The Pony Depress

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)

Sometimes the post office forgets to cancel the stamps on outgoing mail.
The result is free postage, as far as I'm concerned. I've been hoarding those little jewels for months; just like I do those pennies that I drop in that change-sorting contraption I bought at Target. I've molested that stash plenty of times, and now it was the stamp I needed.

I tried to peel the stamp from the orphaned envelope, but tore it at the only place where the glue actually did what glue was supposed to do. "Shit."

I slammed around in the desk drawer for scissors, and liberated the stamp by simply cutting it out of the envelope. I rubbed a withered glue stick on it and pasted it to the envelope I was sending to the Veteran's Administration. It was still another copy of the addendum I sent to them three times before. I sent it every time they asked for more information, having overlooked the fact that my 10 page letter was not a synopsis for my next novel, but actual details about my claim.

I licked one side of the envelope, feeling an odd sensation on the burned portion of my tongue where I had been a bit overzealous with my first sip of coffee that morning. Years of coffee consumption have left my taste-buds a little retarded. I can no longer tell the difference between a Pop-Tart and a sprouted wheat bagel. It would be nice if my hips and stomach did the same, and just cataloged everything "fat free." Anyway, I licked the other side and got a paper-cut on my tongue.

I grabbed my forearm crutches and stood up awkwardly, my tongue bleeding out onto my lip and down my chin. I nestled the envelope between my teeth, and had to quell the urge to bite through the paper, tear it to shreds like a lonely puppy left at home all day.

Hobbling out of the tiny guestroom, crammed with all the worldly goods I could fit into it, I made my way to the door. Halfway down the rickety front steps, I caught the rubber base of one crutch in the crack between the boards, and had to fight to keep my balance. I would not allow myself to do something as theatrical as fall down the steps and lie there in the dirt until my erstwhile roommates-cum-sugar-mamas returned from work.

I wriggled my forearm out of the bent metal cuff, and pulled on the crutch. It came free without much effort, and my excess exertion was rewarded when I managed to knock myself in the head with the top of the crutch. I stood there with my eyes closed for a long moment, waiting for the line of blood to tickle its way down my forehead and pool above my right eyebrow, thankfully not merging with the blood oozing from my paper-cut tongue into a river of crimson disbelief. So that's what eyebrows were for. . .

I didn't bother to touch the wound, I just continued gingerly down the steps and along the driveway toward the mailbox, numb with self-resolve.

When I reached the box and opened its drawbridge-door, a bee flew out and stung me on the chin. I swiped him to the dirt and ground him into it with the rubber tip of my crutch. Taking the envelope from my teeth, I thought about how I'd like to be a bee on the wall when it arrived at the Department of Veteran's Affairs with the bloody imprint of teeth on it. Perhaps it would help my case.

Barely making it to the bathroom, my bladder aching and threatening to inflict still more humiliation, I tried to pull my pants down and deal with the crutches at the same time, and promptly knocked my last roll of toilet paper in the toilet (it wanted to go home). I made do with a paper towel and paused in the bathroom only long enough to apply more antibiotic on the boils I'd developed on my chin.

By the time I made my way back to my old brown desk chair, I needed a cigarette. I know I should quit, but it's one of the few creature comforts I have left. Every time I quit smoking, something bad happens and makes me want a cigarette, so I figure if I continue to smoke, things are bound to improve.

I set flame to the blessed cheroot and inhaled, allowing the cigarette to dangle from my mouth like I was James Dean while I logged on to get my e-mail.

I watched the junk mail fill my box with promises of work-at-home riches, zero-percent Master Cards, and sales on peripherals I could never dream of buying. I reached up to pull the evil fire-stick from my lips, discovering too late that it was sort of glued there by whatever magic that's created by spit and dry paper. This caused my fingers to slide down the length of it, where I summarily burned both of them. I yelped, the action tearing skin from my lips as my mouth came open. This released the cigarette, which then fell to my lap and nearly caught a certain intimate clump of bush on fire.

It was going to be another one of those days where I should have just rolled back over into Narnia, and forgot about waking up.

The Pony Depress

Clearly Not An Alternative

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)


With a phone and a pager, I could manage to drum up some clients for my little home pseudo- business. I spent almost all the income from a previous set of shows to make that happen. I went with a digital phone company because I liked the features and they only required $250 for a deposit.

My recent Chapter 7 Bankruptcy insured that a deposit would be required with any new service. Oddly, my previous good standing with the local phone company did nothing to decrease the $500 deposit they required from me in order to have cell phone service.

My first bill arrived, to the tune of $400. I knew there would probably be taxes and such added to the bill, but since I was expecting the $49.99 monthly charge, this was a bit of a shock. In examining the bill, I noticed that I was being charged for an additional month of service, another phone number, the phone itself (which I did not even purchase from them, but from Radio Shack), a month of service for the other phone number, plus taxes, and another deposit AGAIN.

I spent the next two months trying like crazy to remind them of the concept of "customer service." Each time I called the local store, I was confronted with a menu of options. If you’d like information about this, press one. . . If you’d like information about that, press two. . .If you’d like to hear an endless list of our promotions whether you’re interested or not, press three. . . I kept waiting for that selection, If you’d like to speak to a human, press twenty-seven. . . But it never came. Once it got to the end of the menu, the honey-dripping voice instructed me to stay on the line to speak to a "customer advocate." I waited, enjoying the strains of Air Supply’s I’m All Out of Love, and then Barry Manilow’s Looks Like We Made it. I recalled this as my High School Prom theme song. Appropriate, since it was a surprise to most of us and our parents that we graduated at all.

Finally, a "Customer Advocate" answered—not by saying "How may I help you?" like in yesteryear, but "Your account number, please." Whether we admit it or not, we have all become just numbers, like those prisoners you see in old movies in striped shirts with digits across their chests. I always hated that. I didn’t want to give them all my information, I wanted to get right to the point. But of course they had to have it in order to pull up my account and verify everything I was saying, because, you know, most customers lie through their teeth about everything.

In great, put-upon detail, I described the problem and got very little sympathy, and a whole lot of attitude. I was put on hold several times while she "researched the problem," and each time she returned from this dubious research, she assured me, in so many words, that they don’t make those mistakes. She asked me if I had a receipt for the deposit, and I said no (kicking myself) because I had paid in cash. *A method of currency unrecognizable and non-transferable after the year 1990.

"We always give you a receipt," she said haughtily.

I told her I received some sort of invoice, but that my deposit was not noted on it. Further, I recounted the fact that after my information was entered that day, their computer system went down, and the clerk had to re-enter everything, and wasn't it possible that the deposit wasn't noted the second time?

She didn't believe this was possible. "Our cash drawers would have been off by that amount if it wasn't."

All I knew was that I had paid the deposit. And maybe, just maybe, the charge was noted, payment noted, bringing me to zero, then entered as a charge, but not noted as paid the second time. This would be an error in their favor, and therefore resistant to change. Money is always the bottom line. My lack of money is always the norm. My lack of luck is always the norm, too. It was like my Guardian Angel was on vacation. I have this theory about Guardian Angels. Some of them are good at their jobs, and some aren't. What I know about the machinations of heaven, you can fit on the head of a pin, but at least I know what the pins are for. They're for gouging out the eyes of some Guardian Angels. I lovingly refer to mine as Murphy: as in "Murphy's First Law: Anything that can go wrong, WILL."

The debate continued with all the other items on the bill, and I explained that I had signed up first on the Internet from their web page, but found out later the page was outdated, and no longer counted as a real order. It must have counted somewhere, because I got charged for the first number and all the fees that went along with it. She said she would research the issue and call me right back.

I listened intently, but never heard my phone ring.

Since I was getting no semblance of "customer service," I called back, waded through the tiresome recordings, reached another human, explained it all again, and asked for the number of a district manager. Happy to be rid of me, she gave me the number, and I hung up to call him. Predictably, I got his voice mail, and left a message, again explaining the problem.

This game of cat and mouse went on for the next few months. Explaining and re-explaining the problem to each new Customer Advocate and District Manager, until I was ready to kill them all. Meanwhile, my bill went unpaid, as I refused to send payment until everything was worked out. My service was disconnected just before a flat tire in the middle of nowhere required me to use my phone to call for help. Naturally, this was necessary because I had a flat spare tire awaiting the emergency in which I could curse it. I had to walk several miles to a pay phone and fill it with change in order to find someone to come fetch me. With my physical disabilities this was particularly unpleasant.

Eventually, I actually spoke to one of the managers, and he agreed to "meet me halfway" by charging me half the deposit again and one month’s service charge. Reminiscent of the cop who was nice enough to give me only two tickets. He assured me the service would be restored if I paid this amount at the local store.

At this point, I was endangering the few clients I had for my computer work, and felt that if I had my service, I could get on with things and eventually get the credit back to me or onto my account. I agreed to pay, albeit under duress. *Murphy’s Technology Law #16: To err is human, but to really foul things up requires a computer.

So I went down to the store as the District Manager said to, and gave them the cash (everything I could scrap up including my rolled pennies). After they took my money, they informed me that I had to pay for next month too, or they wouldn't turn my service on.

I stood there, my system REALLY low on Paxil, and began to feel a little like one of those Postal Workers who show up with an empty conscience and a full clip. I said, "I was told by the District Manager that if I came down here and paid this, my service would be turned back on." She gave me some slime about "policy" tempered with a really shitty attitude, like I was some gutter rat who had the audacity to touch one of their phones--and I just lost it. "I want you to call him and verify what I've said. And I want you to call him right now."

"He's not available right now."

"How do you know that, until you call?"

"I know he's out of town."

"That's okay, he has a CELL PHONE!" I shouted.

"He's NOT available," she said again.

"Who's your supervisor?" I said, REALLY LOUD. *Murphy’s Technology Law #13: The first myth of management is that it exists.

She said SHE was the supervisor. I said, "Who'd you sleep with to get the job?"

The look on her face was almost worth all the hassle from the last few months. She said, "You can't have your service 'til you pay. Next!" And looked right past me to another customer.

It was at this point that I believe I went ballistic. I said, "I want to see a REAL manager, and I want to see one now!" And I went right past her BEHIND THE COUNTER and started searching the back offices. I was aware that I was causing a scene, and that other customers in the store were staring at me, thrilled that they would get to see something as exciting as a "Caught on Tape" episode.

She yelled at me, "I'm calling the police!"

I yelled back, "Call them! I need to file a report on THEFT BY DECEPTION!" and I continued to look for a manager. There was NO ONE to be found, and when I came back to the front, she was on the phone with the police.

I can't tell you how close I came to snatching the receiver from her hand and beating her to death with it. When she hung up, I had decided that those cell-bunks were a little less that friendly for my back, and I didn't want to spend the night on one. So I leaned over the counter and got in her face and whispered, "Watch your back," and walked out. I guess it was a threat. I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to have some kind of last word with her before making my exit. "Caught on Tape" was now quickly turning into an episode of "Cops."

*Bad girl, bad girl, whatcha gonna do. . .whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

By the time I got to my car, I think a massive aneurysm was in order. I had earned 4 tickets, been up to my neck in the red tape and bureaucracy of government offices, totally overwhelmed with chronic pain, sick to death of struggling to get by on sandwiches and coffee and five dollars per week, feeling terribly worthless, victimized and generally sorry for myself.Then I had to deal with this garbage on top of all that. I mean, what had I done to deserve such turmoil and hardship? Hadn't I tried? Hadn't I kept my chin up and my head down?

On the way home I cursed God, Buddha, Mohammed, Ghandi, Republicans, fertile women, and a couple of Toyotas.

Clearly Not An Alternative

The Wrong And Whining Road

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)

Music has always figured prominently into my life. I spent six years in an all-girl band, and then another two as a member of an acoustic female trio. Bookings had been sparse the last 12 months, since one of the women had decided to move to Colorado to be with the love of her life. We had just started another 6-week stint of gigging while she was in town, and again, my luck would be of the unfortunate variety. My financial security had become laughable, though I found no humor in it.

The band was my only source of dependable income. I left my little guest room one night, and headed for the city and the first of several gigs that would provide just enough to get my car tags renewed, along with insurance and registration. As I crested a hill after a sharp curve, the unmistakable strobing of blue lights erupted behind me. A local Barney Fife had been jarred from his Deer Hunter magazine long enough to look up and see the telling color on my tag sticker. He strutted up to my window in his little Smokey The Bear hat and asked to see my license, registration, and proof of insurance. Well, two out of three ain’t bad, as they say, so I pulled out my license and handed it to him. I then began to fumble in the glove box for those other two items, knowing I didn’t have them. I was just doing that, oh-my-god-a-cop-stopped-me-and-I-need-to-think stall. I usually carried an old insurance card that I used for emergencies like these, but it had landed in some box either in the back of the van or in the storage room I’d rented. I had scanned the card on my home computer and altered the date cleverly in my photo program, then printed out a copy It was a brilliant idea, if I do say so myself. It was convincing to those nagging locals who just wanted to see a piece of paper, and bought me a little time while avoiding a large fine. Survival Skills 101. Certified. I didn’t have THAT little piece of paper either, but I knew that for me auditing a class was just as good as taking it for credit.

"Registration and proof of insurance?"he asked again.

"Um. . . I just moved and I don’t have it with me." As if to verify, his flashlight beam moved to the back of my vehicle to the boxes and various items I had not unloaded into storage, yet.

“You are supposed to carry those things in your vehicle at all times."
And you are supposed to be nice, but you’re not. "I know that, sir. Things have been really difficult for me lately."

“Do you have insurance?”

Is there a way to lie and still tell the truth? I wondered. I knew I didn’t have insurance. He didn’t know that yet. I was on the horns of a dilemma. If I didn’t tell him I was sans insurance, he might skip that ticket. It reminded me of when I was kid. In the days before caller ID boxes, the phone would ring, and my father was always afraid it was someone he wanted to avoid. He’d tell me to see who it was. Then he’d rush into the bathroom, and stand in the tub and say, “If it’s ‘so-and-so’ tell him I’m in the shower.” See, my Dad was no liar. He had a real conscience.That’s what I needed. A way to lie without lying. “. . . just moved in with some friends out here,” I heard myself say. “. . . and I’m waiting on a decision from SSI and the VA about my disability status. . .” Don’t tell him that, he doesn’t care, I reprimanded myself. My lips kept moving. “I’m living on $280 a month. . .I was on my way to a job to make enough money to get my tags and everything. . . it’s the only way I can get the money.”

He looked up from his ticket book. “I also clocked you at 40 in a 30.” In my own defense, the roads leading to and from this hick town were winding and hilly. In order to maintain a constant speed, you would have to have two sets of eyes. If you watch the speedometer, you’ll miss a curve. I always opted for staying on the road and not hitting a mailbox or an oncoming Subaru. But now I was being penalized for being a safe driver. All that counted was the letter of the law.

“—but I’m only going to site you for expired tags, and no proof of insurance.” I hated this town. What do you call favors like that? Underhanded? Backhanded? Backwoods. “I won’t steal your pig this time, just your chickens.” Uh. . .okey-dokey Smokey. Say hi to the wife and kids. The ones ensconced in your dream-single-wide, no doubt. “Thanks,” I muttered, signing my name to the tickets, as he informed me of the court date. I expected him to add, “Tell it to the judge,” but he didn’t. And that’s not the end of it. The “thlot plickens.”

The very next week, I was on my way to another gig, and got nailed again. This time, at least they were nice. There were two of them. Word must have gotten around that it takes two to stop me from driving illegally. One cop even apologized to me for the inconvenience. I was accommodating and polite to him. I accepted my two additional tickets with grace and aplomb. Double-jeopardy obviously did not apply to moving violations.

At the court date in April, the local (hanging) judge had no mercy, even though I explained my extenuating circumstances and told him I was driving without all that stuff because I was trying to make enough money to GET all that stuff. He still made me pay, because by golly, I was a law breaker and needed to be taught a lesson. There I stood on my crutches, having dragged myself out of bed in a Darvon-stupor to be there while Hiz Honor was an hour and a half late for court. So I got gouged with over $400 for that, and had to beg for the payments of $33 per month, which only meant I had to do without a few things. Like food. Deodorant. Gasoline. It would be a challenge to figure out which necessity I would be trimming this time.

The Wrong And Whining Road

That Dark Thing on my Head

(Excerpt from my memoir, "Falling Through the Cracks: The Misadventures of No One Famous")

Terra has recently discovered the power of her own gift of intuition. She's a baby-psychic, really. She also has an uncanny sense of smell.

Once when we were getting in my van, she sniffed the air like a bloodhound and said, "Someone just lit a cigarette-" and then frowned over at me, since I'm a smoker and she's not, and we always go round and round about it. It wasn't me, and I accused her of being so sensitive, that she imagines things.

Well, we pulled away from the curb, and around the corner. And there stood a young man puffing away. She looked over at me victoriously, and I could only shake my head. Scary, really, these visions of things and people and objects that prove accurate.

At night while she's falling asleep, she has graphic images of snakes and big rocks falling on her head. This sounds like the sort of images I should be having, but I digress...

About a year ago, during one of our prolonged phone conversations in the wee hours of the morning, she announced that she could see "a dark thing on my head."

I said, "You mean a freckle?"

"Well, no...it's big...and like, attached...sort of like a spider--"

"You mean, like that thing in Alien?"

"Well, yeah, except it's dark, like that goopy stuff you find in old plumbing...Its legs wrap around your head and hold the sides of your face...one of them goes into the corner of your eye..."

The pregnant silence that followed was enough to make her try to wiggle out of the subject, but I pressed. She believed it was somehow symbolic of this negative energy that follows me around like the proverbial black cloud. Only this was a dark growth of some sort. Like Cancer. Not exactly what I wanted to hear before going sleep.

That Dark Thing on my Head

Lotion?

I plopped down on the sofa, which is really a love-seat, and not nearly long enough for an adult to sleep on, but I do, because I have a very nice bed that is also exceedingly uncomfortable and puts knots in my back. I pulled open a book that claimed to spoof the coming of the new millennium and began to read, when I reached up to turn the page and saw that I had some white goo on my thumb. Surmising that it came off my shirt, I thought back. What could this be?

Immediately, I knew. It was lotion. I had dripped it there while getting ready for bed the night before. So I rubbed it into the palms of my hands, as they were in need of some softening, and thought about how fortunate I was to have some lotion without being awakened by aggravating thoughts of how dry my hands were and how much I couldn’t afford to let my skin get any older than it was.

But a nanosecond later, I realized that my palms were sticky, and then my mind flashed to that cinnamon roll I had yesterday morning, and I recalled that my Great Aunt Candace was a proper Southern belle and had corrected me once when I said "cinnamon roll." That is nowt a cin’mon rowl, that’s a stickay buyn," she drawled. Regardless, it was icing, not lotion, and I had to get up anyway, just to wash my hands.

Lotion?

All Hallows Eve

The prevalence of pumpkin-faced bags
filled with papers or leaves
peppers the yards in my neighborhood
preparing for All Hallow's Eve.

And in some windows are jack o'lanterns
imbued with a candle's light
their eyes and nose and mouth cut out
into faces of the night.

On a nearby lawn, a plastic image:
A specter of spider's stance,
its legs perched horribly round its frame
deterring a second glance.

And crispy leaves made crunky
by the cold October rains
mix and mesh in a potpourri
filling the air with champagne.

And soon, the night will tremble
With pleas for doorway treats
Goblins will gobble them up with delight
While devils play tricks in the streets..

All Hallows Eve

Tryst

An old friend and previous Tryst visted me recently. We had met in the Army years ago, and had a little fling, although it was a bit one-sided, as these things will be when one person is gay and the other gay-curious...but we maintained a long distance friendship over the years and even had a few visits with each other....some of them included sexual activity...I had always had a mad crush on her. She was so alluring...sort of unattainable, and a hell-cat, but so sexy to me.

Well, during her recent visit, we got along great, and did alot of talking and drinking coffee...we always do that. It seemed like we'd just seen each other last week or something. We can always sorta pick up where we left off. But during our talks, i was trying to get information about where she was mentally in our relational dynamic...were we still Tryst-partners? or just friends?

I steered the discussion toward sex and relationships. It was hard to tell, because she'd say one thing that led me to believe she was not interested in doing ANYTHING with me, and then she'd say or do other things that contradicted it. Mostly, it was the words not matching the body language.

But by Saturday, i had given it lots of thought, and sorta OVERLAYED my newest beliefs and growths over that old pattern of the "me and Brittany" map...and i decided that it was much more important to me that we have a strong friendship, and that i wouldn't want to undermine it by having EXPECTATIONS...and i tried to get real honest with myself about that. I decided to let go of the expectations.... and i did. It felt good.

Then that night (or wee hours, actually) i was spreading out my sheet on the sofa, and she said, "You know, Jae, you don't have to sleep in there on that tiny little couch. You can sleep in here with me." But she said it in a very platonic fashion, so i knew she was just being nice.

I teased, "Are you sure you're not askeert a me??"

She rolled her eyes. "You don't frighten me, Jae."

I said in mock disappointment, "Dammit."

So we got in the bed, shoulder to shoulder, both of us reading in the lamplight...and she put her book away and rolled over, saying "Nite." I told her goodnight, and continued to read for a while...then i got sleepy and turned the light out and went to sleep..... ....in my sleep, i became aware of my name..."Jae...Jae.... Jaaaaaaaaee......"

I opened my eyes and she was looking at me, lying on her side, her head propped on one elbow...."I've been calling your name forever..."

I was so groggy, and just as i wondered what time it was, she said, as if she could read my thoughts, "It's 3:10." I sort of frowned at her, like...don't freak me out.
She just smiled..."I need to talk to you..." It was dim in the room, but as i tried to wake myself up, i just noticed how beautiful she looked with that new red hair, her face softened by night.

"Okay," i said, trying to clear my vision. I put some drops in my eyes, and pressed the edge of the sheet to them to absorb the excess moisture that spilled out. A little refreshed, i said, "I'm still a bit groggy, but what do you want to talk to me about?"

She said, "You've only been asleep about a MINUTE!" I couldn't believe that, but i guess it was true. I must have gone straight to REM...

So i said, "So talk."

"I've been thinking. I'd like to take you up on your offer..."

Now, my heart jumped, and i began to frantically search through the fog of my brain for just WHICH offer she may be referring to...

She interrupted my scavenger hunt with, "--you know, i've known you for ten years, and in all that time, you've always been a great friend to me, above and beyond...and you've always treated me with respect and love...I mean, if i can't trust YOU, who can i trust?"

As i was spreading glue on all the pieces of this, attempting to press and hold until it all became one piece...she leaned down and kissed me. I was shocked, because she had never been that aggressive with me...

She leaned back and said, "Are you awake, NOW?"

laughed, and sputtered, "Um...yes...i do believe i am getting there quickly...." Yeah, like the spray of a water hose on you while you're standing in snow. Of course, my brain was still fuzzy, but all the other important parts were wide awake...i think actually that my brain was in shock, but my body completely understood...

So i kissed her back, and she kissed me back, and we kissed each other back and back... ;> And i turned her to her back... ;>

Without getting into the lurid details, it was clear that her barriers were not quite so strong as they used to be...And afterward, she held me and kissed me, and we fell asleep feeling intimate...at least i did.

I brought her coffee in bed the next morning, and went to check email while she woke up. We didn't speak of it the next day, and she went back home that afternoon. But she left looking happy and satisfied. That was enough for me.

Tryst

Morphing CD Player, 22 Dogs, 6 Girls, & A Pig

Dream:
I was at somebody's house. The rooms in this house were large and open-like there were no walls separating them. I noticed how many dogs were running around, and i began to go from room to room counting dogs. I counted up to 22. There was also a big pig walking around. Obviously a pet, but very odd. A bunch of girls living there-maybe 5 or 6...

In the main room, there was this odd sort of contraption which at first was just a CD player, and while I was doing something next to it, I bumped some kind of "On" switch. The contraption began to morph into several other shapes, becoming larger. I was trying to stay out of the way of it. The effect was like computer generated graphics from a movie...Then it began to play a CD, and then became a coffee table. An ashtray rose up out of it, and some drink coasters.

Then from underneath, it released these little disc-shaped vacuums that went about the floor sucking up dropped ashes, debris and dirt. (I swear to God this was before that commercial about the Roomba FloorVac) The discs had tiny radio antennas on top in the middle. They looked like little fat, black frisbees. This is when i understood why this house could have 22 dogs and 6 girls and a big pig.

Morphing CD Player, 22 Dogs, 6 Girls, & A Pig

Ema's Sense of Smell

My girlfriend, Emma, has recently discovered the power of her own gift of intuition. She's a baby- psychic, really. She also has an uncanny sense of smell. Once when we were getting in my van, she sniffed the air like a bloodhound and said, "Someone just lit a cigarette--" and then frowned over at me, since I'm a smoker and she's not, and we always go round and round about it. It wasn't me, and I accused her of being so sensitive, that she imagines things.

Well, we pulled away from the curb, and around the corner. And there stood a young man puffing away. She looked over at me victoriously, and I could only shake my head. Scary, really, these visions of things and people and objects that prove accurate. At night while she's falling asleep, she has graphic images of snakes and big rocks falling on her head. This sounds like the sort of images I should be having, but I digress...

Ema's Sense of Smell

Growing & Non-Existent Testicles

Saturday night we went out to see Shannon and Walter play at Grumpy's. We had an unpleasant experience with this man there who decided to "join us" in that area of sofas around a coffee table near the stage. He fancied himself some Knight from King Arthur's Court, yet didn't pull it off for a nanosecond. Even before he sat down, he waved his hands across the table where our plates and drinks and ashtrays were, as if they were in his way and he wanted us to clear them so he could settle in. Then he began to complain about the ashtrays that had butts in them (imagine that)--"What sort of place is this, can't even have a clean ashtray..."

It took a grand total of two seconds for me to respond. I picked up one of them and dumped it into the other and set down the empty one in front of him. "There you go," I said.

I immediately disliked him. There's never much doubt--nine times out of ten when a man invites himself to sit near you, he's after more than your witty repartee. The strange part is, he thought he was the most lucid, engaging, and charming member of the intelligentsia. What he was, was weird, rude, presumptuous, obnoxious, ridiculous and pathetic. He was sitting in the sofa that had it's back to Shannon and Walter, and so he had to crane his neck around to respond to them. But meanwhile, he jerked and bobbed his head and broke into song. When they would pause between songs, he would obligingly fill the void with a Pavorotti-esgue rendition of something, complete with hand gestures, and a thick operatic accent--sometimes in some indecipherable language which he tried to pass off as German, but was really Pompous fakery.

We tried to ignore him. But then he began to badger the waitress about his drink, the table, the ashtrays, his glass, and anything else. We were both bristling by this time, because she was trying her best to be tolerant of his behavior, and was met only with his holier-than-thou abrasiveness. It seemed to make him feel empowered somehow, and he was looking for some twisted, adoring response from the females in his company--uninvited though his presence was.

Shannon and Walter just looked on in wonder while he monopolized the silence between songs, periodically shouting something earth-shatteringly pertinent in their direction. He reminded me of a compunded version of that young man one night at Shug's, who sat in the front, stood by the table, almost facing everyone, his foot hiked up on his chair, and singing along with Shannon and Walter like he was a cast-member in Guys and Dolls. Only that guy was innocuous, whereas this guy at Grumpy's was like a barfly Frankenstein version of the same creature. When he asked, "Where is the restroom in this establishment?" I gave him a dry look, and shrugged. I was trying to be so obvoiously uninterested in assisting him in any way, that he would slither in some other direction. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.When he stood to announce his temporary departure, ("Will you ladies excuse me for a moment?") pausing as if to gain our full attention and coy "but-of-courses"-- I instead looked right past him toward Shannon and Walter, giving him absolutely no acknowledgement. After he was gone, I told Tammy I was losing my tolerance in a swift fashion. She said she was pretty sick of him, too, and entreated me to let her "handle it."

Well, this was a shock, since Tam is notoriously tolerant and sometimes overly-concerned with appearances and tactfulness. I didn't quite believe her, but I told her okay, but that I was not responsible for any unexpected stimuli that might make me take his head off before she'd worked out her rebuttal to him. To punctuate my declaration, I promptly leaned over and thumbed the ash from my cigarette into his drink.He returned (damn the luck) and then the waitress arrived again to serve yet another one of his requests. He was drunk, and the bartender wanted to cut him off, and he didn't like that at all. He insisted she bring him a drink, and in the big kind of mug like the one Tammy had tea in. He made a big production of it, and then insisted she empty the solitary cigarette butt from his ashtray and wipe his table down. She whirled and went to get him another glass.

I guess he didn't care for the looks we shot at him, because he began to justify his rudeness: "When I ask for something, I expect to get what I I ask for."

Tammy said, "You get what you deserve."

He mouthed off again, and she said, "You know what? You're being a jerk."

That made him mad, and he started flinging drunken aspersions and opinions again. I finally had had enough. I leaned forward and said, "Why don't you just go away?"

He continued his tirade. I kept repeating, "We do not want you here, don't you get it? We're not interested in your company. You're a jerk, and we're disgusted by you. Go away!"

He said, "make me." Wasn't that intelligent? He sounded like a grade school brat. I got up and went up to the bar to ask the manager to remove him for harassing us. They were ready to, anyway. He's been inflicting himself all over the bar all night.

So when the waitress came back while we were shouting at him, and had to deal with more of his attitude, she invited him to speak to the manager, who was going to toss him out by that time. He marched up to the bar, and while he was gone, I grabbed his cigarettes and bent the pack, breaking all the remaining cigarettes inside. I guess that was silly, but it sure made me feel good.

After he had gone, I couldn't resist a jibe at Tam's uncharacteristic indignance. I leaned over to her and said, "Do I detect the sound of growing testicles?"

Growing & Non-Existent Testicles

A Thang to be Remembered

Betty Thang, a self-confessed lesbian and recent victim of a savage finger-severing, held a press conference today at the Museville N.O.W. Headquarters.

Ms. Thang pointed out... um...revealed--that unlike straight women, the loss of her fingers was not only a heinous crime which took away her guitar-playing career, but also adversely affected her sex life.

A Thang to be Remembered

A Backwoods Eatery With a Side of Velcro Papaw

You could call this a restaurant review. You could also call this a wart on the butt of the service-industry. Or you could just mark it off to another card-carrying harpy sinking her claws into some unsuspecting, still-warm piece of meat. Ultimately, you’ll chose one, and we can just shake our heads and move on.

The establishment in question is a little club situated in one of our many dry counties. Since it’s the only place in the area that serves liquor, the local college punks and area Bubbas turn out in force to inflict a little down-home harm.

A friend and I went there to enjoy the music of some friends of mine who are popular in the Little Rock music scene. We had no idea what sort of glorified sale-barn we were walking into.

Inside, we noticed that there were no tables directly in front of the entertainment, so we asked permission to move a table to the front. This was our first miscalculation. Moving a table obviously caused some confusion among waitresses. It became a “non-station.” We were outcasts, fooling with the order in their chaos. But we waited patiently for a waitress to appear, and after fifteen minutes, I got up and went to the bar to request some service for our table. The bartender said he’d send a waitress right over. Satisfied, I went back to my seat. The band began their first set of the evening, and we listened, alternately smiling at them and rubber-necking in search of this alleged waitress. Thirty minutes had passed, and we had neither been spoken to, nor offered anything to drink.

I got up again and asked the bartender if there was a manager on duty. He said, “A manager?” and then sort of pointed at himself, as if this was an untested idea. I told him we had been there 30 minutes, and would like to order some food and drinks, and what’s-the-matter, didn’t-he-want- our-money? He turned to one of the waitresses and said, “Hey, they’ve been here for thirty minutes and haven’t been served yet.” She nodded and said she’d be right there. It only took her another 10 minutes to make the trip. We ordered, and within another five minutes or so, we actually got our iced tea. No spoon or anything to stir the sweetener in with, but by golly, we got our tea. My friend stirred hers with a lemon wedge, and I used the tried and true jiggle-method.

Finally, the cheese dip and chips came. And remember, oh Patrons of Culinary Delights, for a mere $3.75, you too can have nuked Cheese-Whiz with water and peppers mixed in, along with stale, reheated tortilla chips. The bowl was only half full, (or was it half-empty?) and I’ll bet that was a good quarter cup of charming queso. Then our bacon cheeseburgers came, complete with that optional side of fries for an extra ninety-five cents. I counted, and that came to about eleven cents per fry. What a deal. And how delightful that they were brave enough to serve them cold. The burgers were overcooked and had that homemade charred flavor that can only be achieved by not cleaning the grill for a year. And we had to go get our ketchup and napkins from the bar. In case you think this is the end, au contraire! Insult was added to injury when we were both accosted by an elderly cowpoke whom I loving refer to as the “Velcro Papaw.”

He pulled up an uninvited chair next to me, plastered himself against my side and began his pick-up routine, no doubt perfected by decades of rehearsal, if the wrinkles on his face were any indication. He wanted to dance, and was sure that my refusal was simply my attempt at being coy. I assure you that I am a lot of things, but coy is not on the list. He continued to pummel away at my resolve, while I continued to move my chair away from him. He extolled the virtues of the VFW club: “Now THAT’S the place to be...why don’t we go there?” I told him I had to get up early for work. He said so did he, and what’s a little sleep-loss? He persisted in asking for my phone number. I told him I didn’t have a phone. Undaunted, he leaned over and offered the same deal to my friend, who graciously said “No thanks.”

He battered her with his testosterone poisoning for a few minutes, asking her for her phone number, too, until I told him, “I don’t think her husband would like that.” He said it didn’t bother him none if she was married “if you know whut I mean...” wink-wink. Then he asked me if I was married and I lied about that, too. I should have known it was not an effective way to dissuade this paragon if moral turpitude. I mean, what part of “no” did he not understand: the “N” or the “O”? I told him we were about to leave anyway, and I stood up, praying that a waitress would appear next to the table with our check. (If wishes were horses, beggars would ride). I went over to the bar to pay, and while waiting for change I glanced back at the table. The Velcro Papaw had sticker- burred himself to my friend, and all I could see was her shaking her head over and over. I got my change and returned to the table, and another cowpoke moved in for the kill. He placed his hands all over my shoulders, squeezing and rubbing and asking for a dance. I summarily removed his hand and shot him a telling glance. They returned to their own table, then, and we sat down to listen to the rest of the set.

When the set was over, the band took a break and followed us outside to say goodnight.

The next day, our musician friends told us it was fortunate that we left when we did. The crowd eventually became belligerent. Some young men collected at a table began screaming requests: “Play Fleetwood Mac.” The singer told them on the microphone that she had just done a Fleetwood Mac song, and they continued to request it, oblivious.

The repartee dissolved into crude comments to the female singer like, “Why don’t you play some George Jones or Merle Haggard...or why don’t you play with yourSELF?” I won’t even go into the other derogatory, prejudical, and slanderous comments that ensued after this.

I’m not sure what it is about the mix of uneducated, uncivilized humans and a bottle of beer, but for performing musicians and attentive audience members, the disrespect and total disregard for decency is out of control. The management of this little “supper club” and some of the clientele it draws, should be staked to a fire-ant hill and left to the devices of the food chain.

From now on, I think I’ll stick to the larger towns where talent is appreciated, and restaurants care about the quality of their food and their service.

A Backwoods Eatery With a Side of Velcro Papaw

A Likely Story

[*..found inside a newspaper, on a front step...]

It was a crisp December evening. It had been crisp all day. I was assured by the car radio that the crispness would extend into tomorrow. I decided a hot cup of java would take away the edge, so I pulled over at the first dingy cafe that came into view. As I walked inside, I noticed the lettering on the outside window: The Dingy Cafe.

I took a booth against the far wall, so that I could see the door, and anything ominous that may wander through it. The ancient waitress shuffled over and gnawed an old piece of gum while I told her to bring me a cup of coffee, fresh. She remarked that the only fresh thing in the establishment was the cook, and that didn't mean his personal hygiene. When she had gone, I pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Just then the door to the cafe opened and in walked this newspaper. He had no poly-bag on, and the rain had soaked him through. He looked as though a cup of coffee would save his life. He saw me in the corner, and came over to ask for a quarter for a cup of coffee. I told him that coffee was forty cents, and he said he'd take what he could get. He looked so alone, so bedraggled, that I asked him to join me, which he did thankfully. I motioned for the waitress to bring another cup.

Over four refills, he told me his sad story. His mother was a tabloid, and his father used to be a Field and Stream magazine, but got down on his luck and left the family high and dry when Gazette was only a Community Paper. Since that time, Gazette became a vagabond; sleeping on the steps of any who'd have him. Some folks had even taken him in to look him over, but when they tired of him, he was always thrown out to again survive on his own. He had hitched a ride with a truck driver a few hours before he had arrived at the Dingy Cafe. My heart went out to him, and that's when I thought of you. I knew you had room for a poor lonely soul like Gazette, so I gave him your address. When I told him he might end up in your fireplace, he was unabashed. He said that at least he would be warm.

At any rate, he does have stories to tell, and he's up on current events, so maybe your return for this act of kindness will be sufficient.

A Likely Story