Gone, but not forgotten...

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

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?

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

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 ...

... 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

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

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!.