I am a failure and I don’t finish stuff, yeah!

"But how many times can you really be tricked by ladyboy before it's gay?"

So, I have the short story completed… in writing, in a notebook. Work has held me off from actually making sense of my scribblings (I’m sure I can post it up as-is, but that would be… concerning. Most margins contain doodles of dicks with hats) and I’m still stuck on some article stuff for the magazine. So what I’m saying here is that fuck you, I will get back to that thing later. I didn’t mean that fuck you. I really like you.

In the meantime, here are some random photographs, punctuated with odd things I heard at work recently. There’s no end to weird crap to be overheard backstage, especially when dancers are involved. For example: There is an interpretive dance about the plight of sex-slave children. … Yeah. That.

So! Have some pictures.

"I'm kinda sad today. I feel like my dancing isn't... heavy. Y'know?"

"I need to really feel like you're owned by that pimp. Make me feel it."

"Someone left poop paper in the bathroom."

"Everyone is walking around like it's 'Free Anal Rape' day. See? That guy? He's walking funny too. What the hell?"

It also occurs to me to tell you about the homeless, urine-soaked man with the twitch that was at my bus stop today. Upon my arrival, he started cackling and (presumably) adding to his urine aroma. I didn’t really want to deal with that so early in the morning, but I doubt he wanted to deal with himself either. Sadly, this bus runs every forty minutes, and I had just missed the last one. He’s taking up the whole bench– which is fine, I didn’t want to sit next to the guy anyway. He flailed a lot, and it’s a rude day when you’re slapped by big hands that have been playing in pee.

So UrineMan starts to stare. I don’t think he’s so much staring at me as he is through my very bowels, because his gaze was centered somewhere around my small intestine. He started digging in his bag, which I was terrified contained the last public transportation victim of the day, but no. It contained, of all things, a pack of pornographic playing cards. Alright, I can deal with that. A guy needs to see some boob in the morning. I do every day for free, so why can’t he? Thankfully, the bus arrived shortly thereafter, because I didn’t really want to witness his intent with those… especially since he resumed staring at my digestive system. The combination of pornography and my poop area wasn’t something I wanted to entertain at 7:30am. Actually, I usually don’t at any given time if it also involves urine and men with muscle spasms.

It dawned on me while I was entering the bus to work… no matter where I am, at what time, or for whatever reason… there will always be someone nearby ready to excrete on me. And that just plain makes me feel special.

Advertisements

"Nobody really listens to me…"

He looked weak. Fatigued.

He kept fiddling with his ring finger of his left hand. It had obviously been home to a wedding band for a very long time — the pale skin reflected that much.

“Nobody really listen to me. Even when she died… my family, they don’t do no listening.”

He had deep brown eyes, eyes that spoke of the suffering he’d been through. They were framed by the darkened skin that comes from many sleepless nights and bouts with crying. He was all too familiar with pain at this point.

“She was my life, you know? I met that girl back on the beach, she paid me no mind. It took me a loooong time to get her, hoo man. She was worth waitin’ for. We got married in Louisiana. She was born there…”

He can’t even look at me anymore. Being so brave, trying to hard. He just wants someone to listen, he says. He wrings his wrinkled hands as his face grows dark. He’s lonely and scared now, he tells me.

“We was married for over thirty years. That shit jus’ don’t happen no more. Jus’ don’t happen.”

He glanced around, wary. “My stop is comin’. I jus’ get on here ‘n ride to the store… ride home. Nothin’ left for me to do. She died… and so did I. I jus’ do this because it’s what I do.”

He wouldn’t let me take a picture of his face. He said it was too old, too tired.

He smiled a little as he left the bus. Probably for the first time in a long time. Might even be the last. He told me that he doesn’t expect to make it to winter, nor does he want to.

——

“Take our picture!”

“Hmm?”

“Take our picture! We want our pictures taken. You a photographer?”

“Not really. It’s a hobby…”

“C’mon, here, take it.”

They were overheated and anxious for the bus to arrive. The eldest, standing behind the rest, seemed to have taken on a role as caretaker. They looked to her before really acting or speaking. The one in the center was painfully shy of the camera, and hid for every shot I tried. Before I had a chance to really enagage them in conversation, the bus arrived. I wish I knew where they were going.

Too much time has passed.


Busy busy busy.

Got a new (second) job, been spending the last week in a long send-off for my friend that is moving to Colombia… and having a huge mental store of all the insane shit that has gone down in the interim. Oh what fun!

First, we have Miss Florida. Yes, the Miss Florida, the competition to send scary, dysfunctional, mentally handicapped and embittered women on to become our U.S. representatives in some little thingy called Miss World. I had to work this, see. And deal with the women. … and take apart their stage with a very angry French set designer. I cannot even begin to describe the *fun* I had… because little existed. While I do utterly and inexplicably love my job, I do not often love the client.
While the women in the event were … questionable, my main concern was with the audience. The parents, boyfriends, husbands and families of these critters were amazing. It was like watching the spectators of a dogfight, but perhaps in more Gucci. People screaming, holding signs, yelling “Go, (enter trendy female name,) go! You can do it!” They would throw down anything in their hands if their particular vagina didn’t win, storming off to grasp a cell phone so tightly it bled battery acid and scream at whatever hapless victim made the mistake of answering their phone.

Moving on, because reliving this makes me have the PTSD twitch.

So. I also had a fabulous day on the bus this week… a day where, on all six buses I rode, a new crazy was there to make me smile. Or flail in horror. Whatever, it’s all relative. So, a simple breakdown:

Bus #1, Route 42
“Heeey man. I’m … on drugs, man. What … awww… I’m so many drugs, man. I’m drugged, man. Man, dude… I’m sooo fucking wasted.”
He spent most of the ride babbling this while randomly throwing punches at his own backpack.

Bus #2, Route 2
*mumbles*
Random woman: “What?”
*mumbles*
Random woman: “I don’t understand you.”
*mumbles*
Random woman: “WHAT?”
Mr. Mumbles: “I SAID YOU HAVE A NICE SMELL YOU WHORE.”

Bus #3, Route 7
WWJD Lady: “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus is the ONNNNLLLLY answer, people. Why y’all goin’ to this damn house of Satan? Why! Why must you ruin yerself for Jesus! God loves you, alla you!”
Grinning college kid: “Lady, this is a SCHOOL. Satan is what, like, the smart one?”
Grinning college kid #2: “Haha. She said “God loves Allah.”
WWJD Lady: “YOU ALL GONNA BURN IN HELL!”

I then was at work, and magically… nothing happened. Of course, I had to eventually leave work, sooooo…

Bus #4, Route 7
Hippie: “Hi.”
Me: “Hi?”
Hippie: “Can I bum a smoke?”
Me: “Can you roll one?”
Hippie: “Dude, look, ok, I’m sorry, I like, I am on probation for that shit, ok? Dude, like, ok, let’s just … nevermind, ok?”
Me: “This … is a tobacco pouch. With tobacco in.”
Hippie: “Oh… no, thanks. That shit’s bad for you.”

So … I’m not sure exactly what it was he was after, then.

Bus #5, Route 1
Junkie: “Hey… what day is it?”
Skater kid: “Um, Thursday?”
Junkie, to old man: “What day is it?”
Old man: “What the kid said. Thursday.”
Junkie: “…”
Old man: “The hell is wrong with you?”
Junkie, to me: “What da–“
Me: “Thursday. Thursday. The day after Wednesday, and the day before Friday. Thursday.”
Junkie, to skater kid: “Man, you got any weed?”
Skater: “No?”
Older lady: “You need to lay off the crack.”
Junkie: “Fuck you! It’s meth! I loved meth!”

And finally… my personal favorite had to come last, of course.

Bus #6, Route 10
Drunk hobo #1: “See that girl over there? I’ma tell her I love her.”
Drunk hobo #2: “I… don’t …. I dunnnooo.”
DH1: “Hey! Hey! I love ya!”
Me: “… ok.”
DH1: *to random guy* “Have a beer with me!”
Guy: “How about no!”
DH1: “Ok! Hey, lady! I like ya! I love ya! I want summore of ya!”
Me: “…”
DH2: “I don’t think it’s working.”
DH1: “Hey, lady, have a beer with me. I just wanna tell ya I love ya.”
Me: “I don’t drink beer. I don’t love you.”
DH1: “Look, I know I’m hotter than any guy you’ll get.”

Keep in mind he looked like a half-dead hybrid of Jimmy Buffet and Gary Busey. Not kosher.

Anyway! This is long enough. I’ll slap something else up tonight. I am typing this half asleep and have more to post later.

Ah, yesterday.

… was a very odd day. This entire MONTH has been full of bizarre, horrible and distressing occurrences. Between my lovely hospitalization and apparent near-death, Rob’s death, and so many other little bits and pieces of utter hell.

So yesterday, I decided to take my guitar out to get some new strings and a little bit of tuning, perhaps some picks and a book. I realized I was running out of time, so I could either do that or see the kids — obviously, I went to see the kids. … sadly, this meant that I happened to get on the same crowded bus as an apparent masturbatory fiend. He of course chose me to be his unwilling victim, which was … just wonderful. I got to sit on a bus for twenty minutes while WankMaster 2000 stared at my crotch. It was … special. So special.

So! I figured screw it, I’ll head downtown and get some good old chocolate and espresso. Always cheers me up a bit. All was mostly uneventful (aside from a guy insisting to me that I had to sell him some weed, which I did not have, nor do I *ever* have for that matter) and a homeless woman that tried to use my guitar as a seat. (“Hey! Don’t sit on that!” … “Oh, sorry, I thought it was a chair.”) When the time to go rolled around so I could go to a DIFFERENT coffee shop, as is the life of a non-drunk Fort Lauderdaleite, I had this wonderful exchange:

“Hey, lady! Hey!”
“Uh, hi.”
“Hey! You got a guitar in that case?”
“Yes?”
“Hey! Hey! You know why I like you?!”
“No. But you’re going to tell me.”
“Yup! I like you because you must be a serious BITCH to walk around town like that!”
“Hm. Alright. Bye, now.”
“No no no no no! Where you going? Don’t just walk off when—“
At this point, I put my headphones back on, because Front 242 does wonders to block out the rants of a man that smells of vodka, and continued to my bus. Apparently this was not good enough for him.
“HEY! Come back here! HEY!”
“I have a bus to catch, sir.”
“No you DON’T! WHAT BUS, HUH?” (Because, of course, I’m going to tell him where I’m going.)
“A bus. Goodbye.”
This has gone on for half a block, now, as he follows me down the road. Then this happy bit came. I was running late, I’ve had a BCD from hell (bad Crohn’s day, ahem) and I’m still recovering from the month’s general attitude of fuck you.
“You know what, bitch?! FUCK YOU. You’ll never GET ANYWHERE IN LIFE WITH AN ATTITUDE LIKE THAT!”
“Oh really?”
“YEAH!”
“So. Excuse me for being, oh, presumptuous, but you, a homeless man that reeks of vodka and just asked me for a cigarette, you that is sitting on a bench with your worldly belongings, you that is wearing mismatched shoes for lack of money … YOU are telling ME how to be a successful person?”
“NOW YOU JUST WAIT… THAT’S … THAT’S … NOW SEE THAT’S … HEY!”
“Uh huh. Have a nice day, sir.”
“Your fucking attitude SUCKS, BITCHWHORE!”

… And so, I continued my way to the bus. I almost wanted to feel bad, as someone that likes to be a Genuinely Nice Person™, but he was a true dick in the finest sense of the word. Maybe he was having a bad day too, but really — no need to do that sort of thing.
So. The bus terminal. This is not known for being a place of leisure and joy. You don’t have to be there long to extrapolate that fact. I got to dodge a pimp fight, some moody teenagers, a happy woman in a wheelchair that insisted she was Jesus’ lover (hey, at least she was nice, she earned a smile) and some other sundry individuals.

The bus ride there was decent enough … until I got OFF said bus. It was … hm. Let me just give this:
“Hiiiiiii, there, uh.”
“Hi?”
“Gotsa smoke?”
“Sure.”
“Gotsa light?”
“Sure.”
“Gotsa pussy?”
“Um…”
“It was worth a shot.”

So now I’m here getting coffee. And chainsmoking. And chainsmoking…