A Truely Loathsome Individual

 I live in a low-income area, sell weapons for a living, and set up shop next to place that sells off-road vehicles of dubious provenance.  Thus, I often see people who are, well, unattractive.  Some are meth freaks with greasy jeans and greasier hair  and teeth that look like halloween candy; others are stumbling drunks; still others are fat white  guys with tribal tattoos on their steroid-enhanced biceps–still, many  of them manage to have at least one redeeming feature.  Recently, however, I witnessed a guy who was so totally repulsive, who had gone to so much trouble and expense to enhance his natural ugliness, who exuded such utterly foul and heinous vibes  that I could not let him go unremarked.  He was  a customer at the afore-mentioned midnight auto supply store. (It sells other stuff–right now, for instance, you could buy a western saddle or a cement mixer.  But I digress.)

 His posture was awful, he slouched and slumped when he wasn’t strutting.  He was average height, well above average weight.  He had a double chin and a moderate beer gut.  Nondescript short  brown hair, pig face, close-set beady eyes.  His “why-bother ” beard (that is, one of those real short and carefully trimmed ones) did not begin to hide his weak chin or lack of facial bone structure.  One eyebrow was pierced, as was one ear, and the space between his lower lip and chin was pierced, and there was a one-inch spike protruding from it.

He was nattily attired in baggy black pants, dirty sneakers and a t-shirt that wittily announced to the world  that “your little princess is my little whore.”  But wait, it gets better.  There was his vehicle.

I think that what you drive says a lot about you.  In my neighborhood, it often just says “okay, I’m poor.”  I’m not quite sure what his said, but I don’t think it was good.  It was a newish pickup truck, a Dodge Ram.  I contend that any man  who drives a Dodge Ram has serious masculinity issues.  Better yet, it was a short-bed.  (Get it?  SHORT-bed?  Ahem.)  It was one of those slightly jacked-up affairs, with a step bar so you could at least get into the damn thing without a ladder.  The rear window was tinted dark.  The icing on the cake was the decals.  Two of them, both white silhouettes of naked women–okay, they had on high heels.  The one on the left had horns and a tail.  The one on the right had wings and a halo. 

Somehow, I doubt the guy dates very much–at least, not without setting a fee in advance.

On Relapse: A 12-step poem (sort of)

 Some months ago, our meetings swelled
To fifty souls or more.
More recently, the numbers fell
To fewer than a score.

 Why did they choose to fail, to lose,
Those ones who left our door?
Why did they choose to dope and booze
Just like they did before?

 They worked the steps, they read the books,
They made the meeting’s hour.
Did they all buy the heinous lie
That says we have no power?

 The toxic waste some choose to taste
Is quite devoid of will.
It has no say to rule or sway–
We choose to take the pill.

We each create the life we live
And therein lies our power.
We each can choose to win, or use–
To wither, or to flower.
 

Notes–this was inspired by the fact that a lot of folks have been
dropping out of our NA group lately, including one guy who was a
veritable rock star of NA–had a great business (he was a general
contractor); had lots of expensive toys–motorcycle, four-wheeler, and
so forth;  and lived in a big ugly house he built, with his young
trophy wife. Celebrated his anonymity by wearing a jacket with
“NA” on it in big letters. He always spouted the NA line, 
but went out and started drawing $500 a day from his business account,
blew it all on dope.    He is in rehab now.

Step One–”we admitted we were powerless over our addiction.”

The poem is, I think, very interesting from a technical point of
view, what with the internal rhymes and symmetry of the first and last
stanzas.

More Kitten News

I am letting them go out on the porch of the cabin now, on short supervised jaunts.  They are still too slow and clumsy to  run around loose outside.  Campbell especially likes the outdoors, runs madly toward the door whenever it is open.  Randy and New Jersey show little interest in the great outdoors, however. 

Sometimes I pop them into a cardboard box, to get them used to it–it will be their home when and if I ever make them outside cats.

Their mom–Frankie the cross-eyed Siamese– continues to amaze me with her feistiness-when she showed up, forlorn and preggars, on my doorstep last winter, she was sooo shy and self-effacing.  Then she got established and booted out Silky.

Last night, I heard this ROWR ROWR ROWR, and some thumps, followed by a YIPE YIPE YIPE–grabbed a gun, went outside just in time to see a decent-sized dog running away from her. You go, girl!

Guilt trip note to SuSu–bring the camera next week!!

Saved by Rock and Roll

If today were a horse, you’d shoot it.  If it were a building, it would be condemned.  The weather isn’t just shitty, it is spectacularly shitty–rain varying from drizzle to downpour, intermittant high wind that is getting much of the stuff on my porch wet, and which blew away the tarp over a neighbor’s yard sale stuff.  (Aside–this bothers me.  They are nice people, just scraping by, and I feel for them.  This bothers me even more.  After years of intensive therapy for my Narcissistic Personality Disorder, I am developing a soupcon of compassion and empathy.  It sucks.  Cold and selfish was more comfortable.  But I digress.)  I was expecting the weather, but what makes it particularly heinous is that late yesterday, a regular customer I don’t see often (he drives a pilot truck for over-size loads) stopped by, asked about coins and some other stuff I only sell to regulars.  He said he’d be back around seven or so today, so I spent a lot of time and energy digging out a bunch of coins and stuff, which is now adding to the clutter in the front seat of my car.

It gets better.  I’m getting dressed this morning, the laces of my white sneaks are suspiciously wet, and I don’t think it is Evian water.  It is eau de kitten, so I spray my shoes with that pet odor-killing stuff, overshoot and wet down some merchandise sitting on my chair.  Then I noticed my truss felt loose–all the stitching I’d done on the buckle had come undone, so I disrobed and started looking for my old truss.  I remembered it was somewhere in the laundry basket, started digging down through the summer clothing and camo stuff, finally said fuck it, and dumped the whole mess on the bed, much to the consternation of Frankie, who was on the bed at the time.  Finally found the damn thing and put it on–thing is, being a cheap piece of crap (all hernia trusses are cheap pieces of crap–they are designed that way, since they are just meant as an ad hoc stopgap until you get the operation, which I can’t afford, so I have been wearing trusses for like seven years), it pinches me severely in the groinal area.  Trust me on this, the groinal area is one place you really don’t want getitng pinched all the time.  So I liberally applied some corn starch to my naughty bits (and the carpet in the process), which helped a little.

But I am still not a happy fucking camper.

Get in the car and get going.  Once I am well on the way, THEN I notice my bad eye needs some eye drops.  To hell with it, the orb can wait until I get to the post office.  Then an on-coming driver flashes his lights at me–shit, I forgot to turn on the headlights.  I ALWAYS remember to turn on the headlights–okay, almost always.  I wonder what is going on with the stars and such, look forward to checking my horoscope on-line, remember that my astrologer is on vacation.  Shit, now I know how rich New Yorkers feel in August when their shrinks all go to  Europe–lost and afraid.  So I guess I’ll make do with the sun sign stuff in the daily paper.  Sigh.

I decide to make some music, dig into the tape box and get best of Foreigner, stuff it into the tape player.  Out comes “Urgent”.  Wow–when this was big, I was dating Paula, the girl with “forearms like a fullback” (her words).  Smart, blonde, sexy as hell.  We started dating in the early eighties, not long after I got out of rehab for the second time and had quit drinking booze AND smoking dope.  Gee, those were good times.  I was driving a new sports car at the time (Fiat X1/9, which is now a lawn ornament at our old place).

Then I snapped back to the present–I am cleaner and soberer and less nutty than ever before, I am married to an awesome woman who makes me look normal, I’m driving a wonderful car I love, I run my own business which I enjoy, and  I have a cabin-full of kittens and a heart full of love (which sounds like a really bad country song, but so what?).

Life is good.

Kitten News

Of the six new guys, Albion and Frodo continue to show the most personality.  Albion is the odd kitten out, often sleeping when the other five are in pin-ball mode, bouncing around the cabin and off each other; eating when the others are all sleeping; and so forth.  Frodo is the adventurous one–first out from under the bed, first one out of the cabin.  Campbell–the calico tabby–is getting pretty adventurous, too.

I had thought they were doing well with the litter-box thing, but this morning I found LOTS of evidence to the contrary under the table.  Lots of little kitten-poops and puddles of pee.   Found out where Campbell’s diarrhea went. A little day-pack emblazoned with the Christian fish symbol was especially urine-soaked; discarded the thing.  (I had found it in the dumpster, and  just kept it as sort of a joke anyway.) Cleaned the rest of the mess up, sprayed with pet odor spray, no problem.

Last night, Silky and her kittens came around–just three now, number four has been missing for weeks  and is presumed dead.  Silky was my first cabin cat, but was deposed when Frankie, the cross-eyed siamese, showed up preggers on my doorstep last winter.(Silky and Frankie were enemies, now they have sort of an uneasy truce, can share the porch without animosity.)  Anyway, all of Silky’s new kittens are pretty much feral, never having been handled as young kits.  CC let me pet her as she (gender?) was eating.  Then I made a big mistake–picked her up.  Interfering with a cat in any way while it is eating  is a feline felony–contempt of cat–especially when the cat is feral.  I experienced numerous puncture wounds and scratches as she escaped my well-meaning but stupid attention. 

Thank goodness for Betadine and microfoam tape.

Announcing a New Religion!

One of the flashiest of the Jesus miracles was the water into wine thing, right?  (Never mind that any half-way competant stage illusionist could duplicate it.)  Turning water into wine was a good trick, godlike powers and all.  However, there is another life-form that can do this as well–yep, ordinary yeast (I bet Kathy already knows where this is going.) 

 So I propose a new religion–the Yeastafarians.  You will worship yeast and consume vast amounts of its by-products, just as the Rastas consume massive amounts of ganja.  As a form of worship.  Donuts will become a sacrament (no bagel-beaters need apply, however).

Elders in the church will wield massive breadsticks as signs of authority.  Mass will consist of lots and lots of beer and  stuffed-crust pizza.  Catholics have the Pope, cardinals, arch-bishops, bishops, and priests.  We will have the Poop, Orioles, Arch- Carhops, Carharts, and Alterboy Toys.

I am still working out the details.  Feel free to add suggestions–you may get  ordained.

Kitten Tales

Well, the six kittens that Frankie had under my bed have started to toddle out and explore the cabin.  First out, a Siamese I named Frodo–intrepid little guy (I haven’t sexed them yet, will refer to them in the male gender for convenience).  Next out was the gorgeous one, almost all white–named Albion (almost albino–get it?).  Them came a mixed brown/white/orange tabby or calico (I can never remember the difference) I named Campbell–he looks Scottish and soupy.  Then there’s Freaky Deaky, a striped guy who freaked when I picked him up.  Next is Randolph S. Catt (Randy for short), an orange and white guy with a white marking across his back that looks like a saddle.  Finally, there is New Jersey  (Jeff for short)– now that one really  requires some explanation.  He is sorta cinnamon-ginger, so I thought about Cinnamon (too cliche) and Cinnabun–(too cutesy) and Cinnamunson, New Jersey (out of the question)  That reminded me of Jeff Goldblum, one of my favorite actors, who played a character called New Jersey in one of my favorite movies (Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai).  Hence, New Jersey etc.

They are of course incredibly cute–later this week, I hope that SuSu will have photos on her site.  I keep the cabin door open a bit and use twelve-packs of sparkling water to keep them in, but they have been able to climb up on top of them.  And as I was getting ready to leave, Campbell was climbing into the litter box.  Sigh.  How fast they grow.  Love ‘em to pieces.

More later.

Update on the Update

I peeked in during the day, no sign of him.  Unless he is under the bed scrunched up against the wall or sorta curled up right in front of the door, the guy is out running around loose.  I wonder what he is doing for meds.

Next–when I am feeling better–an update on the kittens.

Update:  The Neighbor from Hell

Well, he is on another binge, but this time he is at least being quiet about it.  Started maybe a week ago, when I caught him sneaking around the back of the cabins toward his place with a half-rack of cheap ice beer (the drug of choice–along with meth–for the local losers).  He was barely coherant when he got the landlord to cash his welfare check that day.  The last time I saw him was this past Friday, when he was heading toward his cabin from the direction of the local liquor store, may have had bottles in the pockets of his fatigue jacket.

Last night, the landlady called me out, wanted to talk to me about him.  Hadn’t seen him for days, she wondered if he was dead.  I tried his door–the knob turned, but the deadbolt was thrown.  Checked the side windows, all the blinds were drawn. I peeked through the window in the front door, saw his empty unmade bed, couldn’t see a lot of the floor–he made have been on the floor, or under the bed. Later today I will check again.

Biggest question in my mind–if he IS dead, will I be able to scrounge his TV and home theater system?

The Case of the Burgled Bunny

For new readers, the strip of cabins and storage units where I set up my flea market stand is unkindly known as Felony Flats–or Ghetto Lakes.  This refers to the fact that many of the denizens are ex-cons, welfare moms,   professional loonies (that is, folks who at one time would be in mental hospitals, but who are sent out into the world with a pat in the head and a handfull of pills–they are usually harmless unless they forget to take their meds and/or go on alcohol binges–but I digress), meth freaks, and other individuals who do not have much role in, say, setting national policy on foreign affairs.  Shit, I am one of the most respectable epople there, which alone should tell you a lot.

I have a 10 by twelve foot cabin which I share with ten cats, so I don’t have much closet space–shit, I don’t even HAVE a closet. Hence, I have a lot of stuff stored on the porch–boxes of videos and books, a cube fridge, a typewriter, jugs of water, laundry detergent–stuff like that.  And although I have lived there for three years, no one has ever messed with my stuff.  This is partly because I live close to the offic under a big security light : partly because I make an effort to ingratiate myself with my low-life neighbors; and partly because, brain-damaged as they might be, most folks there know better than to fuck with someone who sells weapons for a living.

Last night, I got robbed.  Okay, not robbed–ripped off.  (There’s a difference–ask SuSu, Secretary of Space and Nitpicker General.)  And this happened while I was in the cabin and awake.  I have this cute little porcelin bunny I scrounged out of the dumpster one time, and he sits in the little yard next to my porch steps.  Other than the hanging flower basket and big flower pot on the porch (thanks to SuSu for these amenities!), everything else these is just utilitarian  stuff that has no place else to go.  Right before I went down last night when I went out to lock the car, I notived the bunny was gone.  The rabbit ran!  My bunny had been burgled!

I figured it pretty much had to be the work of a drunk, a loony, or an irresponsible kid–we have plenty of all three here.  Being a smidge paranoid, I wondered if this was some weird plot to fuck with my head, but figured the locals incapable of such subtleties of thought.  This morning, I mentioned it to Tawanna, the landlord’s wife.  She knew nothing about the lone lepus.  A bit later, I talked to the landlord, who laughed and showed me where it has landed, minus one ear, in the trash can.  It seems his three-year old had purloined it and was carting it around in a toy truck.  It fell out, the ear broke, and Mike, not knowing–or caring, evidently–who the owner was, just pitched it.

But I got my bunny back, and Mike provided me with a tube of Superglue to replace the ear.  The really cool thing is, one of my knife stands arrived broken.  The wholesaler will replace it gratis, but I won’t have to return it, since the shipping charge would exceed its value.  All I have in the way of cement is Elmer’s, which is not puissant enough for the job, and the Superglue will be perfect.

The Universe works in strange and mysterious ways.  Whenever I need something, I always get it, one way or another.  SuSu calls it being in the Flow.

Life is good.