Wandering Wireless Nomad

Gone, but not forgotten...

2010-05-07T20:26:00.017-06:00

I finally got tired of life in Lousyana, so I packed up and moved to Wyoming. That's right: Wyoming.

Why Wyoming? Why not?

(1) It's got mountains: proper mountains, with snow on top. I've never lived anywhere with mountains.
(2) Laramie is a nice, clean little town, where there aren't murders every week-end and people are friendly, and they don't scream obscenities and throw things at me and try to run me over, just because I ride a bicycle.
(3) It isn't damp. Even the cold feels nicer, because it's dry. And, it's cool: we've had a few snow flurries this week. Yeah, it can be really cold, but I'll take cold over heat any day.
(4) I have friends here who want me here and are doing the best they can to see that I get settled and am comfortable and enjoy life.
(5) Laramie has some really, really cute boys! There is a university here and it's dripping with cute boys, and a lot of them are really nice. And cute. Did I mention cute?
(6) It is about as far away from Lousyana as I could afford to get. I would have left the country if I could have. I have been criticised for voicing negative opinions about that beknighted state, so, just to set the record clear: I hate Louisiana. I particularly hate Baton Rouge. The state is packed with ignorant, intolerant, rude, crude, bigoted, small-minded, inbred, low-life, trashy, homophobic, money-grubbing, ostentatious arseholes. And those are the nice ones! Now, I do realise that there are some very good people in Lousyana; it has been my privilege to have met and known and worked with some truly wonderful people, but 7.4% of the population (and this is a figure tempered by kindness) is not enough to keep me there. FAREWELL! GOOD RIDDANCE! HASTA LA VISTA, BABY!

Now, you might think that, considering my feelings for the state, that it would be glad to be rid of me, and want never to have anything to do with me, ever again, but that is not the case:

The long arm of Lousyana has reached out 1500 miles to continue to screw with my life. Today, I rode three miles, out of town, to obtain my Wyoming driving license, only to discover, to my surprise, that my Lousyana license had been suspended, and that I could not obtain a Wyoming driving license until it is cleared up. I have no bloody idea WHY my license was suspended; I never received notice of any pending action of any nature from DPS, or I would have taken care of the matter BEFORE I moved 1500 miles away, so that I would not have to fix the problem long-distance, which I now have to do.

I was given an 800 number to call, which I did, as soon as I got home, only to discover that it had been disconnected. So, I went online and spent a good 20 minutes navigating their convoluted and confusing website and finally found a new number, which I called, only to find that the office shut at 4:00 (3:00 Mountain Time). It was 3:05.

I am going to spend more time this evening on the wretched DPS website, in the hope that, tucked away in some dusty electronic corridor of that ancient and outmoded menu system, some kind of form or something that I can fill out to discover what the hell I did or did not do to incur the wrath of the Lousyana Department of Public Stupidity. I have a feeling that I will waste a lot more time and be unsuccessful, and that I will have to call the new number on Monday and muddle through an equally ancient and convoluted telephone menu. Hopefully, I will eventually discover what Lousyana wants from me (probably money) and for what, so that I can clear up this beaucratic clusterfuck and, with any luck, completely eliminate any hold Lousyana has left on me, so that I can live in peace and harmony with all living things with all kinds of warm and fuzzy feelings, to the betterment of myself and for the Greater Glory of All Mankind.

Somehow, I doubt that this will be an easy task.Lousyana's dubious excuse for a government has taken incompetence to the point of high art: this is incompetence so baroque, so labyrinthine, so mind-bogglingly counterproductive that it almost has to be a result of intense and meticulous planning, unless (possibly) the result of some unforseen and hithertofore unknown rift in the fabric of time and space which causes any endeavour which has any worth at all to be sucked into another universe and replaced with an anti-endeavour which is just, for lack of other words to describe it, really stupid. I'm working on the proof of this theory. I may be some time.

This is why I have little hope of clearing this mess up with alacrity:

Quite a few years ago, I had the pleasure of encountering two of Baton Rouge's Finest (not to be confused with the nearly identical Baton Rouge's Finest now under investigation by Federal authorities over allegations of racism and misuse of power following Hurricane Katrina). My inspection sticker had expired and I was on my way to have my vehicle inspected when these two valiant defenders of the public pulled me over. Of course, I knew why they had pulled me over, and I told the officer who took my license that I was on the way to get the car inspected and pointed out the garage where I was headed, three sodding blocks away.

That didn't matter, he told me, and wrote me a citation.

"You're a real prick," I said. He just handed me he ticket.

Of course, I did not pay the fine. I waited for the court date on the citation to come around so that I could contest it.

I was at work, about a week before the court date, when a co-worker, who had been in traffic court over another violation, got my attention.

"Dude," he said. "I was at court today, and they put a bench warrant out on you."

"That's ridiculous," I said, naively. "I'm not due in court until Monday."

"Well, you better call them," he said. "Before they put your ass in jail."

So, the next morning, I called the Clerk of Court. The woman on the phone assured me that, yes, there was a bench warrant out for my arrest for failure to appear in court the day before. When I read her the appearance date off of the ticket, there was the clicking of a keyboard in the background.

"The appearance date was moved up," she said.

"I didn't receive any notice," I said. "How can you expect me to appear in court on a different day from the one on the citation when you didn't notify me?"

"It is the responsibility of the accused to know when they are supposed to be in court," she said. I hung up.

The next Monday, I went down to the courthouse and asked to see the assistant DA assigned to traffic court. He saw me right away. He was very cordial and very apologetic when I explained the situation and showed him both the citation and the receipt for the inspection sticker, which had the time imprinted on it twenty minutes after the time recorded on the ticket. Again, he was apologetic and assured me that the charge would be dropped and the bench warrant recinded. He blamed the unfortunate episode on new software in the Clerk's office, with which the staff apparently had not completely familiarised themselves. He took my copy of the ticket and stapled it to a stack of multicoloured papers, we shook hands, and I was on my way. You would think this story would be over, but it doesn't end here:

Two years later, I was stopped at one of those fucked up insurance and/or drink driving checkpoints. I gave my license, registration and proof of insurance to the Valiant Server and Protector (it said so on his unit) of the Public. He held some kind of conference with two other Heroes in Uniform. I waited forty minutes. I was then asked to step out of my vehicle, was subjected to a body search and handcuffed. I was informed that there was an outstanding bench warrant for me, and that I was under arrest. I was asked if I had any illegal substances with me and was asked for permission to search my vehicle. I refused to give it. They searched my vehicle anyway.

I told them the story about the bench warrant. They told me it didn't matter. My car was towed away and I was transported to the city jail. It was a week-end, so the jail was full of drunks, dope heads and other various offenders. The cells were all full, so I spent six hours standing, handcuffed to cell bars before the Idiot in Charge got around to me. Fortunately, I had my checkbook with me, and I wrote a check for the $300 bond. I was released. It was four AM on Sunday morning. I had to walk three miles home.

It cost me $185.75 to get my car out of impound. I went to court on the offense that had presumably been dropped two years before. I had no proof of anything, because the assistant DA had taken the citation from me and hadn't given me any kind of receipt or waiver or whatever the fuck he should have given me. I spent 4 hours in court and paid an attorney $150 to represent me. Someone finally produced the paperwork that supported my case, and all charges were dropped. When I asked the judge about the $185.75 for towage, the $300 bond and the $150 I had to pay the attorney, I was advised that the only thing I would receive back was my $300 bond.

It took three months for the court to mail me a refund check for the bond. The check was for $264.50, minus $35.50 in court costs.

And you ask me why I hate Lousyana?

#100

2010-03-09T10:21:00.006-06:00

Well, this is actually the hundredth posting to my blog that I started a year and a half ago. I wanted this post to be momentous but (maybe fortunately) not a lot interesting has been happening.(I wrote that bit about a week ago, but things have happened since then.)

I am still stuck at Kamp Winge-a-lot, and don't see being able to leave until the end of the month when, hopefully, I will have saved up enough to get where I am going and not have to worry for a little while. This is paramount, because I am going such a long distance, to a place with which I am not familiar. I have friends there, and I am working on getting a place to stay and a part-time job, but it is still a big move for me. To be practical, I can be homeless as easily in Wyoming as I can here. It doesn't require a new skill set. But, I intend to hit the ground running, so to speak.

I was transferred to the Butcher Block at work, primarily in Seafood. It is considerably more work, but it promises 30-40 hours a week, and I don't have to scrounge for them, either. Both the Asst. Manager and the Manager of the department are very glad to have me working there because (1) I have a good work ethic and show up on time and actually work while I am there, (2) I am intelligent enough to not have to repeat things to all of the time and (3) I am efficient and organise tasks well.

Amazingly, the Store Director (the same one who fired me in the first place, all those months ago) now considers me one of his most valuable employees. I know this because he has told me this sevral times, and told other employees the same thing, and he is not prone to hyperbole. I have worked with meat, frozen food and produce before, and the same skills pretty much apply to Seafood.

Of course, there are a few drawbacks (but, what would life be without them?): some of my fellow employees do not seem to share my work ethic, coming in late, leaving the department when it is busy and doing things in a haphazard way, which leaves me with that much more work to do, which I do, because I am conscientious.

I really was hoping that my century posting would end on an upbeat note, but, apparently, life has other plans for me:

The 12th was the anniversary of my father's death. I thought I got through it rather well; no major depression or sadness, just kind of a vague feeling of loss. Then, sometime during the night, whilst I slept, some unmitigated heap of semi-simian excretions stole my new phone, which I paid a whole week's salary for. I got to use it for not quite three weeks.

Then, I was on my way to feed the cats, after work, and passing through the mass St. Patrick's Day Parade orgy along Perkins road, when I hit a piece of a bottle that some thoughtful fellow had left for me in the road. As a friend of mine, who is a cyclist also, remarked: "Dude, you hit that just perfectly." The glass cut completely through my rear tyre and inner tube, cutting them almost completely in half. As it is a Sunday, and I open the Seafood Department tomorrow, I will be walking until at least Tuesday.

Then, somehow, I managed to say something to make one of my closest friends angry at me. I am going to stop talking to people entirely (this will be made easier by my lack of a mobile), except for what is minimally necessary to conduct business. You know, you aren't crazy if everybody does hate you.

I went online to check on getting a replacement phone (I had insurance on this one), only to discover that the deductible is $100. I am eligible for a mail-in rebate of $100, but God only knows when that will reach me, if it does at all. All this, while I am trying like crazy to sock away enough money to get out of my present circumstance and out of Louisiana.

Am I cursed? Have I done something terribly wrong? Do I somehow deserve all of this crap? Sometimes, I really think that something is out to get me.

You know the old saying, "when life hands you lemons, make lemonade"? I have enough lemonade. I have pretty much cornered the market on it. So, here I sit, at Middleton Library, composing this, because I no longer have a phone to post anything from. When I leave here, I will go and feed the cats (hopefully without pissing anybody else off) and walk the three miles back to fucking Kamp, where I will spend a rollicking and revivifying evening with some of the stupidest and most pathetically useless people I have ever met. Then, tomorrow, I will either walk or ride the crappy Baton Rouge transportation system to and from work. Tuesday, if something else doesn't drop on my head like a giant cow-flop from heaven, I may, just maybe get my bike repaired, so I can return, ever so slightly, to the agonising tedium of what passes for an existence these days.

Yeah. I complained that things were bad and a friend told me: "Cheer up. It could be worse." So I cheered up and, sure enough, things got worse.

Sorry about the pessimistic viewpoint, but I just don't see much to feel positive about. I wish something good would happen, for a change. Is it really my point of view? Am I just not seeing all of this shit in a positive light? Or would succeeding in doing so simply qualify me as delusional?

Help? Somebody?

So What?

2010-02-24T15:44:00.002-06:00

I am getting more proficient at flogging from my mobile (oops!). It finishes words for me which means I can be a little sloppy with my touchscreen typing.

I decided to start another blog, dedicated to just plain naughty stuff, because this one is more of a journal, and more ine a serious tone, and the subject matter of the other one is going to be a bit more more explicit: okay, KINKY! Why not? It's not like I am trying to hide anything. So, I am starting a second blog, just for fun, and anybody who wants to read it can, and if you don't want to then don't.

Everybody who knows me pretty much knows I am kind of kinky, so this won't be a shock to any of my friends and, frankly, I don't much care what anybody else thinks. So, there.

I just feel like this blog should be more or less dedicated to higher principles, even though I shall try to be honest in both. The other one is going to involve some fantasy and explicit stuff, and Is not for the weak at heart. This IS a warning.

So, I am going to write my first post on it tonight or tomorrow. Don't know for sure what it is going to be about, but it will be naughty, and more less true. So, if you really want to know what runs through my warped little brain, you can link to it through this blog. If you would prefer NOT to know, then just follow this one and leave it alone.

Like I said, it is going to be over the top, so, if you really want to know, read on; but don't blame me if you don't like what you read, and, for God's sake, should we meet, don't treat me like some kind of freak, even if you think me one: I am just trying to express myself openly, and foster an environment of understanding (and it wouldn't hurt a bit if I managed to get laid in the process).

Stuff & Nonsense

2010-02-23T07:17:00.002-06:00

I finally figured out how to post to my blog from my mobile, but It Is slow going because I am still not too proficient with bleeding touchscreen typing. I will definitely have to edit these posts later.

Last night we had fried chicken, which meant that I got a "late plate", which are always skimpy, and this one was no exception: two wings, a bit of green bean cassorole, a bit of salad and a roll. You might think that they would at least leave enough food fort those of us who work, but the opposite Is true. We get what is left over after the bums eat. Sucks, huh? So do a lot of things at Kamp.

Last night saw a confrontation between a new "client" and the new laundry person, who Is an annoying prick. The prick left a pile of laundry on the guy's bed that. wasn't his and a shouting match ensued. Both of them.are morons. That was the evening's entertainment. I ignored the whole thing. I always do.

Had dinner with friends Sunday, so I didn't have to eat at Kamp. Had a huge steak. Great Improvement! Can't.get that every night, of course.

Saw a London bus and took a picture of it and posted it on Flickr. A guy emailed me from London and wanted more info. He tracks London busses In the US and Canada. I gave him the little I had. Go figure.
All for nopw. Will edit this at the library late. I am going.mad trying to text on this thing.

Peace. Out.

Couldn't Think of a Clever Title ...

2010-02-09T13:35:00.001-06:00

... so I am just going to ramble on, kind of stream of consciousness, at least, as much consciousness as I can muster.

I am trying to publish this one in Trebuchet. Just wanted to see if the "font" button works on this thing. It did before.

I seem to have to keep switching it ... oh well. More in the same vein:

Other things I can't do:

Wear What I want: I am limited pretty much to more conventional clothing, which is okay most of the time, but I can't really express myself much, since the other clients already think I am weird. Athletic kit is, of course, out of the question, except for my riding gear, which they think is odd enough. One idiot asked me, in an incredulous voice: "Are you wearing leotards?". Trying to explain cycling apparel to him (or anything else, for that matter) is fruitless. These guys already look at me like I came from Mars or something. I just wish I could beam up.

Use My Laptop: Yeah, right, I do need to fix it, but even if it were working, it is against regulations to have a laptop at Kamp (they are afraid that clients will use the WiFi network to download porn, which is probably true), as well as a DVD player, boom box, radio (without earphones) or CD player (ditto). So, I can't use my laptop, even when I fix it (which I will try to do today). Believe it or not, I really don't spend much time looking at porn on the internet; I mostly access research and news sources, and streaming video TV and movies (like Hulu). I also blog and write stuff. No such luck. May have to go back to the primitive methods of physical inscription, tedious as it is.

Relax: I really can't just let loose and be myself. I have to guard everything that I say or do, not only because I don't want anyone knowing that I am gay, but also because, in this type of situation, every bit of personal information that you divulge may possibly be used against you. This is, unfortunately, true, though not of everyone at Kamp. There are those characters who invest quite a bit of time finding out what they can about other clients, in order to gain an advantage over them. Some of these guys will do anything to avoid actually working. In fact, if some of them spent as much time actually working as they do scheming how to avoid working, they wouldn't be in this predicament.

Yeah, I know: bitch, bitch, bitch. Well, it helps pass the time.

There is a new client in "charge" of the kitchen, and he guards his little baliwick jealously. According to the guys who run this place, no client has the right to tell anyone else what to do: only the shelter management guys get to do that, so, as far as I am concerned, he is on pretty shaky ground in so far as his authority is concerned, but I just pretty much ignore him. He told me, the other night, that I shouldn't have gone into the kitchen to retrieve my "late plate", and I just smiled and sat down and ate. I have dubbed him the "Soup Nazi".

I managed to record some of the nocturnal background noise on my phone, but I still haven't figured out how to transfer files from phone to blog through public computers, since they have filters which keep me from downloading anything, even to transfer to my flash drive, or I just haven't figured out how to get around them, which means that photos and other stuff will probably have to wait until I get my laptop running again.

It was freezing yesterday morning, but wound up in the 60's in the afternoon. It has been in the 40's all day today, so I am wearing my "leotards". It's kind of a pain in the butt to have to carry changes of clothing with me, especially if it looks like rain, when I have to pack my slicker.

That's about all for now. I am hoping I can hang out with friends for a while tonight and maybe get to watch a movie. I get paid Thursday, and it all goes right into my savings account. I wish I could make money faster, but I can't, so I have to be patient.

Thank God for pharmaceuticals.

The Saints and King Cakes

2010-02-08T11:09:00.000-06:00

Lately, my boss has begun to recognise the fact that my talents have been largely under-utilised where I work (which is a grocery store). It is really kind of ironic, since I have worked for him for a total of 18 months or so, and he is just figuring this out. So, over the past few weeks, he has been shopping me from department to department, and also entrusting me with various projects (like the Food Bank thing). I have responded by exceeding his expectations so much that he has complimented me personally several times (which he is not prone to do) and even suggested that I should consider a management position. This is brilliant, but, coming on the heels of my decision to get the hell out of Baton Rouge, is somewhat belated and pretty much moot.

So, this week, I was in two departments: Seafood and Bakery, and enjoyed the experience immensely (anything beats running a register for 6-8 hours a day!). First, he entrusted me with a project to push shrimp (we had purchased a large quantity of Gulf shrimp). I wound up bagging up about 22 cases of shrimp in plastic bags, weighing it out and hawking it to customers as they passed the seafood department. I sold around 500 lbs. of shrimp, which made him very happy. I wound up with hands like pincushions (frozen shrimp can jab the fuck out of you!) but it was quite an adventure. To me, just about anything is an adventure, these days.

Fresh from my triumph in seafood, I spent 9 hours yesterday on loan to the bakery, where I decorated several dozens of King Cakes. For those who do not know what a King Cake is, it is a filled cake that looks kind of like a giant doughnut, decorated in purple, gold and green, which are Mardis Gras colours. Traditionally, there is a little plastic baby inside, which represents the infant Jesus. The person who gets the "baby" will have good luck and has to buy the next King Cake. There are even little brown plastic babies for multi-ethnic King Cakes. I have never seen an oriental plastic baby, but that dosen't mean that they don't exist. King Cakes are always eaten by people in a group, usually over coffee, because they are a lot like a coffee cake.

Anyway, the bakery was a lot of fun, too. Unfortunately, my parole is short-lived: I will be back on the front end today (unless he finds something better for me to do). The front-end manager wants me on the front end, because I follow all of the procedures and am much more efficient than any of the other cashiers. In one week, I rang almost 12,000 items (the next contender did barely 8,000) and I have an item-per-minute count (yes, they track this stuff) of 27; the next closest cashier has 17. So, the front end manager wants me working for her as much as possible. Gosh. It's great to be wanted.

Anyway, as everybody knows now, the New Orleans Saints won Super Bowl XLIV last night. Hooray. I got to see the last 17 minutes of the game, but it turned out to be the most dramatic 17 minutes of the game. The crowd at Kamp went wild (or as wild as they go, without chemical assistance). I really want to get the fuck out of there. I hate every minute I spend there. It's like being in reform school (I guess), except the staff isn't allowed to hit you. I have never seen a bigger collexion of losers in my life. It's frightening.

Of course, as I have said, they are not all losers: some of these guys are really trying to make good, and most of them wound up in Kamp because of drugs and/or alcohol abuse. These guys, like myself, hate the place. The rest of them want to make it their home, but they won't, because the place isn't run that way: after a few weeks, if a client doesn't have a job or a bank account, and has shown no attempt to get back on his feet again, he is booted. Then, it's back to "under the bridge" ( a popular hobo jungle nearby) or "The Sally" (the local Salvation Army shelter) or just out on the streets. Some of these guys kind of prefer it on the streets, where they can indulge in their vices without oversight. They don't like "The Sally" much, because the people there will test you for drugs and alcohol if they suspect anything.

So, that's about it for now. I am really behind in posts, because I have to use Middleton's computers ( I really need to fix my laptop!) and I can't get there while it is open every day. I have a lot of stuff I want to post, but haven't been able to lately. So, if anybody is actually reading this crap: bear with me. It will get better as things progress.

I am still trying to figure out a way to post images. I would appreciate any help offered.

I am aiming for early March as my escape window. I hope I can attain escape velocity by then.

Prats, Prams and Punctures

2010-01-28T11:43:00.000-06:00

I ride my bicycle every day, pretty much everywhere I go. I noticed that, with the cold wimter weather, the number of people out jogging, waling or pushing prams around the lakes dwindled to a mere two or three (besides me, on my bike). Of course, now that is warmer, these vile creatures have stirred from hibernation to haunt the bike trails once again.

Hey, look: I try to be polite to pedestrians on the few (and generally pretty ratty) bike trails we have in town. All that I ask is that groundpounders give us cyclists a little respect:

Run or walk single file: If there is one thing that really steams me it is joggers who run two or three abreast, blocking the bike path and frequently causing me to stop or cut into oncoming traffic to avoid a collision. You don't have to do it all the time, just when a bike wants to pass you. Two women with prams, walking abreast, caused me to stop on the bike trail today, until they had passed,

Don't be distracted: Yes, I know it is sooooo much fun to jog along with your Ipod blaring in your ears, but, when you do (or text or talk on your mobile) you aren't paying attention to what is going on around you. Some people have the volume up so high that they can't even hear my police whistle!

Dog Walkers: Yes, trotting Phideaux out for his morning run with you is a pleasant morning ritual, and a great chance to have him poop somewhere else! Please don't leave chocalate goodies on the tarmac: is it too much to ask you to clean up after your dog? Rolling over a puppy-fresh mousse is not a pleasnt experience. Some of it gets slung off of the wheels onto the rider. Oh, yeah: and when a bike passes you rein in your mutt! I have had situations with dog on one side, master on the other, and leash in between. This can cause some really painful accidents (and not just for the cyclist!).

So everyone doesn't think that all I do is bitch about everything, I actually had a good bike experience yesterday. I had a puncture on the way to work and repaired it, only to have it go flat on me again, not a mile further. I was walking my bike alomg when a young guy in a Jeep stopped and asked me if he could help. I said: "Not unless you happen to have a 700 x 23 mm, Presta-fit inner tube." I didn't anticipate his response.

"Yeah," he said. "As a matter of fact, I do!"

And he did! I hadn't even expected him to know what I was talkiing about, much less actually have one! Imagine my suprise! Turns out he is a tri-athlete. He made me a gift of the tube and a ride to work, so I got there in plenty of time and was able to fix my punture and get back to Kamp, without further ado.

So, see? I don't just bitch!.

Lunatics Abound!

2010-01-25T11:51:00.000-06:00

They do. Without even trying, I have met three lately:

Loony #1:

Whilst I was at work, selling Food Bank bags at $8 apiece to benefit the hungry and starving of Baton Rouge (this is something that I have first-hand knowlege of), I approached an elderly gentleman, he of leonine countenance and snowy mane, and solicited his assistance in this worthwhile endeavour.

He wanted to know to whom the proceeds would be going, and I told him:"To buy food for hungry people in Baton Rouge." He considered this for a moment, then told me that one had to be careful just where things were going these days, lest that $8 find itself in the wrong hands. He then asked me what would be done with the food purchased for the Food Bank. I told him that I supposed that it would be eaten by hungry people.

He then involved me in a lengthy discussion of how world poverty was being manipulated by nefarious One World Government plotters in order to bring about One World Religion, One World Government and One World Currency, that President Obama had recently signed a bill into law that would mandate these sweeping changes, and that the mysterious Bilderbergs (q.v.) were behind it. He rattled off a list of organisations who could tell me all about this plot (I was familiar with several, including the Heritage Foundation) and made me promise that I would look into this as soon as I could. I told him that it sounded like the Illuminati to me, that it sounded just like something they would do, and referrred him to Robert Anton Wilson. He didn't donate, but left resolved to track down the Illuminati.

Loony #2:

I got back to the Kamp (I have decided that this is a better spelling option), exhausted, and was taking a shower when I heard another client cursing in the shower. Thinking that he might have injured himself, I asked him if he was all right. He was a fat, hairy redneck guy who has a perpetually angry expression on his face, to whom I have not spoken before (he is a newbie). He told me that he really hated it at the Kamp. I concurred, and said that I was saving money so that I could leave Baton Rouge for parts elsewhere. He asked me why I wanted to leave, and I said because I couldn't find a decent job and I didn't like it here. He then said: "You're a motherfucking liar! You're fucking lying! I growed up in Baton Rouge and I wouldn't live anywhere else! Baton Rouge is the best town anybody could live in! You're a motherfucking liar!"

So much for commiseration. He's on my Do Not Feed! list.

Loony #3:

So, today, I was standing outside the Public Library, waiting for the doors to open. Several others were waiting, too, including the maintenance guy. I said hello to everyone, as is my wont, and said something to the effect that the weather had been unusually Spring-like for the past week or so. One of the waiting patrons, a tall, skinny fellow with long, dark hair who always dresses completely in black, commented:

"That's because of the weather control facility they have under the Bermuda Triangle. That's why they don't let planes fly over it. It's all part of that alien technology they got from Area 51 (I am not making this up, I swear!). It's called Project Icarus (wasn't that in a Bruce Willis movie?). Katrina was just a test: the next one is gonna wipe New Orleans off the map!" He then went on to tell all of us (enthralled as we were) that he had been told by the FBI not to discuss this with anybody or else, because he had hacked into top secret government websites and downloaded all of this tippy-top secret information that nobody else even knew about. He claimed that they were going to have to invent a Force Six designation, just to classify the next one!

I told him that the best way to keep Chinese satellites from beaming those microwaves into his head was to buy a cap and line it with aluminum foil.

Where do they come from? Why do they all want to talk to me?

Just lucky, I guess.

Myriad of Musings

2010-01-19T20:16:00.002-06:00

Okay: I have discovered how to post to my blog directly from my mobile, although I still don't know how to post a title to the blog from my mobile or how to post a photo from my phone to my mobile, or even if it is possible, which I hope, since I have had the dickens trying to post photos on my blog through public computers.

Anyway, I was reading this story by Ann Rule, who is this really successful true crime author (she has a website named http://www.annrules.com/) and came accross the following really weird sentance:

"Death notification, especially of the young who have perished as the result of criminal violence, is the hardest assignment any detective or police officer ever has.(my italics)." I should say so. I should think it was virtually impossible to notify anyone who has perished, no matter how young, or whether or not death was the result of violence. Really, Ann: you are an experienced writer. How did this one slip by you. Okay. You had to be there.

Raining all day (I have the day off, so, of course). Wore my rainsuit, but I won't put it back on unless it really starts to come down, because it is unseasonably tepid today, and it doesn't do you any good to keep the rain off if you wind up being soaked with sweat under your rainsuit. Today, I shall replace my brake shoes (round of applause).

CCs has become my morning haunt, which isn't too bad. I see the same crew just about every day and talk to a number of the early birds. There is an interesting collexion of folks: several retired fellows (including an ultraconservative guy who seeks me out with tales of the decay of just about everything and the meager triumphs of the Right), a number of students (high school and college), professional people getting a little work done online before they physically arrive at the office, at least one Fire Chief, several police officers (one of whom, with CSI, even comes in on his day off!), a strange black lady who sleeps in chairs, at least one homeless guy (who attends to his toilette in the spacious and comfortable lavatory), a number of attorneys, the two reallly cute young guys who sit and discuss obscure Biblical references of dubious import (I think they are queer for each other!), one of the mentally challenged courtesy clerks from our store (who comes in with his dad a lot) and assorted various caffeine addicts (CCs is a tower of strength, a haven against Mor(m)ons: never trust a guy who wears sacred underwear!).

Today, I commisserated with a fellow victim of Vista. We both agreed that it was the Worst Operating System in the Known Universe, and probably contains dark matter or neutrinos or something, which makes it act so flaky. Of course, I would kill to have my laptop functional again, even though I may curse its operating system. Everything would be so much easier if I could use my own computer.

So, here I sit, at Middleton Library (God, there are a lot of cute boys at LSU!) trying to work on a terminal with a weird lime-green coloured screen. I will probably kill another hour or so here, working on internet stuff that I could do a lot easier with my own laptop, and skillfully devising alternative methods of getting what I want done while using a public computer. At least it is a form of intellectual exercise that I can pretend actually accomplishes something, since not a lot else seems to be moving very swiftly.

But, I am saving money, and I have been talking to a friend up in Wyoming about moving up there, which I want to do. I really need to get out of here, and if I blow this opportunity, I may die here, which would be disappointing. At least, there is that.

News From the Front (and Back)

2010-01-19T10:49:00.000-06:00

I awakened this morning, as most mornings, to a respiratory symphony. Apparently, snoring has become a major problem in this country, whilst I slept. I, myself, have even been accused of snoring, although I have never heard myself doing it. I DO hear a lot of others doing it, particularly at Camp Winge-a-Lot. I never realised before how many varieties there are to nocturnal melody.

Some guys just buzz. Some buzzes are continuous with inhaling and exhaling, whilst others are more of a staccato or sequential series of mini-snores. There is one fellow whose stacatto buzz sounds something like: AHZZZ-AHHZZ-AHHZZ. Then, there are are the whistlers. One whistler sounds like: TWOOO-TWOOO-TWOOO. There are at least two groaners, who sound like this: AARRUUN-AARRUUN-AARRUUN; and two grunters: UNKH-UNKH-UNKH. There are also two snorters (thank God, the loudest one is in the other half of the dorm, which is seperated from me by a cinderblock wall), which sound like this: AWWRUCCH-AWWRUCCH. Cracks in the cinderblock are becoming alarmingly apparent.

Of course, mere onomatopoeia cannot really do these sounds justice. One night this week, I shall attempt to record some of these sounds on my mobile and (if I can ever figure out how to transfer these files using a public computer) post them on this blog, to the greater edification of my numerous (and apparently invisible) readership. Suffice it to say that the buzzers sound a lot like fire alarms, the whistlers like a chorus of demented whippoorwills, the groaners like diesel marine engines turning high revolutions, the grunters like grizzly bears in heat (I have never heard a grizzly bear in heat, but this is what I suppose it sounds like) and the worst, the snorters, like a garbage disposal of gargantuan size attempting to process a Blue Whale full of bottlecaps.

Put together, it sounds somewhat like this: TWOO-TWOO! AHZZZZZ! AARRUUNN!UNKH-UNKH! AWWRUCCH-AWWRUCCH! Of course, there is no real sequence or order to these different sounds (or, at least, I have not discerned one), and they occur at various volume levels. This also does not include the two babblers, who are not, per se, snorers, but who also contribute to the nighly cacaphony. One of them mumbles and shouts incoherently. The other one holds conversations in his sleep, mostly with a doctor, his mother, and someone named "Jake" or "Mike" (it's hard to make out, with all the noise).

When I first started living at Camp Winge-a-Lot, I had a pair of foam earplugs, which reduced the noise to a dull roar, but some pigfucker stole them from my nightstand. I hope he gets hearing AIDS! At any rate, it doesn't seem to keep me up much any more, except occasionally, when several of the effects combine simultaneously to produce earth tremors. I am of the opinion (so far unfounded) that something like this could have happened in Haiti. If this is true, South Louisiana could be next.

I hope I make it out of here before the Big One hits.

My Daily Schedule

2010-01-14T14:51:00.000-06:00

Here is a draught version of my daily schedule: note that some activities (such as work) vary from day to day. Unfortunately, not much else does.

0415: Awaken, if the background noise (snoring, manaical screams, big things outside going beep...beep...beep as they back up) hasn't already awakened me.

0430: Having put together all of the things that I will need for the day and packed them away in my backpack, and having dressed appropriately for the day's ride, I exit the dormitory, and enter the activity room.

0430-0445: If there is no coffee made: make coffee. If there are no doughnuts, biscuits, etc., laid out, lay them out as instructed by the Warden of the Evening.

0445-0530: Charge my mobile. Check weather conditions. Look at the newspaper, if there is a newspaper and if no-one else has laid claim to it. Bask in cameraderie and scintillating conversation.

0530-0545: Clean up stuff and throw trash away as is needed and/or directed by the Warden of the Evening.

0545: Depart for the day.

0600: Hang out at CCs Coffee for an indeterminate period of time, depending on whether I work early or not.Read and check news on my mobile.

0900: If I do not work early, go to either the public library or Middleton Library to access the internet. Write, do research and work on my blog and other stuff. Take a few minutes' time to play Imperion.

1100ish: Depending upon when I go to work (if I work that day): go to work. If I do not work, I either spend more time at the library or find something else to do to waste time until I must return to camp.

1600-2000: Dependent upon work schedule, return to camp. If I do not work or get off work early, either hang out with friends or go have a pint somewhere (only not too close to check-in time, as I don't want to be accused of inebriation and thereby forfeit my bed).

1730-1800: If I am back in time for supper, help set up for supper: set tables, get out condiments and/or mix Kool-Aid.

1800-1830: Eat supper. A different group and/or groups provide a free meal almost every night. Fare is generally palatable, and there is enough of it to leave me satisfied. If I arrive late (after about 1830) I eat a late plate (q.v.), which may or may not contain enough food to satisfy my hunger.

1830-1845: Help clean up after supper and/or help clean up dorm. On laundry day, help clean the lavatory area.

1845-2000: (Every day except Thursdays): Engage in cameraderie and/or watch television, on the few occasions when the television is not immutably fixed upon ESPN. When it is, I go back into the dormitory.

1900-2000?: (Thursdays only): Participate in the (mandatory) house meeting, which generally consists of a 45-60 minute harangue which touches upon the latest complaints against residents who are either doing things that they shouldn't be doing or not doing things that they should be doing. There then follows an extensive diatribe about lazy, good-for-nothing bums who should be going out and finding jobs instead of lazing about the camp wingeing about everything and how unfair it is and making up excuses for not having a job which the lecturer has heard all of in the entire universe with the result that he is now sick to death of hearing them and boy-oh-boy are certain individuals (you know who you are!) are going to be in for a rude awakening when the find themselves tossed out on their butts because they are lazy, shiftless bums who don't deserve even a single ounce of compassion because they expect everybody else to do everything for them that they are not willing to do for themselves.

2000-2100: Attempt to read in the dormitory over the mindless blather that passes for conversation (see previous post). Brush teeth.

2100: Lights Out! Drift off to a blissful, restorative sleep that will give me the fortitude to face the next day.

That is pretty much it. If it seems monotonous, it is. If it seems pretty much devoid of constructive activity, it is. If it seems as though it would drive any rational person to the brink of madness, it does.

Oh, yeah: and anyone who is not heartily thankful that he is privileged to reside at Camp Winge-a-lot doesn't deserve to reside there, and should, by all means, be cast into the outer darkness, where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth!

Oh, yeah ... it's Thursday! Huzzah.

2010-01-14T14:49:00.001-06:00

My daily schedule

Camp Winge-a-Lot

2010-01-14T10:44:00.000-06:00

After many desperate attempts to utilise the computers at the public library to access my blog, and running afoul of Websense, I have taken the extraordinary measure of using the public computers at Middleton Library, at LSU, which give me pretty much unlimited access, so long as I don't attempt to change any settings or meddle in things that I have no business meddling with (and probably don't really need to, anyway). I am still experimenting with some kind of method of uploading photo files to my blog without the use of my interface cable (which is somewhere in my storage unit) or Bluetooth. I have posted some photos to my Sprint photo site, and to Twitpics, but I haven't figured out quite how to transfer the files without saving anything on the computer. I now have a 4.0 GB flash drive, which I will be experimenting with today, hopefully, with some success.

So, about the shelter where I am now housed, which I refer to as "Camp Winge-a-lot", because of the proclivity of many of the residents (or, clients)to winge about just about anything and everything.

A lot of the fellows at the Camp are total losers. Sorry, but this is true. There are some fellows there who have run into a bit of hard luck (like I have)and wound up stuck with no place to go, at least temporarily. Then, there are others who are simply there, i.e., they are staying at the shelter until (a) they get thrown out for being fucked up; (b) miss their curfews (1800 for non-workers, 2000 for those working late); or wear out their welcome. The shelter is supposed to be a temporary fix, in order to allow "clients" some time in which to secure employment and save enough money to move on to more permanent living arrangements. This is my intent. I am decidedly not happy as a resident, and want to get my butt out of the place ASAP.

Residents are awakened from slumber in the spacious dormitory (which holds 30+ men)between 0445 and 0500, by having the lights switched on. I am almost always up at that time, as I have no desire to stay in the shelter any more than I have to. We have to leave by 0600, and are not allowed to return until 1600.

Upon returning to the Camp, "clients" (I love that word: same one they use in the Laughing Academy)must sign in by their bed number. If a client fails to show before the curfew time (either 1800 or 2000), or fail to sign in properly, he loses his bed, and cannot come back to the shelter. After 5 days, if he fails to claim his property and clothing, it is "donated" to the vast pile of used stuff that will eventually be given to someone else who is lacking in stuff.

Upon arrival, one must shower and put on clean clothing. There are some clients who do not have clean clothing (see "stuff", above)and there are also those who apparently would melt like the Wicked Witch of the West if water touched them. I take a shower, shave and put on clean clothes, which are kept in a locker with a sturdy lock on it.

Supper is generally served between 1730 and 1800. For those working late, "late plates" are prepared, which are notoriously skimpy, depending upon who is dishing out the fare. If you are lucky, there is enough to eat. Those who dine at table are usually allowed second helpings on a "first-come, first-served" basis. The food is donated by various groups, many of them religious (mostly Roman Catholic), but some simply families who do this as a public service. Most of these people are salt-of-the-earth types; many bring their kids along, which I think is an excellent way to expose children to the habit of Christian giving.

Clients are responsible for setting the tables and cleaning up after dinner, as well as sweeping and mopping the dormitory and lavatory area. This is supposed to be done on a more or less rotating basis, but, as things generally happen, there are those of us who actually care enough to do chores around the shelter and the majority, who don't. As a result, there are a handful of us who do pretty much all of the daily chores, whilst the rest sit on their fat behinds and watch television, or sleep.

Lights Out is at 2100 (but sometimes a bit later, if the shelter Warden of the evening is remiss in his duties, which can happen). There is no talking or mobile usage allowed in the dormitory, which means that there is talking and mobile usage in the dormitory. As I am not a basketball (which seems to be about the only thing on the television in the "Activity Room") fan, I usually retire to my bed after chores to read, so that I can, for a brief few minutes, forget where I am.

Of course, there are those who prefer the dormitory as a table for open discussion (usually very loud and punctuated with raucous laughter), so it often is not particularly quiet in the dormitories, except when "smoke break" is announced, and the smokers all go outside for a few minutes.

There are generally two topics of conversation which dominate: (a) how much pussy the speaker is getting, in graphic detail and (b) where to go to get free stuff, how to get free stuff and how much free stuff is availible. I thank God for such intellectual diversion.

I shall attempt to post a photo on this blog. The photo is of the sign in the dormitory, which spells out chores to be done each night. I have swepted the floor many a time, but never mopted it. I am not sure exactly how to mopt, but, as soon as I figure out how it should be done, I have no doubt that I shall be mopting away with the best of them.

Farewell from glorious Camp Winge-a-lot. More to follow.

Internet Gyrations and Such

2010-01-06T11:08:00.000-06:00

Finally figured out how to post to my blog from the library (you have to get around their filter): I open my gmail account and post from there. Haven't quite figured out how to post from my phone yet, but I am sure that it is possible.

Anyway: The Caterie, a venerable establishment that was a venue for many local bands, particularly those starting out, burnt on New Years. They thought the fire was out, but when I rode past there about 6 AM, it had flared up again and was burning again. It wound up wiping out a copy shop, a liquor store and Claitor's Books (which publishes most of the books used by Law students), before they finally put it out. It did about $10 million in damages. I got a few pictures that I will try to post (haven't figured out how to do that without my laptop, which has bluetooth). I'll post those in the near future.

I am going back to work where I was working before. Yay. At least I will have an income, so they won't boot me out of the shelter into the street. Right now, things suck with a great suckiness, unparalleled in the annals of sucky things. At this rate, it is going to be a while before I have enough money to move (hopefully, out of Lousyana). I also worry about my cats, even though my former neighbours are looking after them and I DO go by, just about every day, to take them food and commune with them. With luck, I will be able to bring them along when I move.

Until then, I am living the life of Riley (if Riley were an impoverished fellow living in an homeless shelter). It is wonderful. Every day, they kick us out at 6 AM (I am usually gone by then). We can come back after 4 PM, and, if you don't show up by 6 PM, you lose your bed and are put out into the cold, unless you are working and sign a sheet to that effect, in which case you are allowed an extra two hours.As a result, I will have to work days, until the situation changes, which I hope it does soon, before I go stark, raving mad.

More to follow. I shall try to work on my blog faithfully and dutifully record all such things as may be of interest and enlightenment to the reader, blah, blah, blah [insert example of selflessness here].

So, when does my life quit sucking?

Catching Up

2009-12-30T10:57:00.005-06:00

Okay. I realise that I haven't been writing my blog, and I really have no excuse. So there.

Anyway, I am now writing it again. Amazingly enough, things have come full circle (unfortunately) and I am once again undomiciled. I won't go into details right now, but it had to do with a medication problem and the subsequent loss of my job, back in April. I have spent the past eight months looking for another job, to no avail. This is either because there are not any jobs out there, I am not qualified, or people just don't want to hire a nutcase like me. I suspect the last reason pretty much hits the nail on the head.

Anyway, I got kicked out of my apartment at the beginning of this month, so I and my cats are now homeless. My cats are being looked after by several of my former neighbours, and I check on them daily and take them food. They are doing okay, despite the shitty weather.

I, on the other hand, after exhausting all of my financial resources and selling just about everything that I had that I could get any money for (including two thirds of my DVD collexion and my university ring)am now living in a homeless shelter here in Baton Rouge, which sucks greatly, only slightly less than if I DIDN'T have a homeless shelter to live in and had to sleep under a bridge or something. More about this later.

I filed for unemployment back in May, and got no response, so I filed again in August and got no response, so I filed again in October and (you guessed it) got no response. So, after I got kicked out on my ass, I went down to the secret headquarters of the Louisiana Workforce Commission, to find out how come they never got in touch with me. I talked to a nice man on the phone in the lobby (they won't talk to you in person) and he told me that they would re-open my case. He also told me how to apply for the back benefits that I WOULD have received, had they done something about my claim when I filed it, at least ONE of the three times. Yay.

This process involved my listing each week that I didn't receive benefits in a long, drawn-out three-page letter and giving it to them, which I did. Hooray! I finally got some action out of them!

The action I received was a stack of automated letters (one for each week that I claimed) informing me that I would not be receiving benefits for that week, because I had "failed to file in a timely fashion". As a result, I will now start drawing the unemployment benefits that would have kept me from being homeless, had they actually processed my claim one of the times that I filed it. Imagine my joy.

Well, I was told that I could have my old job back. That is supposed to happen this week, provided I pass a background check. They didn't have one before, but now they do, and I have to pass it. I already peed in a cup for them. So, if (and when) I get my job back, I will cease to receive the unemployment benefits which I am supposed to receive, starting LAST WEEK, which means that I will be able to collect maybe two weeks' unemployment before starting my new (old) job.

I am not making this up. I never thought that bureaucracy could be so convoluted. It is. So, I am waiting for unemployment and/or my job to kick in. Meanwhile, I am staying at an homeless shelter, which I wouldn't have to do had (a) the LWC had processed my claim "in a timely fashion" or, (b)I had gotten my job back a few months earlier, before I ran out of money and got kicked out on my ass.

So now, I guess my blog's title is valid once more. Yay. Tonight, it is back to the shelter, where I will be regaled by my fellow homeless persons, eat a meal (can't complain here)and drift off to sleep with visions of my former life dancing in my head,like, back when I really had one.

Gout, Groans and Gripes

2009-03-30T13:26:00.006-06:00

I suffer, albeit infrequently, from gout. Gout is a form of arthritis characterised by rapid, painful swelling of joints, particularly in the extremities. It is far more common among men than women, but can affect women after menopause. My particular form is inherited (usually maternally) and results in high uric acid levels. I usually don't have much of a problem with gout, so long as I avoid certain foods, such as: large amounts of red meat and organ meat, any seafood that turns pink when you cook it, too much alcohol or (particularly true) caffeine.

I haven't had an attack of gout in a long time, and (I admit) I have indulged in much too much caffeine lately, which frequently triggers an attack. I have had way too many energy drinks lately, and colas (non-decaffeinated)and, about a week ago, I woke up and my right elbow felt like red-hot needles had been shoved into it. It was red and swollen (see above picture: this is today, much better). The whole week, it hurt like hell. Gout starts with a sharp, burning pain that devolves into a dull ache that becomes a stabbing pain every time you flex the joint. Finally, the entire area itches like crazy, and when you scratch it, it gets worse. That is gout. I'm stuck with it. I could take allopurinol, but that's another expense.

So, of course, this week, every drunk, lunatic and generally annoying person seemed to come in. Maybe the same number came in and I noticed it more, because I was so miserable:

- There was the drunk who comes in all day long, jabbering on his cell whilst trying (and failing twice)to pay for his purchases using his debit card. Even with the assistance of myself and a customer (there was a line) he only succeeded on the third try. He never stopped jabbering. He came back later, still drunk, and insisted that I give him the balance on his card (which, of course, I can't do). He came back later and tried to make a purchase (which I had to void), but his money had run out.

- There was the guy who was going to buy a bottle of Grey Goose, but couldn't make up his mind, so he went to ask his wife about it, so I had to void it off, which required calling a manager, and then came back and wanted it, after all.

- There was the stupid cow who set a half-dozen items on the counter and then discovered that she had nowhere near enough money (she was buying for other people), which required me to void it off (see above). After she left, I remarked, "What have we learned here? When you send someone out for party supplies, send the one who can count!" That got a laugh from the line behind her.

- There was the guy with the cane who always smells like a septic tank (no kidding), and who pays me in loose change for Thunderbird Red. Most of the coins look like they have been corroding in a sewer, and his bills always smell like a sewer, too. I have to hold my breath when I wait on him.

- There was the bum who buys one can of Steel Reserve Malt Liquor at a time, drinks them on the bench in front of the store, and comes back for another one, until he is incoherent. It is illegal to drink on the premises, and I usually tell him to leave, but I was so miserable,
I really didn't care, so I left him alone.

- There was the weird little guy who mumbles to himself and once screamed, "I get a crazy check!" at me. He is so unbelievably rude that, this past week, I actually told him that he had better acquire some manners if he wanted to keep buying his booze from me.

Well, the gout is getting better and so is my temper. This week-end was gorgeous, unlike last week. There are more monsoons on the way. Dad's memorial service is on Friday. I still have stuff at the storage place. Life is a bitch, as usual.

For information on gout, go to http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/gout/DS0090.

Sturm und Drang

2009-03-26T23:41:00.004-06:00

Last night, we had the worst storm since Hurricane Gustav. I got home about 10:30. Josh had texted me earlier and asked if he could come over. I said okay, because I was going to stay up late anyway. I got home and there was nothing to eat but a few leaves of lettuce and three eggs. He brought over two packages of chicken ramen and he had ramen and I had ramen with an egg in it, which was all I had had to eat all day. Poverty really, really sucks ass.

We sat up for awhile and watched Adult Swim. He asked if he could stay over, because there was supposed to be bad weather that night, and I said okay, because I didn't mind the company and, anyway, there had been a severe weather warning on television. I checked the weather on the net and it said that severe thunderstorms and high winds were expected. He went to sleep. I went to sleep around 1 or so.

Josh and I are good friends, but, lately, he has been demanding more and more of my attention. I don't mind giving it, when I can, and he can be good company and fun sometimes, but sometimes he can be an emotional drain. He has been talking a lot about getting a job, but he doesn't seem to put much effort into it. I told him about a place that was hiring and gave him the manager's name, but he just keeps coming up with excuses to not go. He could get the job by showing up. He just won't show up. All I can do right now is try to figure out ways to try and motivate him. I can't solve his problems for him: I have enough of my own.

So, about 2, I am waked up with what sounds and looks like an artillery duel outside, accompanied by gale-force winds and driving rain. Josh sleeps through most of it, until one really loud thunderclap wakes him up. He looks around and then goes back to sleep. I just sit up until it lets up, around 4. I wake him up around ten and send him home. It rains most of the day.

Around 1:30 in the afternoon, my boss calls me and asks me if I can come in for 3 instead of 4, and I say yes. It is raining lightly when I leave for work. I get my check and discover that, amazingly, after I pay the bills, I will actually have enough to buy food and stuff. Yay! So, I pay a couple of bills and go to work early.

I am supposed to get off at 10, but one of the managers asks me if I can stay until 12, because they are short one person, so I shag grocery carts in the pouring rain, which is getting worse by the minute, until 12. I load up on cheap pot pies (fifty cents apiece!), but some actual real MEAT on sale (I'm giving some to Travis and Fernando)and ride home in moderate rain. By the time I get home, I'm pretty soaked, but the light show was awesome.

Anyway, I ate a pot pie (chicken and broccoli), the last of my lettuce, a real piece of MEAT and had some wine. It's still raining, but I'm dry now. It's supposed to storm tomorrow, too.

No real point to this one, sorry. More like a diary entry. Anyway, it was a hell of a storm!

Pease Porridge Hot ...

2009-03-25T13:22:00.004-06:00

The other night, I was just thinking and wandering around on the internet (as I am wont to do) and I suddenly remembered an old children's rhyme that I learnt around (it has been that long) 50 years ago. Boys and girls used to chant it, but the versions were slightly different, and the girls had a clapping game that went along with it. The whole version went like this:

Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold,
Pease porridge in the pot, nine days old;
Some like it hot, some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot, nine days old.
Can you spell that with four letters?
I can: T-H-A-T.

The thing is, that the girls never learnt the last bit of the rhyme, because they used it for their clapping game. The boys all used the last two lines because the whole purpose was to find another boy who didn't know the rhyme and trick him, hopefully in front of his friends. I wondered whether or not this rhymes was still around, so I asked customers about it all night last night.

I found that most men or women about forty or above were familiar with the rhyme, and that some of the men knew the last two lines, while none of the women did. When I asked younger customers, in their twenties or thirties, I found that only a few of the men were familiar with the rhyme at all, whereas over half the women were. None of the women I spoke to were familiar with the last two lines.

I have made pease porridge before, and felt nostalgic for it. If you have never had pease porridge (it is virtually unknown in the Southern United States), it is a thick pea soup, usually made with split yellow peas, onion and spices, including cardamom, which gives it flavour. I decided to look up a recipe for it and found one on the internet, and, oddly enough, was redirected to a page for Some Like it Hot, a 1959 Billy Wilder comedy starring Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe. The title was taken from the children's' rhyme. I never knew that.

The story is essentially a farce which deals with two musicians who witness a mob hit and are pursued by the mob (including George Raft, who played gangster roles in the 1930's). They hide from the mob by dressing in drag and joining a women's orchestra, after which all kinds of highjinks ensue aboard a train.

Wilder had the worst time with the young Marilyn Monroe, who was always forgetting her lines, so that pieces of paper with her cues on it were stashed around the set, on pieces of property, behind cabinet doors or anywhere she would be, out of the shot. He swore he would never work with her again. The film garnered six Academy Award nominations, but lost out to Cecil B. De Mile's spectacular, Ben Hur.

All that from a children's rhyme. When I get paid on Thursday, I am going to collect the ingredients and make up a pot of pease porridge. The rhyme about it being in the pot "nine days old" is accurate": the stuff will last forever in the fridge.

Dear Mr. President

2009-03-17T13:45:00.002-06:00

I recently draughted this leter and sent it to President Obama at whitehouse.gov. It will be interesting to see if anyone answers it, and what the answer may be. I also forwarded a copy to the Opinions Editor of the Local newspaper, The Advocate (not to be confused with the gay-oriented magazine of the same name. I just want to see how important us po' folk really are to the powers-that-be.

Dear Whoever Reads This For The President:

We all really appreciate the efforts being made to help stabilise the economy, but I have one question about these bailouts.

I recently filed my income tax for the calendar year 2008. I was supposed to get $1008 back on taxes, which I desperately need because I am very poor. I made just over $13,000 last year, working for a corporation which, like so many retailers in America, will not let me work full-time so they won't have to give me benefits.

Imagine my suprise when I got a letter from the IRS informing me that, due to a previous debt to the US Department of Education, all of my tax return was being kept by the government. I was not aware that I still owed the Department of Education anything, but, if the government says I do, than I probably do.

My question is this: if our country can use my tax money to bail out huge corporations and forgive their mega-debt, why can't you guys forgive my paltry little debt and give me my $1080 back? I assure you, I will not use it to buy an expensive condo, join a country club or vacation in Aruba. I will use it on mundane things like paying my rent and utilities and putting food in my mouth and the mouths of my two cats. Where is MY economic stimulus package?

I await your reply.

Sincerely yours,

Carl L. Thayer

March Madness

2009-03-17T11:29:00.007-06:00

Well, today is St. Patrick's Day: Erin Go Bragh! I am celebrating by cleaning the bathroom (why the hell I started this, I will never know!), which is turning out to be a real task, as the walls are filthy with years of soot from the deadly gas furnace (see previous post). It is a beautiful Spring day, bright and sunny and about 20 degrees (68F)outside. I have the windows open, and a gentle breeze is blowing. The only problem in my life today (other than that I am totally broke until Thursday) is that, apparently, Yin is about to come into heat, so Yang is beginning to act like he wants to mate her. I fired off a quick SMS to Kyle, telling him that the time to fix the cats is NOW: I do not need kittens. I hope I hear back from him soon, because I don't know where I will scrape up the money, otherwise: my next check is already spent on bills.

On Saturday, Travis and Fernando and I went down to watch the annual St. Patrick's day parade (see above photos). We walked there in the drizzling rain (suitably Irish weather)and stopped in a nearby pub for Guinness (Travis had lager, instead)and watched the parade go by for awhile. Another place was serving meat pies and jambalaya, so we ate and hung out for awhile, before walking back to State St. I had to go to work at 4, so I went home, showered, changed into riding clothes and headed for work.

The whole parade route, down Perkins rd., was a total mess. There were beads and cups and trinkets strewn everywhere! It was as messy as any Mardis Gras parade I have ever seen, even in New Orleans. I was appalled. I was more appalled after I passed Acadian Thruway and a pickup truck with two little shits in it passed me, screaming obscenities, like: "Get off the fucking road, motherfucker! Fuck you, faggot!" Yeah, I know: I should be used to it by now.

But I hadn't gone half a mile when a second pickup, full of rednecks passed by, and the one on the passenger side leaned out the window to shout expletives at me and threw a fucking beer bottle at me! Of course, he missed by twenty feet or so; the bottle landed in the grass on the side of the road. They had a keg in the back of the pickup. I memorised the license plate and wrote it down when I got to work, but then it got misplaced. No matter: the cops wouldn't have done anything, anyway.

So, that kind of sucked. One of these days, I am going to catch up to one of these fuckers and beat the living shit out of him. I am so tired of this crap! Here I am, minding my own fucking business, riding to work in the fucking rain and not one but two pickup trucks full of inbred, trailer-trash cretins have to fuck with me, within the space of one half-mile on one of the busiest streets in the city!

I have said it before, and I'll say it again: Baton Rouge is in no way bicycle friendly.

Peace. Out.

William Rissler Thayer 1924-2009

2009-03-17T09:50:00.004-06:00

It is my sad duty to report the passing of my father at age 84, of complications due to Alzheimer's and rectal cancer. He died peacefully: he had just finished breakfast (he always loved breakfast) and went back to his room and just died, just like that.

We didn't always have a great relationship, particularly when I was a teenager. To be blunt, he hit me a lot. I used to think he hated me, but I understand a lot more about it, now. I was his oldest child, and he didn't quite know what to do with a pubescent and then teen boy, especially one who really didn't like to be told what to do very much (and still don't)and wouldn't necessarily always see his point of view. Our family situation was very volatile as well, due to my mother's mental problems and alcoholism. I don't think he really wanted to hurt me so much as he felt like he had to strike out at someone, and I was handy.

But, in so many other ways, he was a wonderful father. He was intelligent and well-read (as was my mother) and willing to discuss just about any topic with his kids, no matter what it was. I don't ever remember being told that I shouldn't ask about something, or that I was too young to know about a subject. He discussed things with me on a peer level, even when I was a child, and was tirelessly patient in his explanations of things.

He involved me and my brother in all manner of "projects". We worked on the family cars, did carpentry and plumbing and painting and were encouraged to build things and use tools. He helped me build my first stereo from a kit when I was 12. He took us on outings to all kinds of different out-of-the-way places to see things that he had discovered and found interesting. He had a tremendous influence in the formation of my intellect.

In later years, especially after my mother died, in 1997, we became very close. We spent a lot of time discussing politics, ethics and current events. He had a keen, incisive mind that could quickly cut to the meat of any question. I greatly enjoyed long talks with my Dad.

He was a veteran of World War II, and worked on the Manhattan Project, which developed the Atomic Bomb. He met and worked with people like J. Robert Oppenheimer, Enrico Fermi and George Kistakovsky. He was a great crusader for liberal causes. When the fundamentalist organisation Operation Rescue surrounded a local women's clinic in an attempt to shut it down, Dad took his two weeks' vacation to stand in the hot July sun and help defend the clinic.
That was my Dad. He detested authoritarianism in all of its guises, and was always outspoken about it. He saw no difference between the enemies he had fought in World War II and their modern counterparts, despite what they were calling themselves these days.

I lived with him and cared for him for about a year, before the Alzheimer's got too bad and he had to move to assisted living. It was heartbreaking for me to watch this splendid mind decay slowly into ruin. Alzheimer's is cruelest to those who love the one with it. He never once thought anything was wrong. He died happy.

As St. Thomas More remarked, when asked if he would go to heaven: "How could God refuse one who is so blithe to come to him?" My Dad was a man of strong faith. I know where he is now, and I'm sure he's stirring something up there, too.

My Economic Stimulus Package

2009-03-10T23:54:00.008-06:00

Had fun Friday night: I was actually off on a week-end! Hung out with friends. After I paid rent and utilities I only had a few dollars left until next Thursday. The only food I had in the house was a couple of cups of potato flakes, half a stick of butter, a few leftover components of MREs and two bottles of lager. Between Friday and Monday, all I had to eat was a bowl of (horrible) spaghetti, a bowl of mashed potatoes and some crackers.

When I got ready to leave for work Monday, there was an envelope from the IRS, but it wasn't the brown kind that a check comes in, it was a white one. When I opened it, I discovered that my tax return of $1080, which I was counting on to put me ahead on bills had been turned over to the Department of Education to pay on a student loan that I thought had been paid off long ago. I never received any communications from them about it, they just took it. So, now, I am not getting shit back, and I am fucking broke. That's my Economic Stimulus Package.

Right now, the US Government is in the middle of bailing out every big corporation and all the rich motherfuckers that put us in this mess, to the tune of hundreds of billions of fucking dollars, every bank and lending institution that put greed ahead of sense and faces bankruptcy and every goddamned, ass-licking, haemorrhoid-sucking corporate officer that is responsible for this mess, and paying for their fucking golden parachutes, and I can't even have my motherfucking $1080 so I don't have to live in abject poverty and can maybe, maybe get a hot meal. Is there something wrong with this picture? Huh? WHY CAN'T I JUST HAVE MY FUCKING MONEY!!!!!!!!!!

You know, I hate to say it so early in this administration, but I haven't seen or heard anything about stimulating my economy. I don't want to be a nay-sayer, but all the money seems to be going to people who make a hell of a lot more money than I do. There is talk about paying off mortgages and bailing out people so they don't lose their houses, but I can't afford a house. I haven't heard anybody step up and say, "Hey: let's help this poor guy pay his rent!" I haven't heard anything about anybody doing anything to help the underpaid and underemployed to secure a living wage and benefits. You know, I doubt if I will.

I know it's awfully early to start saying things like that, but I remember the Reagan administration with the "trickle-down" theory: all I got was trickled on. So, is all this money slated to go to all those people who have so much more than I do supposed to "stimulate" the economy so that I will make more money and get benefits and not have to go without eating to pay bills? I'm sorry, but I just don't buy it. I'm sorry I didn't foolishly take on a mortgage I couldn't afford or betray the trust of the employees and stockholders of a multi-billion dollar company and utterly destroy it. If I had it to do all over again, maybe I would. Such behaviour is rewarded in our society.

I scraped together some change and got lucky: I won $2 off the Monopoly game at work, which gave me enough money to buy three cheap frozen dinners. I ate one of them last night for dinner and one for lunch today. I ate the last one tonight for diner. I have a little beer left, and then I will have nothing until I get paid, Thursday. Thursday, after I pay what I owe on rent, maybe, just maybe, I can buy some food and have enough to wash clothes on Sunday. Thirty-six hours without food is easy for me. I just don't see why I have to do it, when so many others don't have to. I guess they are just better than I am. I hope they sleep well at night. I won't at least for awhile.

When it rains ...

2009-03-05T00:56:00.006-06:00

Yeah. Only, this past week, it's been raining diarrhea.

Okay. I ran all around the place getting the money to feed the never-sated appetite of the giant leech that is Entergy. I almost paid my phone bill, which would have left me with about $4 until I get paid tomorrow (which is, like, all spent), but something told me that I had better hold on to some money, just in case. I went home, cleaned house little, wrote the last post and posted it, took a shower and got ready for work at 3, as I had promised a co-worker I would come in early for him as he had to study for an exam and write a paper for tomorrow. Good thing I did.

Well, when I checked my bike, just prior to laving, about 2, I found that my front tyre was flat, again. Remember, I has just put a new tube in on Monday. I walked my bike over to the Bike Shop (which is, fortunately, in the next block). We pulled the tyre off the wheel and discovered that, somewhere today, I had run over a nice chunk of glass which had embedded itself in the tyre, ruining it, and puncturing the new inner tube. Good thing I had $40 on me, because the parts cost $36, leaving me with $4 until tomorrow. Shit.

Repairs were finished about 2:30. I called my buddy and told him I was leaving the Bike Shop and might possibly be late. I took off for work (as it was, I made it in 14 minutes).

I was on Perkins, coming close to my turn on Balis. I signalled to change lanes to make a left turn and the stupid little bitch behind me did exactly what the stupid bitch behind me on Friday did: she pulled out behind me and cut me off! I know I should be used to this: it happens all the time. I said some unkind things when I reached the intersection, but she was too involved in conversation with her passenger to notice me. I was fucking furious.She wound up in he same lane I had been in. If she had let me change lanes, she never would have had to. She wound up at a fucking red light, anyway.

It was pretty dead at work. I did get one loony. This guy comes in a lot and buys 40s of Old English Malt Liquor. He babbles and talks to himself a lot, and usually stinks. He came in once, earlier, and creeped one of my customers out by babbling suggestive stuff under his breath. He came back later, for another 40, and kept murmuring something that sounded like "kick your ass". I finally said, "Excuse me?" to which he responded by saying:

I ain't talking to you! I'm talking to myself! If I was talking to you, I'd tell you I was talking to you! You'd know it!"

I gave him his change, whereupon he crumpled his receipt and tossed it in the air and screamed: "I get a crazy check! I get a crazy check!"

I told him I thought it was well deserved and that he should leave at once and not come back to the store that night. When he didn't leave, I called for security, and one of my coworkers, who stands about 6'6" and weighs about 300lbs. showed up, so he left. Everything went smoothly after that, until I got home.

Well, I still don't have electricity. This sucks. Tomorrow, after I get paid, I get to pay those fuckers at Entergy another $38, after which maybe, just maybe, I will have power again. I would call the Public Service Commission, but they are scared shitless of Entergy and its suits.

Incidentally, in Canada, the $10 bill is called a "loony", because it has a loon on it.

Of course, after that, my phone bill and rent, which I won't have enough money to pay in full (meaning another $50 late fee), I won't have money for food, or anything else. Life sucks when you're poor.

Fucking Stupid-Ass People

2009-03-04T00:16:00.004-06:00

I hate to tell you guys, just past the Darwin Bicentennial, but Natural Selection has ceased to function, at least where human beings are concerned.

Tuesdays are usually slow. Tonight was no different, only it was a parade of freaks. I really appreciate the attention of the bums and panhandlers, many of whom show up simply to use me as a moneychanger. The ones who actually buy something (Heaven Hill Whisky and Thunderbird Red Label feature prominently)also pay in loose change, crumpled piss-smelling singles and pocket lint. The result tonight was that, in loose (unrolled) change, I counted $14.50 in quarters, $7.50 in dimes, $4.20 in nickels and $1.62 in pennies. You could have sewed that in a sack with a Mafia hit and dropped him in the Gulf: he would never have come up for air.

Then, there was the guy with the credit card that wouldn't work, so he left, and I had to void the purchase and then he came back and wanted to use the same card again (we had already run it four times) and I told him no, because if it didn't work the last four times it won't work now, and he got irate and so I said you know there's an ATM in the store and he finally came back with the cash after an hour or so of wrangling over this whole affair.

Then, there was the girl who bought butterscotch schnapps and Bailey's Irish Cream and then dropped it in the parking lot, so he had to come back and get more. For some unexplicable reason, she brought the dripping bag back into the store and set it on the floor, where it leaked Buttery Nipple all over the place, which I had to mop up. Why?

Got up yesterday and, lo, and behold, there was a money order from Bridget for $150. Yay. Only, I found out with the last one, that just about nobody in the universe will cash the bloody thing, especially my store, who issues them. The official policy is that they can only cash them if you have both the money order and the stub, you know: THE STUB THAT THE FUCKING SENDER SAVES FOR HIS RECORDS? So, today, Travis and I went to his bank, Chase, only one of the biggest, richest and most powerful banks in the fucking country, and they won't cash it, even if he has the money to cover it in his account. They won't even accept it as an item for deposit.

So, I try the Money Center at Wal-Mart, and they won't take it. So, I go around to all the check cashing places in the area. I hit three before I find one that handles this particular money order, and they cash it for me, only they charge me $5.88 to do it.

So, finally having got the fucking thing cashed, I go down to the little store and put $60 on my electric bill, which is $20 more than I owe them. I paid the bill in full last week, only to find that they had levied another $38 in charges against me, without telling me. I had to call them to find that out. They have one of those highly convoluted computerised phone systems which is designed primarily to frustrate you, so that you will give up and leave them alone. My electric had better be on by the time I get home, or I will fucking kill somebody. My total bill for last moth was $68; so why the hell do I have to pay them $275 in deposit? God, I hate Entergy!

I believe that Natural Selection no longer works. My solution to this is that those of us victimised by the stupid should band together and develop a plan to supplant Natural Selection. I have one idea: we market a bunch of dangerous things, the kind that are flashy and shiny, the kind that idiots crave. These devices would be inherently dangerous, so that if you didn't read the instructions, there would be a good chance you would either accidentally kill yourself or, failing that, at least sterilise yourself. Then, of course, you include a complex legal disclaimer, absolving your company of all responsibility if the product is not used properly. It will take a little cleverness to design products like this, but it can be done. Of course, the terminally stupid will NOT read the instructions, much less the disclaimer, and the product will be designed specifically so that an idiot will WANT to misuse it. Great idea, huh?

Oh, to dream ...

I Got Scathed

2009-03-03T00:40:00.008-06:00

Yeah. Remember how I almost got nailed Mardis Gras by some asshole in a truck who ran me up onto the grass and I felt, like, really lucky because I escaped unscathed? Well, Friday, I got scathed, but good.

I got paid Thursday and paid the balance of my rent and my huge utility bill, which didn't get my power back on. I found out today that this is because Entergy (the fucking shitlords of the universe)tacked an additional $25 "deposit" onto my account, which I now have to come up with, too, bringing my total "deposit" for utilities to a whopping $275. My actual power bill was $67. They are fucking PIRATES!

Got back and met one of my neighbours, who offered to loan me some power via a 100ft extension cable, so I had limited power over the week-end (enough for TV at night and charging my laptop and cell phone). Went to work for 6 on Friday and almost made it. I had just signalled to turn left into the store parking lot when I heard the vehicle that had turned on the street behind me speed up, and then heard tires squeal. I tried to get over as far as I could to the right, but the right rear quarter panel hit me and knocked me over the handlebars. Cleverly, I avoided more serious injury by letting my face take most of the impact.

By the time I could get up to my hands and knees, the silver SUV that whacked me was crossing College Drive. I walked to work, scraped, bruised and bleeding. They called the police and EMS, and I got treated and filled out reports. I didn't get a license plate, so they probably won't find her. It's hard to get a license plate when you are headed over the handlebars, towards the pavement. I worked until 10 and got a ride home. I had to walk to work the next day, but I went to work. I had Sunday off, so I did wash with Travis and Fernando and ate diner with them. I was so stiff and sore Sunday, I almost didn't go. I still hurt. I'm going to have a nice scar above my lip. It will take a long time to heal.

And all for what? Because some cunt in an SUV couldn't wait a few seconds for me to make a turn. I get smashed up, hurt and scarred while she drives away. This isn't my first little mishap: there have been about twenty over the past 40 years or so of riding a bicycle. I cannot state this strongly enough: Baton Rouge is not a bike-friendly city. In fact, a lot of drivers here are openly hostile. A lot of the ones who aren't just don't give a shit: you are just an annoyance, something in the way. You can't possibly catch up to them, so it is okay to leave you, bleeding, lying in the street. You don't drive a car, so you don't matter. Out of all the times I have been hit by cars, only three drivers actually stopped, and one of those, because she saw a police car stop where she left me. When the officer asked her why she left the scene of the accident she replied (and I quote):

"I don't have no cell phone. I was going home to call y'all."

Apparently, this was good enough for him: he didn't even ticket her. She had no insurance. I wound up in a cast for three months, lost both jobs, and got evicted from my apartment. She is still probably out there, driving her fat ass around.

If I sound bitter, I am. I also hurt, and I'm going to have a nasty scar. I hope that bitch burns in hell. I hope they all burn in hell!