be her. She's just minding her own business and then having to deal with intrusions like that.

So I plan on telling her about this epiphany I've had the very next time I'm hitting on her.

[]

2005-10-27T23:35:00.000-07:00

[[ PLEASE DON'T TOUCH THE WRITER ]]

I went down to CounterCulture Cafe last night and read during its weekly Speak Up! open mic event.

As I was leaving, too many people I didn't know wanted to tell me how much they loved what I read - which isn't bad in itself - but they would start touching me as they said this. But it wasn't a "bad" touch, which can be so good, just weird random touches on my shoulder or arm.

I think I still remember those oh-so-good "bad" touches – or at least have a vague recollection – so I'm pretty sure those weren't them.

You'd think I'd get use to this kind of behavior.

It's happened at a public park, convenience stores, bars and restaurants. I think restaurants are the worse because, again, there is usually some touching involved. Mostly hand shaking, and it always seems to happen right after I start eating so you know what that means. After the person walks away, I have to subtly leave the table to go wash my hands again before I can finish eating. I don't know where those hand-shaking hands have been and I'm not taking any chances.

I once had a homeless man come up to me and ask if I still read locally. He said he had seen me and really dug what I had to say, then quoted some of my work. He followed that up with another question: "So, can you spare any change?" Then there was the time I was using a crosswalk and, as I crossed, a guy in the car waiting for the light to change started shouting, "Pete! Aren't you Pete? I love what you do, man!" That one hit me head-on and I never saw it coming.

Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate the compliments and if I can get away with a simple "thanks" I will. But sometimes people will want to talk about this piece or that. So that's when I usually tell them I don't actually read my work I simply write it, and with each letter I type I forget the one preceding it, but if they want to fill in the details about what they've read I might be willing to discuss it. In the ensuing moment of the inevitable perplexed look, I quietly slip away.

All this undue attention makes me nervous.

Why?

Because I'm very very shy.

[]

2005-10-08T15:06:00.000-07:00

[[ IN CASE OF MY DISAPPEARANCE ]]

The case of missing Virginia Commonwealth University student Taylor Behl was solved, in large part, due to her online activities. According to police, the Internet “has emerged as a virtual tip machine that often maps the course of an investigation.”

For better or worse, investigators now use Googling and comb through public weblogs to gather information on both suspects and crime victims. Behl, whose remains were found a month after her disappearance, had a blog on livejournal and an account on myspace.com. In fact, the alleged killer was among her 92 myspace “friends”.

In case of my own untimely disappearance, I leave the following clues. It is a mix of truth, half-truths, and bold-faced lies. Any police investigator worth his salt should be able to suss out fact from fiction and solve the case of my disappearance - or at least find my decomposing body…

A girlfriend of mine wasn’t too pleased with the world according to Pete – at least according to her. So she dumped me, quit her job, and ran off with an ex-convict. They were just like Bonnie and Clyde and we all know how that one turned out. Luckily her car broke down. That’s what we call “delaying the inevitable.” Now that I’ve mentioned all of this, she might one day be a lead. But I doubt it because, obviously, she’s willing to settle.

I once killed a giraffe with my bare hands. Before you judge me, I think you should know he was pretty much asking for it - acting like he owned the whole goddamn savannah, throwing his weight around, putting on airs just because he could eat the highest-most leaves on the tree. Ok, maybe things got a little out of hand, but you know... shit happens... and the next thing you know, you've got a dead mammal on your hands. The rest of the herd witnessed my transgression but stood mutely by as it happened. However, giraffes have long memories. They’re no elephants, but still…

I’ve been seeing a married woman. I hope her husband never ever finds out. That could be bad.

I was recently hanging out at a coffeehouse with some friends when this guy announced, “I haven’t had sex in a year! I need to get laid.” So I asked him, “What, is your hand broken?” He was so pissed off that he refused to shake my hand when I left. Which is probably a good thing, considering.

I am a freak magnet. No matter where I go, the one nut-job nearby will gravitate towards me and start a conversation. I do not encourage this but it still happens. The talk will eventually turn to mind control, CIA operatives, conversations with Jesus, acid flashbacks, or alien abduction - or quite possibly some combination thereof. I also have the bad habit of laughing at the most inappropriate times, like during very serious conversations with nut-jobs. That is a recipe for disaster in my book.

I have way too many compromising photos of former lovers. While I would never share them with anybody, the police don’t know that. Note to investigators – check the hard drive.

I am addicted to caffeine. This will only lead to serious trouble.

I got into an argument with a mime that has Tourettes Syndrome. The argument was rather one-sided. But he kept mouthing obscenities at me and I can read lips so it only escalated from there. Finally I punched him in the face. Amazingly, he didn’t scream. However he did writhe around on the ground and mimed hurts like hell brilliantly.

I’ve received email death-threats in the past because of things I’ve written. I’ve never taken those too seriously and probably never will - at least until somebody makes good on it. It’ll probably be too late at that point, huh?

I was chatting with a female friend of mine the other night while she waited for her date to arrive. She kept going on and on about how wonderful this guy was. So I said, “Didn’t you say that about the last guy you were seeing? How did that turn out?” She replied, “Fuck off” or something to that effect because, after all, he turned out to be an asshole and the break-up was rather messy. She’s one of those quiet-types. We all know about those quiet-types, but not until seeing them on the news after they’ve committed some heinous crime. This worries me.

I think one of my “friends” on myspace may be obsessed with me and could possibly have stalker aspirations. Sadly, it’s not the “friend” I was hoping it would be.

With clues like that it should be a snap to crack the case of my untimely disappearance. It’s nothing a little money and man-power, on the part of the police department, can’t solve.

[]

2005-10-02T05:28:00.000-07:00

[[ The Dying ]]

Too many people are dying around me.

Last night I went to this bar for a memorial service. You'd think that would be an odd choice for such a service but not if you knew the deceased.

"Let's all meet at the bar and get really fucked up. Why? Because Don would've wanted it that way!"

He would've been so disappointed in me - I never even had a drink.

I saw his brother there from across the bar but didn't go over to say anything. I don't know him that well and what am I suppose to say?

"Sorry."

Like he hasn't heard that a thousand times in the last week or two.

I almost didn't go. I was still reeling from the phone call, in which I found out another friend died earlier this week. I'm going to his memorial service on Monday.

The power went out when I got home. So I went to sleep and woke up later with lights on. None of the clocks have been reset. It is a timeless moment.

My cat smells like dust. She's been very vocal these last few days. I think she's been trying to tell me something but I don't speak feline fluently. However I'm beginning to understand her mewling.

She'll sit in the window for a while then come over and whisper in my ear.

"I see Death on the street below."

Right now I'm sitting here eating cottage cheese.

When I was little and felt bad, my grandma would give me a bowl of cottage cheese. It was comfort food.

My bowl is almost empty now.

I might need more cottage cheese.

2005-08-03T11:52:00.000-07:00

[[ LIGHTS OUT! ]]

Heavy rains and 60-mph winds swept through Phoenix late last night, knocking out power to thousands of homes.

When I got home I discovered mine was one of them.

The silence can be unbearable when the walls stop humming, and the darkness quickly encroaches on one's mind.

Thank Marconi I had my trusty battery-powered Zenith Royal 1000 Transoceanic shortwave on the nightstand. Introduced in 1957 and still playing... next to my bed.

From what I heard, there's some trouble brewing Down Under regarding pensions given to former Premiers in New South Wales. This on the eve of Morris Iemma's swearing in. It's London to a brick that won't be addressed any time soon but it's something Iemma may have to nut out eventually.

The rugby season is heating up as well and, while I'm not much of one for sports - even American sports I almost understand, the fans Down Under seem quite excited by the prospects this year.

I later heard some traditional music on a broadcast from China and several news reports that sounded distressing, and might've been downright alarming if I spoke even a lick of Chinese.

There were way too many religious broadcasts of the fire and brimstone variety. Apparently the world is going to hell in a handbasket but there's some guy coming back who'll fix everything. I didn't catch his name but I think he's somebody's son or something.

Lastly I tuned into the local bandwidth and heard that a large storm had passed through Phoenix, leaving a lot of people without power tonight. Yeah, no shit.

So that's what I do when the lights go out... I listen to the world.

2005-07-23T11:34:00.000-07:00

[ BEST OF BITS ]

Pete is on vacation. These are some of his favorite "random bits" posted over the years. Enjoy these until he gets back...
-

= The One About My Pants =

It never fails. Every time somebody knocks on my front door, I'm not wearing pants.

I'd like to say it's because I have an incredibly hot woman waiting in my bed, but I can't. It's just a case of not wearing my pants at that particular moment.

I'll be wearing underwear, but the pants seem to be elsewhere. Resting over a chair. Sitting in the hamper. Hanging out back, having a smoke. Visiting friends. Whatever.

If only we lived in a pantless society, I'd be the cat's meow.

As it is now, I'm just another pantless slob.
-

= Coffee Cup Philosophy =

I bought myself a cup of coffee this morning.

Printed on the side of the Styrofoam cup was the phrase:

"WHEN I AM EMPTY PLEASE DISPOSE OF ME PROPERLY"

Some days, I know exactly how that cup feels.
-

= Furniture Gone Wild =

I went to a party where there was much dancing and carrying on.

As the night wore on, and the party began to resemble an out-of-control train careening off the track, I think - at some point - a lampshade was involved.

After years of drudgery shading the light, the lampshade really wanted to cut loose.

It soon found itself up on the table, resting on some poor drunk's head, kicking up its heels and acting the fool.

Boy, did that lampshade get wasted last night!

So, too, did some of the other furniture. The table and chairs were falling all over each other. The refrigerator evidently had a little too much too, and ended up spewing its contents all over the kitchen floor.

This morning, the lampshade was back in its rightful place. Even if it sat upon the light bulb a bit crookedly.

"Oh, man," it said, "whatever you do, don't turn on that light. I am SO hung over right now."
-

= Steal This Book! =

I was at a local (Tempe AZ) mom-and-pop turned large outlet-style bookstore the other day.

It used to be a little "hole in the wall" kind of place, where you could always find a hidden gem. It recently moved.

It is now a "clean, well-lit place." I'd tell you the name of it, but don't want to get myself in trouble. However, if ownership should ever change hands, I'll name the bookstore at that later date.

In any case, as I headed into the restroom there, I spied a little laminated card taped to the door.

It read: "We will prosecute Shoplifters to the full extent of the law per A.R.S. 13-1805. Please DO NOT STEAL our merchandise. If you do, understand that we will attempt to send you to jail. Shoplifting hurts everyone - our staff, our customers, our profits..."

Needless to say, I couldn't help myself. I just couldn't help myself.

I stole the 'No Shoplifting' sign. It was a - as the kids say - bookstore bling-bling. So, I slipped it in my pocket and got the heck out of there.

Later, when my friend discovered what I had done, he was not as amused as I. He said, "That's so wrong!"

I am currently using the card as a bookmark. In books I actually paid for, purchased at other bookstores.
-

= Edible Bit =

I enjoy going to a restaurant and, after ordering, going to the restroom – only to find my dinner has mysteriously appeared on the table while I was taking a crap.

It’s magical.
-

= What Time Is It? =

I finally got around to buying myself a pocket watch. It is gold with a gold chain. The case (or cover) is black enamel with a golden train engine mounted in the center.

Now, no matter where I am, if anybody asks me for the time I can pull out my trusty pocket watch and tell them, for example, “it’s 10am” or “almost 7pm” or whatever the current time may be. After which I always add, “…and the trains are running on time.”

I almost bought a silver pocket watch instead. It was engraved with the phrase, “World’s #1 Grandpa”.

I don’t have any kids much less grandchildren, but thought it a worthy goal.

Obviously, it would be a long-term goal.

But then I got to thinking, “Do I want the course of my life dictated by a time piece?”

Not only would I first have to become a grandfather, I would then have to work really hard to be the world’s number one grandpa. Who has time for that?

But it would’ve made one hell of a conversation piece.

So, instead, I have to be content in the knowledge that the trains are running on time. If the small part I play helps to keep them on-schedule that’s satisfaction enough for me.
-

= Homeless Wisdom =

I was talking to this homeless man, when he stated matter-of-factly, "It's a thin line between caution and paranoia."

So I thanked him for sharing his profound wisdom.

And then... I killed him.
-

= Presto Change-O =

It was finally time to do something with that big jar full of spare change, so I ventured down to the local supermarket to run it all through the "Coin*Star"(tm) machine.

I'm much too lazy to roll the coins myself and the machine does pay eighty-cents on the dollar, so off I went.

After shoveling all my coinage into the "Coin*Star"(tm), it printed out a receipt for the twenty dollars I was then owed.

I took the receipt to the checkout line and after doing whatever it is cashiers do, the lady asked me how I wanted that.

"What do you mean," I said, "how do I want that?"

"Do you want a twenty dollar bill, or two tens, or what?" she replied.

"Can I get that in change?" I asked.

A roll of quarters, a roll of dimes, a couple rolls of nickels and some rolled pennies to make up the difference?
-

= What Kids Know =

One afternoon, my friend, Rex, and his 6-year old daughter were walking hand-in-hand down the street.

Soon, two men - also walking hand-in-hand - passed them. The little girl took this in as she and her dad continued along.

A few minutes later, another man walked past them. He was alone.

After the man went by, Rex's daughter looked up at him and said, "Daddy, that man was all by himself. Was he sad because he doesn't have somebody to love him too?"
-

= Traveling Light =

When I moved, a friend of mine was helping me pack when he came across a stack of newspapers.

"Garbage?" he asked of the two feet high, neatly stacked, pile.

"No," I said, "those are all the 'Travel' sections out of the Sunday paper I've collected over the last few years."

He looked completely flummoxed. "What do you need those for?" he said.

"I might want to take a trip some day," I answered.
-

=Heavenly Bus Ride =

The last time I rode the public bus, there was an elderly woman in a wheelchair parked near the rear. As the bus zoomed along, she shouted out, “Bus driver, what time will we stop on Buckeye Road?”

“We’re scheduled to stop at 2:10pm, ma’am, but we’re running about five minutes late.”

“What time?”

“About 2:15pm, ma’am, we’re a little behind schedule.”

“What? What did you say?”

At this point, the driver pulled over and said in a louder voice, “About 2:15! That’s when we’ll get to your stop.”

“What? I can’t hear you. What did the driver say?” she answered.

Another passenger then yelled, “He said 2:15, he’s going to be about five minutes late.”

“Better make that ten minutes now,” I dryly added.

As the driver began his journey again, the woman then started reciting a poem to the person sitting nearest her. I don’t know if she wrote it. I hope so, because I’d hate to think it was something that had actually been published. It began…

If there’s stairs to heaven
Please God lead the way
If there’s stairs to heaven
With thee I’ll climb that day

She seemed quite pleased with herself after the recital. My first thought was that she had better hope to hell there’s an elevator because no wheelchair is going to make it up a flight of stairs. And then what’s God going to do when she shows up? Heal her? That’s not His job, that’s Jesus’ job and he’s about 2000 years out of practice.

In the end it may not matter because, if there’s any justice in the universe whatsoever, reciting bad poetry should be grounds enough for eternal damnation.
-

= Traffic Report =

I tuned in morning radio the other day, and there was this segment where listeners call in live on-air traffic reports.

“There’s been an accident at Main and First Street, traffic is really slow right now.”

or

“The freeway exit at Camelback Road is closed, you might want to steer clear.”

I’ve been thinking about calling in a report myself:

“There’s a pack of wild dogs running loose at the intersection of 7th Avenue and McDowell. Cars are at a stand still. Oh my god, they’ve just attacked and devoured a small child! If anybody has a gun and is in the vicinity, get here pronto.”

I’d do it except for the fact I’d upset both the dog lovers and people who are against eating small children. Those are two groups you never want to piss off.

[]

2005-07-21T05:00:00.000-07:00

[ SEXUAL PENANCE ]

The last message you ever want to hear on your answering machine:

“You gave me herpes, fucker!”

But that’s the message she left, which caught me by surprise considering I had been tested for a whole host of sundry diseases (sexual and non-) just nine short months earlier when I was getting leg cramps and feeling exhausted. I was negative on all STDs then and wondered what I had stuck where in the interim.

I knew she had had a yeast infection a couple of weeks earlier, but she swore up and down this was herpes and knew it to be true after doing research on the Internet.

I had my suspicions about her self-diagnosis methods but, just to be safe, went to a medical doctor anyway. After doing an intake, I sat pensively in the waiting room.

While waiting, this incredibly hot chick began talking to me. She seemed increasingly interested in what I might be about and, eventually, suggested we might want to go for a drink later. I briefly considered her offer, but quickly thought better of it.

I figured an STD testing clinic probably wasn’t the best place to pick up a chick. I mean she looked clean enough and all -- but who can tell these days?

In any case, I was soon called in to see the doctor.

When I told the doctor the story of what brought me there, and the onset and symptoms the girl I had been seeing described having, it was his medical opinion that she had a really bad yeast infection. He'd been a doctor for like 23 years. He went to medical school for his degree - it wasn't a "degree" he downloaded off the Internet.

I thought he just might know what he was talking about.

He suggested she might seriously want to consider going to a doctor and getting medication prescribed to clear it up.

He asked if I had ever had “gay sex”. I told him the truth - I hadn’t.

He followed with, “You’ve never even had gay sex when you were on a tit tear?”

Again I told him “No”, and wondered what the hell a “tit tear” might be.

Then he began a series of exams and procedures on me.

First he took a long cotton swab and tickled my tonsils with it. I asked him what that was done for, and he replied they tested for oral STDs if (and I quote) "your mouth has ever been on a pussy or dick."

I'm guessing he's one of those doctors who likes to put things in layman's terms because some people can get mighty confused by medical terms like "vagina" or "penis".

He told me to “drop my drawers” down to my ankles and lay down on the examination table.

This was the point at which he started incessantly humming Take Me Out to the Ballgame, which he continued doing whenever he wasn’t talking.

He ran a forefinger down my thigh and said, “Feel that? That’s what this is going to feel like.” He then produced a long metal rod that was inserted into, and rooted around, inside my penis. (In layman’s terms, that would be my dick.)

After pulling it out and doing some medical trickery with whatever was scraped from inside me, he then approached with an industrial-sized Q-tip.

He grasped my dick and slowly began jerking it up and down. I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be part of the actual exam or something else entirely. Quite frankly, I was afraid to ask.

He never demonstrated how the Q-tip would feel going in, but then I’m guessing he didn’t have a pocketknife to plunge into my leg, and rip down the length of my thigh, at the time.

We soon moved on to drawing a blood sample. Unfortunately, I have no veins to speak of. He tried one arm. No luck. I was soon tied off on both my right arm and leg and he tried again. I was still running dry. He attempted with the other arm. Twice. He got nothing. He finally got a sample from the arm he had originally stuck by going in through my forearm right past the elbow.

By the time I left his office I looked like some kind of junkie.

Before I went he said something or other about condoms, but I didn’t quite catch what he said so just answered, “Yes.”

He pointed to the top drawer on the examination table and said, “Look in there.”

I assume he asked me if I wanted free condoms because that’s what I found. I took a handful just in case I ever wanted to have sex again. I figured I might have a desire to do so if and when my recently traumatized dick ever stopped hurting.

My tests came back negative and somebody apparently still might have a yeast infection – although she says it’s now healing.

I guess this was my sexual penance.

I’ve since apologized and promised to never do it again.

And I also learned an important lesson. So there you go.

[]

2005-07-11T18:05:00.000-07:00

[ Julie: Portrait of a Serial Killer's Victim ]

On Monday, July 11th, Cory Morris was found guilty of strangling five women to death. These crimes took place in Phoenix's Garfield neighborhood between Sept. '02 and Aug. '03. Below is a (slightly edited & updated) version of an article I wrote for blogcritics at the time of Morris' arrest. Reprinted now, lest we forget...

A string of killings in the downtown Phoenix area, in which most of the victims were women with prostitution records and found to have cocaine in their system at the time of death, may have finally come to an end.

A suspect, Cory Morris - dubbed the "Crackhead Killer" (or alternately, "Garfield Strangler") by the media - has been arrested and confessed to at least five of the murders.

The arrest followed the discovery of victim #6's body in the RV where Morris, now charged with three of the slayings, had been living. His last victim was so badly decomposed it has taken this long to identify her.

From an 'Arizona Republic' article ("Stench, maggots, clues in home of alleged serial killer", 4/17/03):

"This is the motor home where Morris, 24, lived and where police believe six women died after Morris lured them there with money and drugs. Morris reportedly told police he strangled five of the women during sex, and has been charged with murder in three of their deaths.

According to court records, Morris told police he kept some of the decomposing corpses in his motor home for days before dumping them in his central-city neighborhood."

Morris told Phoenix police detectives he killed the women during sex by using neckties, a nylon strap, his hands and a victim's hair extensions. Investigators from Oklahoma are now conferring with their Phoenician counterparts, in the hopes of closing the case on four murders with similar modus operandi in that state.

Ironically, just prior to his arrest, Morris' boss had teased him about the killings (from 'Arizona Republic', 4/14/03):

"On a ride to the trailer that police believe Cory Morris shared with a corpse, his boss cracked a joke about a serial killer stalking a central Phoenix neighborhood.

"Man, when are you gonna quit killing these girls," joked Jimmy Seagrave, owner of the bar Fat Cats, where Morris worked.

"He said, 'Dude, that's just wrong.' "

But enough about the confessed killer. All too often in our society, the killer is glorified - think Henry Lee Lucas or Ted Bundy - while the victims are reduced to nothing more than a matter-of-fact brief mention in the local press, often based on a soon-to-be closed police file ready to gather dust.

This is a story about his last victim.

Her name was Julie Castillo.

The first time I met her, she said she was in her mid-30s. I would've guessed mid-50s and, even then, I was giving her the benefit of the doubt. Her frail, emaciated body seemed to be at death's door. Her rough-hewn hands matched her prematurely wrinkled face. The lines in her face were almost a road map to her uncontrollable drive to drink. Blue and brown blotches tracking down her arms spoke of being railroaded by hard drug use. Her shoulder-length brown hair, sun-bleached blonde in places, was unkempt.

While I didn't know Julie very well - only having met her about a half dozen times - my good friend, James, did. James is one of the few Christians I know who actually tries to live by the principles set forth by Christ. In other words, he is no hypocrite.

On more than one occasion, I've seen or heard of James lending a direct helping hand to the homeless and down-and-out in our neighborhood - expecting absolutely nothing in return. Julie Castillo was one such person he had tried to help. With food, free cigarettes from time to time, and the occasional dollar or two.

Although Julie had a mother in the Pacific Northwest, she didn't want to return home, deciding, instead, to remain on the streets of Phoenix - rather than returning to a place where her stepfather also lived. The same man whom she claimed had repeatedly molested her as a child.

She was a mother herself, with two children. She was especially proud of her teenaged daughter, with whom - even though she had lost custody years ago - she still communicated semi-regularly. Her daughter had told her recently that she wanted to wait to have sex until she was married.

Julie, meanwhile, had been arrested for prostitution on more than one occasion - so her daughter's declaration was especially touching to her.

A mutual friend of James and I had once taken Julie home with him, paying for her "services". This friend, for obvious reasons, shall remain nameless. For days thereafter, Julie kept showing up at his house. She evidently thought they had made a deeper connection beyond that of the prostitution business arrangement. Perhaps he had been kinder than most and, being desperate for some love or simple comfort - something most everybody can relate to - she returned to fill that void in her soul again. Eventually, Julie had to be warned not to return, lest the police be called.

Julie had been diagnosed with schizophrenia at an early age, and one can only imagine how much this had affected her life-choices.

Julie was also a self-admitted heroin addict.

One month prior to her death, she had called James from jail - after being arrested on yet another prostitution charge - begging him to bail her out. She had been in lock-up for almost two days, and the withdrawal symptoms were getting pretty bad.

James refused and, in jail, - the last place one wants to "kick" - Julie got off heroin. She had been held for six days; just enough time for the junk to work it's way out of her system to where she'd feel halfway normal again.

She apparently stayed "clean" for at least a few weeks thereafter, and reportedly even attended one Narcotics Anonymous meeting, but the long arm of addiction - and the street - can just as easily snatch you back as not.

As revealed during the trial, she agreed to have sex with Morris for $15 and a warm place to spend the night. According to reports, she had drugs in her system at the time of death.

Julie's body was still on the floor of the camper when Morris was arrested, covered with maggots, her eyes and part of her face gone.

One can only wonder what she must have been thinking the night she and Morris were having sex. When he slipped a strap, or grasped his hands, around her neck and choked the life out of her.

Just a few days earlier, James had warned her to be careful, reminding her about the string of killings in the neighborhood, and how she fit the victim profile.

"Don't worry," she had replied, "I can take care of myself." She then added, "Don't forget to pray for me the next time you're in church, James!"

As she struggled for breath in Morris' RV a few nights later, his body weighing heavily upon hers, I wonder if she thought, "This can't be happening to ME!" Or perhaps, "Oh please, God, if you let me live, I'll try to lead a better life."

While we may one day learn what the killer was thinking while his victims suffocated, perhaps in a news article during the trial (or later TV-movie), Julie's final thoughts are now lost forever - in much the same way she went through life... as that another "lost soul".

[]

2005-05-23T19:27:00.000-07:00

[[ RANDOM BITS 15 ]]

more misadventures and observations...

[]

Whatever happened to Hootie and the Blowfish? I miss them. Nobody made crappy music quite like Hootie and the boys. I hope they have a new album coming out soon.

If not, I’d settle for Huey Lewis and the News.

-

I enjoy going to a restaurant and, after ordering, going to the restroom – only to find my dinner has mysteriously appeared on the table while I was taking a crap.

It’s magical.

-

I’ve had three different women ask me the same question in the past week. None of them know each other, so I don’t know where this is coming from.

The question was, “Have you ever paid for a prostitute?”

Now I don’t mind that the first two asked, but considering the third is a prostitute I thought asking such a question was in rather poor taste. It also killed the mood.

-

I wish somebody would invent a car that runs on oatmeal instead of gasoline. That way, if your car ever breaks down in the middle of nowhere at least you won’t starve to death before you’re rescued. Also, if somebody poured sugar into your gas tank that would be a good thing.

-

This is the part where I include random words and phrases so my weblog inadvertently pops up when people are using search engines looking for something completely unrelated:

man boobs

funny cabbage pictures

severe caning

love stuff fandango

mollycoddling Nixon

infant neck braces

a can of sardines and box of crackers

illegal immigrants love swiss cheese

toying with the mentally ill

thetearsofthings

magic magnets

That should be enough to bring them to this blog in droves. Nothing like a little Internet hi-jinks to break up my day.

-

I stopped at the store with this girl I seem to be dating. I needed to buy a pack of cigarettes. While waiting in line, she said she’d be right back – that there was something she had to get.

She returned with her purchase – a bottle of KY ultra gel lubricant. Once at the register she also bought a pack of cigarettes. I can’t imagine what the cashier thought, but maybe they see this kind of thing all the time and it was no big deal.

On the way out, The Girl I Seem to be Dating told me she bought what she did because she likes to see me look “slightly uncomfortable.”

And I would’ve taken her comment at face value except for the fact she was shaking her ass all the way home.

That really made me wonder.

-

I threw my back out over the weekend. I’d like to say it happened while making wild monkey love but the truth is far more mundane.

I needed to put my shoes on and apparently sat down a little too forcibly. The next thing I heard was this god-awful crunch in my lower back.

I feel so incredibly old at the moment.

I thought about putting some mineral ice on my injury, but didn’t want to walk around smelling of that old man smell.

I mentioned this fact to two different friends, and they both replied with, “But Pete, you already have that old man smell!”

Damn kids.

-

I tuned in morning radio the other day, and there was this segment where listeners call in live on-air traffic reports.

“There’s been an accident at Main and First Street, traffic is really slow right now.”

or

“The freeway exit at Camelback Road is closed, you might want to steer clear.”

I’ve been thinking about calling in a report myself:

“There’s a pack of wild dogs running loose at the intersection of 7th Avenue and McDowell. Cars are at a stand still. Oh my god, they’ve just attacked and devoured a small child! If anybody has a gun and is in the vicinity, get here pronto.”

I’d do it except for the fact I’d upset both the dog lovers and people who are against eating small children. Those are two groups you never want to piss off.

-

When hanging out with a platonic virginal female friend and she’s been drinking, if she ever says, “Can I ask you a question?” the correct answer would be “No.”

If you say, “Yes”, the question might very well turn out to be, “If I wanted you to fuck me, would you?”

How the hell do you answer that? Answer it tactfully, I mean.

Maybe the lesson to be learned here is to watch yourself when hanging out with drunken virgins.

Unless you’re descended from Aztecs, of course – then that’s a completely different story.

[]

2005-04-26T07:29:00.000-07:00

[[ IF CATS COULD BLOG ]]

Online Diary of a Cat

[]

I don’t know if my mother is alive or dead or what happened to my brothers and sisters. One day I was suckling at her nipple and, before I realized what was happening, I was ripped away and found myself alone here with these humans.

I suffer from separation anxiety and have abandonment issues. I’m trying to work through these problems as best I can.

[]

I hate when they pet me but sometimes they seem so lonely and starved for affection I let them do it anyway. I fake contentment by making this purring noise. I can’t believe they buy it.

[]

If that neighbor kid comes over to visit one more time and starts pulling my tail again, I’m gonna fuck him up. Mark my words.

Let’s see how tough that punk is after I scratch his eyes out.

[]

I’ve learned how to open most doors inside the house by slipping my paw under it and jiggling real hard. Sometimes, however, it doesn’t work. I think it has something to do with knobs and locks but I haven’t quite figured it out. All I need is patience and a little more time. Soon the house will be mine!

[]

Sometimes I feel the need to run. God help anybody or anything that gets in my way. I’m not headed anywhere in particular, I’m just letting off steam. I’m a cat. It’s what I do. Don’t try to understand it. I don’t fully understand it myself. Learn to accept it. I have.

[]

They brought home a puppy. Those traitorous bastards.

[]

Oh the fun I’ve been having with the puppy when the humans are away! He’s slow and not too bright. At first I thought they got him to spite me but now realize they did it because, quite frankly, plastic balls with bells inside just weren’t cutting it anymore. It only took them like forever to figure that out.

Sometimes I’ll corner him in the kitchen, raise the fur on my back and make the most god-awful racket until he pees on the floor. It usually doesn’t take very long. Shame is a powerful motivator so, in most cases, he’s still cowering behind the living room couch when the humans get home. They start yelling and carrying on, all the while I sit in a nearby chair -- laughing inside.

Every once in a while, if the puppy is sleeping somewhere and I hear the humans coming in the door, I’ll scamper into the kitchen and pee on the floor myself. Guess who gets blamed? Not me! I’m sitting in the litter box by that time.

I’m sure it’s humiliating enough to have your nose rubbed in your own urine, but I can’t imagine what’s going through the puppy’s head when they rub his nose in the puddle I just made.

[]

For a while there, it was like I was out on control. All I could think about was the female Siamese I’d sometimes see through the kitchen window as she walked by outside. Then I started spraying uncontrollably. I was so embarrassed and yet I couldn’t help myself.

The humans put me in a box, took me for a ride, then this other human in a white coat forced me to breath this funny smelling gas through a mask.

When I woke up I was at home again, feeling groggy, and damn if my balls didn’t itch. I went to lick them and was horrified to discover…

…I’m sorry. It’s just too painful to finish the story. Maybe later.

[]

I don’t do tricks. It’s not that I can’t be taught - because I can be. It’s just that I don’t give a shit and have better things to do with my time.

Teach the dog - he’s one of those people pleaser-types and will do most anything for a milk bone. What a whore!

[]

I have claws and, quite honestly, I always did think that overstuffed chair was ugly. You figure it out.

[]

I don’t know what those humans were doing in that room last night, because I couldn’t jiggle the door open, but they sounded like two cats in heat. Things are back to normal this morning so, whatever it was, I guess they fixed the problem.

[]

That puppy is yap-yap-yapping again. Nobody knows what the hell he wants. Not the humans and certainly not me.

[]

Goldfish are quite tasty. That’s all I’ll say about that. The humans looked so confused when they noticed the empty fishbowl. I think they suspect me but haven’t said anything yet. Maybe I’m just being paranoid?

[]

Early in the morning when the sunlight is streaming through the living room window, I’ll lay in the bright patch. I’ll lay on my back, legs outstretched, leaving my belly exposed.

It makes me feel all warm and tingly inside.

I only do this when everybody is still asleep. God, if they only knew!

[]

Sometimes one of the humans will put a leash on the puppy, and he’ll get so excited! After being tightly secured, he gets to go outside.

Once one of them tried putting a leash on me. I wasn’t having any part of it. Finally, she gave up. I don’t need a leash to get out that front door. A moment of distraction is all it will take. I’m bidding my time.

[]

Why am I expected to bury my shit in the litter box, when the puppy gets to go outside and dump anywhere he damn well pleases? On the front lawn, the sidewalk, or even in the neighbor’s yard - I’ve watched through the front window.

I’m not stupid. I know what’s going on here. They’re playing favorites.

That puppy will pay. Nobody will ever know.

[]

I’m the one who took the sponge that was by the kitchen sink. Good thing nobody looks under the bed. The humans had to get another sponge. I saw it by the sink not more than ten minutes ago. Do I dare? Or would that be pushing it?

[]

They think when I meow it means I’m hungry. Sometimes I do it just to mess with them. I love seeing the look on their faces when they rush to the kitchen, get out the bag of cat food, and go to fill my bowl… and guess what? It’s already full! No matter how many times I pull that one it never ceases to amuse me.

Who owns who now, motherfuckers?

[]

I got quite the scare today. I couldn’t catch my breath and I started choking. But that’s not the worse part. No, that followed a few seconds later when I coughed up the most awful mass of hair and who knows what else.
Is it too much to ask that you invest in a good brush and run it through my coat every once in a while, people?

I really don’t need this, you know.

[]

I found where they hide the box of catnip! I am so fucked up right now. I have this urge to chase my own tail but I’m trying to resist it. The puppy is looking at me funny. I think he may see his chance. Time to get on the kitchen table again, until this wears off.

Hind legs, don’t fail me now!

[]

That commercial is playing on TV again. I think it’s for some kind of cat food. The poor cat is singing, “meow-meow-meow-meow, meow-meow-meow-meow” over and over again, then the human announcer does some kind of voice-over.

Obviously the humans who made that commercial never figured out what the cat was really singing. He wasn’t singing the praises of cat food, that’s for sure. Let’s just say it isn’t something you’d want to repeat in front of your mother, and leave it at that.

[]

One of the humans is sitting at his desk. He’s filling out paperwork. I think I’ll jump right up there and sit in the middle of all the papers on his desk.

Then I’ll make my “cute face” and purr for added effect. Like what’s he gonna do?

[]

How dirty must I be when they feel the need to grab me by the scruff of the neck and plunge me into a bathtub full of water? And don’t get me started on the scented shampoo!

And it doesn’t help when they laugh and make comments like, “Look how small he looks when he’s wet!”

Thanks for the ego-boost, people.

I’m now hiding in a closet. I’m still damp and smell like strawberries.

I guess I’ll have to kick the litter out of the box again. How many times will we have to dance this dance before they learn?

[]

I don’t know what it is about a piece of string but, when one of the humans holds it just out of my reach and start whipping it around, I can’t help myself. I jump and try to catch it. I’ll do it over and over. I just can’t seem to stop.

I confess… string is my guilty pleasure.

[]

I’ve been sick for days. I can’t keep any food down and I ache all over. I think I may be dying.
One down, eight to go -- if it comes to that.

[]

2005-03-22T02:00:00.000-08:00

[ REUNION SPECIAL ]

The fun to be had at other people's high school reunion!

We stopped to get a bite to eat and, just our luck, it was some high school or another’s big reunion party at the restaurant we visited.

The place was chock-full of thirtysomethings wondering what the hell had happened in the intervening days as both their dreams and memory of the glory years slipped through their fingers – one precious moment at a time.

My dining companion and I watched the festivities and wondered who had been the school jocks, who were the nerds back in the day, and which woman would drink herself into a stupor first only to later prove she was still the school slut.

After a while I got bored, so slyly walked past a table in the corner and pilfered myself a nametag.

I slapped it on and was reborn as “Bob”. I felt like a “Bob”. I became “Bob”.

Bob mingled.

“Jeez, how have you been? I haven’t seen you, well, since high school!”

“Hello there, Steve. Tell me, you used to have hair… so what happened?”

“Gee, Monica, I don’t remember you having breasts in high school. Those implants must have set you back a pretty penny!”

“I’m Bob. Don’t you remember me? We were in social studies together.”

When the issue was pressed, with more than one person wondering who I was, I told them the pinnacle of my high school career was being president of the Chess Club. They seemed satisfied with that explanation because, after all, who remembers anybody in the Chess Club?

But one obnoxiously drunk lout carried on and on, “I don’t think you were in the graduating class. I was the quarterback of the football team and homecoming king! Everybody knew me and I knew everybody… and I don’t remember you, Bob!”

“You don’t?” I replied, “That’s funny, because I remember you. And I haven’t forgotten what you did to me. In fact, it’s been festering for years. Here’s a hint.”

That’s pretty much when I punched him. The next thing I knew I was being manhandled and quickly found myself face down in the parking lot outside.

As I lifted from the asphalt and dusted myself off, with the small crowd wandering back into the restaurant, I quietly took stock of my life as my dining companion appeared and helped me to the car.

Having avoided the tediousness of my own high school reunion(s), my life didn’t seem so shabby in comparison. Heck, I didn’t much care for those losers back in high school so why would I want to see them again now?

I would, however, attend a preschool reunion if there were such a thing…

“I’m Pete. Remember me? I slept on the mat next to yours during nap-time.”

“How can I forget you? You’re the guy who peed on me when I was four years old!”

Now that would be a fun reunion.

2005-03-18T12:11:00.000-08:00

[ DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL... OR SOMETHING TO THAT EFFECT ]

Have you ever had one of those nights when you can't seem to catch your breath, and the pressure in the back of your head is so great you fully expect your eyeballs to be bulging out of your head but you don't want to check in the mirror to see if they are because you know nothing good will come of that?

In any case, you're too dizzy to stand so that, as they say, is that. You feel overwhelmed and can't concentrate enough to watch TV or read so, instead, you lay in the dark and concentrate on being overwhelmed. You're waiting for Death to come but he's evidently taking his sweet time.

Damn that no good Death anyway. "Don't call me. I'll call you," he says.

That fucker.

Then you hear quiet sobbing coming from your darkened bedroom and you wonder what the hell is going on in there, until you realize you're the only one in the bedroom but, since it's dark in there and you want to be sure, you give the room the once over. Yup, you're alone. Never a good sign when sobbing is involved.

Pretty soon, you get tired of waiting for Death to arrive so you get dressed and go out walking. It's 2AM and nobody else is on the street, except some homeless drunks. No, they haven't seen Death lately either.

So you can't find Death. He doesn't have a permanent address, which makes him kind of hard to pin down. Death is like a homeless drunk in that respect.

Eventually, hours later, you end up back at home. You don't know where you've been or how you got back. The last thing you remember is feeling a bit overwhelmed and then all hell broke loose. Finally, you're exhausted and go to sleep.

The next morning you feel much better. You wonder what the heck you were thinking the night before. To the first friend you see, you answer, "I'm feeling much better today. Thanks for asking." even though what had actually been asked was, "Did you watch the game on TV last night?"

So the friend just shakes his or her head in the affirmative while smiling way too big, figuring you're in no mood to be trifled with.

In retrospect, you wonder if this is what St. John of the Cross had in mind when he wrote Dark Night of the Soul, and you'd ask him but, of course, he's dead.

The lucky bastard.

[]

(The preceding was a reprint. Sometimes you still feel the same way come morning, but I avoided addressing that because I wanted to end things on an 'up' note.)

2005-03-14T23:53:00.000-08:00

[[ MEDIA PETROS ]]

From the "Shameless Self-promotion" Department, here's a bit of what I do when not blogging...

"Same space. Different name. New attitude… Agitprop-creator extraordinaire Pete Petrisko has transmogrified Crisis Gallery into a one-man show, but still promises the same sociopolitical sarcasm seen in past paintings, performances, and photography."

– Phoenix's New Times (3/3/05)

You've read the media hype. Now check out the real deal.

m e d i a p e t r o s

"primitive pop" art [] surreal portraiture situational performance art [] satirical word

2005-03-08T03:39:00.000-08:00

[[WHEN GOOD GIRLFRIENDS GO BAD]]

A few weeks ago, my girlfriend walked out the door and never came back. That was her way of breaking things off.

She said, "I'm going to the store for cigarettes" then never returned. She didn't say that literally of course. I'm speaking metaphorical here.

Since that time, she refuses to tell me why. No explanation. No closure. No nothing. Well, except for that open wound she left me with – the one that has yet to heal. I guess that's something. At least now I can't say she never gave me anything, huh?

For the sake of closure, I'm going to guess as to why she left...

She has "men" issues. So it wasn't so much anything I did, but the fact I did it with a penis attached.

She got scared and is hiding out.

She was recently diagnosed with an incurable terminal disease and wanted to spare me the suffering of watching her die. One can only hope, right?

When we first met she said she found me to be "so odd" and thought it charming. But charm doesn't last forever and it finally wore off.

The Other Guy she claims doesn't exist. That's the story she's going with – "There is nobody else" – and, in a way, one almost wishes she's lying because that's far less worse to contemplate than knowing she'd just rather be alone than with me.

She once told me it bothered her that I fluctuated between being very passionate and being detached or aloof. Maybe it bothered her more than she expressed. I know when she first told me that I was very very mad but now I don't care. But I'll probably be pissed off about it again tomorrow.

She lived with me for a couple of weeks until her new apartment was ready. Suffice to say I'm not the easiest person to get along with on a 24/7 basis – so that situation rarely turns out well.

She wanted to give her heart to me completely, but didn't believe I felt the same way about her. She would've been wrong, of course, so I chalk it up to some deep-rooted self-esteem issues on her part.

Our lives are very different and, to some extent, we want different things out of life. For example: When I break up with somebody, I want to give that person closure. She doesn't.

She's fucking nuts.

That's all I can figure on that issue, so take your pick. I'm going to study up on that list real hard in the hopes I'll find some semblance of closure.

Until I do, however, I'm going back to bed where you'll find me hiding under the covers. Over the last few weeks its become quite comfy under there. I have a small refrigerator, a TV, a reading lamp, plenty of books, a telephone, an ice cream maker, a kick-ass stereo system, a portable john, George Foreman's Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine, a coffee machine... and I'm having an old-fashioned pinball machine delivered next week. I'm set for life and I'll never have to leave my bed again.

But even with all that stuff, it seems like something is missing.

Or, more accurately - - someone.

2005-02-28T09:23:00.000-08:00

[[ IN THE RAW ]]

The “raw food” phenomenon came up recently when I was hanging out with friends at a local coffeehouse. We bantered back and forth a bit on the subject before my friends departed.

As they left, this earnestly young girl appeared at my table and planted herself in the seat next to me.

“I heard you talking about raw food,” she said, “I’m going to a raw food party at a friend’s house tonight. Are you going?”

“What, pray tell, does one eat at such a party” I asked, “other than salad, I mean?”

“Well,” she replied, “there’s soup.”

“What kind of soup?”

“It’s made from raw vegetables in a blender. We blend it into soup.”

“Is that what they’re calling ‘soup’ these days,” I asked, “because, back in my day, we called that ‘crap’.”

Nonplussed, in an earnest sort of way, she continued, “People bring a lot of different things. You can bring anything.”

“Can I bring a hot-plate?” I said.

She laughed a gentle little laugh and said no; patiently explaining that nothing served at a raw food party was cooked.

“So can I assume Steak Tartar will be served?” I replied.

“No,” she giggled, “you can assume most everybody, if not everybody, there is a vegetarian.”

“How long have you been a vegetarian yourself and why did you become one?” I inquired.

“I started about three years ago. I was eating a lot of ham at the time and I was getting sick. So I stopped eating meat altogether.”

“I’m not too fond of ham myself,” I told her, “but it sure tastes great with eggs and hash browns. So you’ve got to give ham props for that.”

We spoke for a few more minutes about the raw food experience – and how much healthier she was feeling these days - until, suddenly, she bolted from the table and literally ran out the door, saying, “I’ve got to go now.”

She was a cute girl but, as she told me herself, she doesn’t eat meat. No meat of any kind will ever pass her lips. So, obviously, I’ll never be dating her. I prefer a woman who swallows a bit of meat from time to time.

But all this got me to thinking and I soon found myself checking the local phone book for the nearest raw food vegetarian restaurant. Only one was to be found – its mission (as stated on the menu when I visited) is “to make fresh, organic, living vegan foods more accessible by providing a central meeting place for like-minded individuals to gather and enjoy fine, live cuisine.”

That’s sure saying a mouthful.

I dragged a fellow blogger, Liz of Heart Failure fame, with me because I know she always enjoys a good shenanigan.

The café was teeming with Rastafarian White Boys with dreads akimbo and Birkenstock-clad girls giving that wild eyed stare – all with convictions matched only by body odor.

It was a feeding frenzy the likes of which had not been since the Last Supper or a Spielberg shark movie circa 1977 - but done up vegan-style - as these granola monkeys gnawed their way through metaphorical bamboo cages built on lifestyle alone.

It was an awesome – no, make that rawsome – sight to behold!

I found this bunch not only full of fresh leafy goodness but also dew-eyed dreams of a better tomorrow. Now don’t get me wrong, the world of butterflies and rainbows is all well and good when you’re really really high on marijuana – or “ganja” as the Rastafarian white boy calls it (cuz he’s just keeping it real, yo!) – but eventually you’re going to come crashing down to Planet Earth. You’re going to find yourself amongst the meth freaks and pill poppers and the usual zoo critters in suits doing everything they can, despite their neurosis-driven rage and fear, to keep it together.

And in that world, butterflies and rainbows don’t mean shit.

My dining companion and I started our raw meal with the “live” soup of the day. It was a yellow squash confection mixed in a blender with a variety of unnamed spices until pureed to a consistency just this side of sludge. We both remarked that it tasted vaguely familiar but neither of us could put our finger on what exactly that taste was.

Needless to say if the soup was heated up and poured over rice and Tandoori chicken it would be very much at home in any decent Indian food restaurant. That was the taste we couldn’t place.

We passed on the so-called pizza – described on the menu as being built upon a ‘crawst’ foundation of sunflower and pumpkin seeds, zucchini, celery and Celtic sea salt with fresh veggies – because I’m hardly willing to pay nine dollars for a real pizza, the kind with dough and cheese and a steaming heap of meat, much less some vegan’s utopian ideal of what a pizza should be.

Nor do I eat anything with ‘crawst’ in it - on principle alone.

I had the tomato and cucumber salad with an olive oil and lemon juice dressing. It wasn’t half bad but I was concerned whether or not the vegetables were organically grown – until I found a cucumber rind in my salad with a sticker still on it which read: Nature’s Nectar – Certified Organic.

I ate the paper sticker so I’d at least get some fiber in my diet.

My dining companion had the mixed greens salad and summed up her opinion of it nicely when she commented, “This is probably the worst salad I’ve ever had.”

I tasted a forkful and quickly knew that washing greens just isn’t the raw food way.

It was then I realized that the word organic is just a shorter way of saying, “tastes like dirt.”

We left the café shortly thereafter and on the way home, some twenty minutes later, my dining companion commented, “I’m still tasting grit.”

To wash the grit down we then drove through a fast food restaurant and both ordered a big greasy cheeseburger. Our arteries were eternally grateful.

The cheeseburger got me riled and I was soon shouting, “I can kick any vegetarian’s ass with one arm tied behind my back! I am strong! I am carnivore, hear me roar!”

The blood was pumping hot through my veins and, at that moment, I felt alive and so very raw.

[]

2005-02-21T01:43:00.000-08:00

[[ THE DOCTOR IS OUT ] ]

"The Edge... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others --- the living --- are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it's In.” - Hunter S. Thompson, from Hell’s Angels

Blood runs cold down the snow-covered mountains of Aspen today, seeping into the fiber of the American Dream as it goes. The fear & depravity continue to spread & pool along its path and, sadly, there is one less able hand to help staunch the bleeding.

Hunter S. Thompson is dead.

Many people are probably surprised he lasted this long but, by most accounts, nobody would’ve guessed it would end this way. A drug casualty? Probably. Vehicular accident? Possibly. A mishap involving guns or explosives? There was always that chance. A life-ending incident involving a combination of all three of those choices? Most likely.

But methodically and by his own hand? Who saw that coming? Or maybe it was plain as day & as big as the American Dream itself all along.

I remember the first time I met Thompson. It was a wild gathering, at his fortified compound near Aspen, with many of those in attendance already in various states of undress and drug-induced stupor. I had gone out onto the porch for a moment of solitude when I felt a strong presence approach from behind. I say approach, but stagger might be a more apt description. I turned to see who this staggering behemoth was - it was Thompson.

He was a towering figure back then, as he invited me to wander the yard with him. The sun was just setting and the peacocks were gathering out back, slowly returning from their daily jaunt. There we stood among the birds - majestic with brightly colored tails aflutter - when Thompson pulled his gun. He pointed it right at me and said the peacocks liked to dance, would I care to join them? I tried to protest but Thompson squinted his eyes and motioned the gun in the birds’ direction, speaking but a single word - “Dance.”

Needless to say I danced & the whole yard was soon buzzing with activity as the peacocks raced to & fro, all trying to avoid my high-steppin’ moves.

Thompson laughed & said he couldn’t believe I didn’t call his bluff.

We returned to the porch, and I lifted a quart of Chivas from out of a nearby ice bucket and poured us both a healthy glass on the rocks.

I was seven years old at the time.

It would be many years before I’d run into Thompson again. I saw him at a swanky hotel party and he looked more than uncomfortable with the situation. He was sweating profusely and his eyes kept darting as he took it all in. A young waifish man sporting a black ponytail had cornered him & was profusely exclaiming, “I can’t believe it’s you! Hunter fucking S. Thompson! You’re my hero, dude!”

Thompson was chain smoking one whiskey-soaked Camel cigarette after another as this barrage continued. When the man finally stopped to take a breath, Thompson went into his “wild man gonzo journalist” routine, letting loose with a string of incoherent expletives before segueing into a scintillating discourse on the state of America & the follies of another war in Iraq.

At that moment, the young man began backing up. He looked physically ill & psychically wounded. Thompson continued berating him & just before the man turned & disappeared into the crowd, he quietly muttered, “Hey dude, I’m a Republican. That shit’s fucked up, you burned out lunatic dope fiend!”

The final time I saw Thompson was only a few months ago. I was passing through Aspen & stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall bar on the way. I had heard he was neither going out much these days nor seeing visitors so, out of respect for his privacy, I hadn’t planned to stop by the compound.

But there was my old friend in the bar, slumped over in a poorly lit booth near the back door. He looked bloated & when I tried to engage him in conversation he simply lifted his glass and, after mumbling “To America!”, slugged the gin back. He looked sick - as if something was eating away at him from the inside - but passed out before I could reply.

I retreated to the relative safety of the cold winds outside but, in retrospect, wonder if I should’ve stayed - if there was anything more I could have done.

But what can anybody do once others begin on a methodical path to self-destruction?

You can only find your way out of so many bad situations before the walls close in and the final darkness falls, as Thompson himself asserted when he wrote, “The American nation is in the worst condition I can remember in my lifetime, and our prospects for the immediate future are even worse. I am surprised and embarrassed to be a part of the first American generation to leave the country in far worse shape than it was when we first came into it. Our highway system is crumbling, our police are dishonest, our children are poor, our vaunted Social Security, once the envy of the world, has been looted and neglected and destroyed by the same gang of ignorant greed-crazed bastards who brought us Vietnam, Afghanistan, the disastrous Gaza Strip and ignominious defeat all over the world…Big Darkness, soon come. Take my word for it.”

He may’ve only been speaking for himself when expressing that opinion but sometimes words fall short.

Action becomes necessary. Decisions are made.

And those who are left behind try to make some sense out of the incomprehensible.

2005-02-05T06:42:00.000-08:00

[[ SHELTER STORIES ]]

The Homeless.

Faceless denizens passing us on the city street, they don’t show up on the radar of most people until asking for spare change. A typical response is the dismissive wave, averting the eyes, and walking away while quickly adding, “Sorry, no change.”

I spend some 40 hours a week with the homeless population, working at a shelter. I can’t walk away. Nor do I want to. It is a slice of life that many have not tasted. When I sometimes think I’ve had my fill, I remember the funny, touching or bittersweet moments. Here are a few. (Names have been changed to protect confidentiality.)

[]

John L. is brought to the shelter by a social services van. He’s a frail man in a wheelchair and, without my even asking, tells me he’s been in a chair since he got that shrapnel in his hip during WWII. I give him a copy of the shelter rules but he can’t read them because his glasses were stolen. I begin reading the rules out loud to him but he stops me, saying, “What? I can’t hear you. The batteries in my hearing aid are dead.”

So I begin shouting the highlights. He catches most of what I say but still has some trouble because he hasn’t removed the dead hearing aid from his ear.

According to the paperwork I was given when he was dropped off, John needs a medical rest bed for a few days – but his medical condition isn’t listed. So I ask him what’s going on.

John states he has lung cancer. After we finish the paperwork, he asks where the smoking area is located. He still smokes and is thoughtful enough to inform me that he sometimes coughs up “green mucus” during his first smoke of the day, but adds that the doctors told him that is a “good sign.”

Of what exactly I don’t know, but don’t want to shout any more questions to find out.

[]

Three different local churches make regular stops at the shelter in the evening, busing the homeless off for a hot meal with a side order of Jesus Christ. Like clockwork, they return a few hours later and our clients disembark – well-fed, body and soul.

I once asked a client how people decided which church to attend. He answered, pointing to one bus in particular, “Most of us like that church because the services are short and the chicken is Kentucky-fried.”

Amen!

[]

I once witnessed a client get in a verbal argument with another staff member. It got quite heated, and the client yelled that he was going to do what he had to do to get the staff fired, adding, “I’ll be here long after you’re gone!”

The staff member replied, “You know, that’s kind of sad.”

That pretty much ended the argument right there.

[]

If a client feels he or she has been treated unfairly, there is the option of filing a grievance. In some cases, these are filed after a situation escalates and words are exchanged between client and staff. These words are never good ones.

A supervisor once told me that was one way he could gauge how well somebody was doing their job – the more grievances filed against you, the better the job you must be doing.

Personally, I disagree. If you have a disagreement with a client, or if he comes in drunk for example, and it escalates to the point where it turns into a shouting match and the client blows up, well… a lack of communication skills might have played some small part in it.

Clients who come in drunk can’t stay, they are given a night out. Some of these aren’t even “angry drunks” when they show up but they sure can leave in a pissed off mood if things aren’t handled correctly.

Drunk or sober, I’ve seen more than one situation spiral out of control for no good reason - other than ego, pride and more than a little dueling machismo from both sides.

It may be coincidence, but staff who rack up the grievances are seemingly promoted sooner. That doesn’t bode well for my future at the shelter, let me tell you. There has been more than one occasion in which a client has come in drunk and not only have I been able to avoid an argument when asking him to leave, but have actually had men shake my hand and thank me for calling them on it.

Other types of disagreements can be handled with a little finesse. Suggest options that offer resolution without the other person having to “lose face”. Don’t be needlessly confrontational and keep a sense of humor - it’s hard for somebody to stay mad at you for long if you keep making him laugh despite his best efforts to stay serious and angry. All common sense suggestions, I know – but apparently not everybody read the Common Sense Memo. Or realized common sense was a one-way ticket to Nowheresville long before I did.

So I may have to become a serious hardass just to be considered for a future promotion. I’ve been told I can be quite the smart-ass at times, so all I really need to do is refocus on the hard part.

If I really concentrate on my hardassery, the grievances will start rolling in. If I play my cards right, they’ll pile up so fast that I’ll be CEO within six months. Just you watch.

[]

The hospital transports an elderly man to the shelter for one of our medical rest beds. He’s just had his pancreas removed and now has a colostomy bag. Since even rest bed clients have to be able to take care of their basic needs, this has me a bit worried.

I just have a bad feeling about the whole situation.

So I call a supervisor, and she assures me it’s okay to bring the man in. She adds that we’ve had such clients before and then proceeds to tell me this horror story, from a few years back, about another guy with a colostomy bag who got really really drunk and proceeded to spray the contents of his bag all over some of the other clients.

Needless to say, after hearing that I’m feeling like I might need a colostomy bag myself – if you know what I mean.

So I’m with the guy filling out his intake paperwork when, sure enough, within a few minutes his bag starts leaking. He goes to the restroom to try to fix it but he’s no doctor so only ends up making it worse. He’s also showing signs of early senility, which doesn’t help matters either.

I soon convince the man that returning to the hospital would be in his best interest and arrange the transportation before the colostomy bag contents hit the fan, so to speak.

[]

Rufus was a self-proclaimed hillbilly. When you’re born and raised in Kentucky, calling yourself a hillbilly is a badge of honor I suppose. He was your stereotypical “cranky old man” and, god love him, that was a big part of his charm.

Rufus was telling me how he thought my co-worker was an asshole, mostly because he was bilingual. “I don’t like people who speak two languages and, frankly, I don’t trust ‘em,” he said matter-of-factly.

I guess, down in Kentucky, they don’t cotton to them bilinguals.

Rufus was a carny back when being a carny still meant something. Many years back when on the road with the carnival, he told me, they pulled over in a rural area for a few days rest.

He explained, “There was a house down the road and, for three nights, we heard children crying in there. On the third night, we done broke the front door down. The kids were 11, 9 and 6 years old and, for the last three days, the eldest was feeding them all sour milk. That’s all there was to eat in that house. Their parents hadn’t come back since we got there, so… we took those kids with us.”

God bless the hillbillies.

The conversation soon turned serious when Rufus began reminiscing about his old friend Slim.

“Slim and me lived in a field for a while,” he said, “we knew each other from our days on the road with the carnival and ran into each other here in town. So we was staying in this field and watched out for each other. One day I walked a couple of miles to the Jack in the Box and when I got back, Slim was dead.”

Rufus was visibly shaking at this point, and tears began welling up in his eyes as he continued, “Somebody had shot him, execution-style, in the back of the head. Why would somebody do that? Slim wasn’t hurting nobody. Why would they do that?”

I didn’t have the answer. So I invited Rufus outside and we both had a cigarette.

We smoked in silence because that’s what us manly men do when things get emotional. It’s what we call contemplatin’.

[]

Most of the clients don’t refer to each other by their birth names. They have street names. Sometimes the nickname refers to a physical attribute the person may have or their approach to life – Stretch, Turtle, Cosmo, Red, Pee-Wee, Doc, Sideburns, Barker, Rock, Baby Face, Judge, or Biggs.

Other times, the street name is meant ironically – Tiny (if he’s husky and very tall) or Speedy (if he uses a walker to get around).

At any given time, there are usually two or three “Cowboys” at the shelter. I don’t know why this is but imagine it can cause all sorts of confusion.

I try to learn each person’s street name whenever possible. That way, if there’s trouble or a disagreement between two clients and somebody says something like, “Stretch went off on me and then stormed out of here” I’ll know who it is.

Unless I’m told it was “Cowboy” who started the trouble. Then it’s back to square one, I’m afraid.

[]

Late one afternoon, this 80-something year old man wanders through the shelter front door. He doesn’t know where he is, where he came from, or how he got here.

He has nothing with him but the clothes on his back and the small brown paper bag he’s carrying.

About all he remembers is his name: Carl.

I ask him what’s in the bag. “It’s my lunch,” he replies.

I ask if I can see what he has for lunch and Carl opens the bag. It’s his medication – in fact, it’s a number of meds... including morphine and Dilantin.

I wonder where he orders lunch from, because all I ever get is a hamburger.

Since the shelter has an empty medical rest bed available, I give him the bed. This despite the fact he has no medical referral from a hospital or clinic – which is the usual procedure somebody must go through to get such a bed. Screw procedure. If he wanders off now it’s only a matter of time before somebody out on the street steals his “lunch”.

He’s here for safekeeping. I plan to get him to the nearby medical clinic in the morning, but it never comes to that.

His daughter and son-in-law show up a few hours later. They both show me their IDs and she pulls Carl’s wallet out of her purse.

It contains his ID and some family pictures. One of the pictures show all three of them posing together. It is a bit faded and torn around the edges. Carl is smiling, standing between the other two, with an arm around each. His grip is strong and his eyes still have a certain twinkle.

Carl apparently wandered away from home and somehow ended up here. He has Alzheimer’s and has done this before. He’s just never gone so far before. His daughter guesses some well-meaning bus driver might’ve given him a “courtesy ride” and he got off at the Central Station, eventually walking to the shelter. But she’ll never know for sure.

They take him home.

[]

You’d think the biggest drug problem on the street would be heroin or crack or something. But, in my experience, it’s not – it’s black market prescription drugs. One guy gets a prescription filled and then sells what he doesn’t necessarily need right away to others – mostly painkillers.

Sometimes there are guys who are what we call shoppers. They visit many doctors and quickly get their ‘scripts filled at different locations so they’ll have a big stockpile long before any computer tracking (for what that’s worth) or paperwork ever catches up with them.

Jeremy M. was a client who frequented the shoppers. One night he was so zoned out on painkillers that he crawled into another man’s bed, thinking it was his. I don’t know that he even realized somebody else was already sleeping in it when he climbed in. The staff had to direct him back to his own bunk. We later had a behavioral health counselor talk to him, but Jeremy said he didn’t want help – he could handle things on his own.

One day, Jeremy came in and was quite excited. His disability benefits had finally come through and he had cashed his check. He then proceeded to count and recount the hundreds of dollars he had with him, on a nearby desk, in full view of everybody. He kept losing count and would start over.

He finally finished and told the staff he had used some of the money to buy a plane ticket, that he planned to check out the next day and fly back east to stay with his family.

He left to eat, or so he said, but returned about an hour later with two police officers.

“I got jumped right outside the shelter,” Jeremy said, “and this Mexican robbed me!” He had called the police, swearing he could identify his assailant. He then proceeded to point out every Hispanic male in sight, one by one, saying, “That’s him! Oh wait, that’s not the guy!”

Finally, the police questioned Jeremy instead and got to the bottom of it. He had, in fact, been robbed over a mile away – in a drug deal gone bad. Apparently the painkillers had worn off and, when he couldn’t find his usual source, decided to buy some crack to take the edge off.

Jeremy still had his plane ticket and flew out to see his family the next day. He returned a week later – totally despondent.

He had stayed with his family for only a few days before they had enough of his questionable behavior. His father gave him $50 and told him never to come back.

So he took a bus across several states and returned to our shelter.

Early the next morning, Jeremy was found dead in his shelter bed – an apparent overdose of prescription painkillers. I don’t think it was officially ruled a suicide… but it should have been.

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There are a couple of months out of the year that I especially enjoy at the shelter. These are the times of year when one traveling carnival has finished its season and there’s a lag before the next one comes through town. The shelter gets an influx of carnies and most of them have quite the stories to tell. I especially enjoy the old-timers, because they’ll share carny secrets from the old days before the industry was more regulated. I’ve learned many a carny trick by listening but I’ve been sworn to secrecy.

I don’t know why I get such a kick out of these folks. Maybe it’s the kid in me still dreaming about running off to join the carnival. Or maybe I like hearing about a good con that separates the rubes from their money. I can’t rightly say.

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Two things that make working at a homeless shelter worth it:

1. The too rare occasion when a client comes up to you and says “Thanks for trying to help me.”

2. When a former client returns after a long absence, but he’s not looking for shelter again.

He’s just come by, driving in his own car, to tell you about the house he’s going to make a down payment on. He tells you about the job he’s had for what seems like forever now. He introduces you to the woman he’s about to marry. He wants to share his hopes and dreams for the future, because he didn’t have much in the way of hopes and dreams when you knew him before.

Maybe you once told him, "There's always hope." Maybe he didn't believe you at the time. Maybe he wondered if you believed it yourself, so decided to bring you some proof.

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