MREs and Nuremberg

Last night at the Possum Hilton wasn't too bad; even though it was cold and uncomfortable (as always), at least, courtesy of my friend Kyle, I had a hot meal. Kyle had a case or two of MREs left over from Gustav, which he had offered to give me. I worked until midnight last night, and he gave them to me. Of course, I couldn't carry a whole case with me, but I snaked two of them and put the rest on top of the lockers upstairs. What I will do is grab one or two when I need them and take them with me.

For those of you who have never experienced an MRE (in South Louisiana, after Katrina, Hugo, Gustav and Ike, we are all too familiar with them)or, "Meal, Ready to Eat", they are self-contained meals, featuring an entree, a dessert, a snack and usually some fruit or beans, along with cold and hot drink mixes, matches and toilet paper (of sort). The package contains a chemical self-heater, which is activated by water, and will get your entree and coffee quite hot. I had ravioli, a brownie and pineapple. I stashed another MRE (believe it or not, "omelet") at the PH, for later.

I went by work before noon and cashed my check and got a bottle of chardonnay. I have a reservation at La Quinta for three o'clock, and I am off until three tomorrow, so I will get a shower (probably two) get to watch TV and (hopefully) spend some time online. I will also eat over at Mestizo's, which is a Mexican Restaurant next door, with great margaritas. That is my plan for "hotel day". I texted Travis and asked if he and Fernando wanted to join me for dinner, but they are going to the State Fair, instead. Of course, it is back to the PH again tomorrow night, but I do have an MRE and a movie I can watch. At least, for tonight, I have reasonable shelter.

A friend told me to call United Way; that they might be able to recommend resources to me, as far as shelter. I am still trying to track down the heretofore elusive (and possibly mythical) $75-per-week rooming house "near the Capitol" that I was told about. Baton Rouge does not seem to have any rooming houses or resident hotels that I have been able to locate (except for the Alamo Plaza, which is a notorious crack venue). I am going to spend some time tomorrow in search of residence, even if I have to physically ride around downtown and look.

When I got to work, I was confronted by a member of management who wanted to know exactly why I closed last night I said, "Because I was told to. I was asked if I could stay until midnight, and I said 'yes', and I did." It seems somebody noticed that I had 6 hours of overtime and had apoplexy. I was only following orders. I just realized: that excuse didn't exactly work at Nuremberg ...

Anyway, I get hotel night tonight. Yay. I will spend a lot of time online tonight researching ways out of my current predicament. That is what I am doing now, besides writing this blog. I will check out Craig's List and any other sites I can find. I have been doing this almost daily, besides looking in the classified section of the paper. There has to be a way out of this ... I just have to keep looking.

Bacon and a Shower

So, like most Wednesdays, today I am broke again (until tomorrow). Maybe I can borrow a few bucks from K. I can ask, anyway: he comes in this afternoon, and I work at 2. Tomorrow is Hotel Day. I can hardly wait.

It was FUCKING COLD last night, at the Possum Hilton. I think it was about 36 degrees. I was writing on my latest work when the power went out, all over the neighborhood. Everything went black, except for my laptop screen. People came out of their apartments and started screaming like idiots (it's a college neighborhood). Then, the power came back on.

This morning, I went by Travis' apartment (which is, like, mere feet away) and got to take a shower. That was the first shower I have had since Sunday. I hate being dirty. It is one of the worst things about being homeless (and believe me, that is a long list). Went by the store to check my schedule, and there were some fresh bacon samples in the deli, so I snagged some for breakfast. I scrounged up about a buck's worth of change from my backpack, so I have enough for a drink, when I get to work. Hopefully, I can borrow a few bucks from K., so I can eat later.

Right now, I am sitting at CC's. I didn't have enough money for coffee, which makes me feel a little guilty, but I drink coffee here all the time (like, every day), so I don't feel that guilty about not buying anything today, even though I will be here for the next couple of hours. I have to be somewhere, and this isn't so bad. I can go online, blog and write.

I have tried and tried to delete Civilization IV from my machine, so that I can re-install it. It stopped working after I downloaded a patch for it about a month ago, and it hasn't worked since. I can't quite seem to get rid of all the files, and the damned installer won't install the thing again until I get rid of them. This pisses me off, because I love the game, and I could pass a few good nights at the PH, playing it. This is very frustrating. I have tried to get hold of Firaxis Games, but to no avail. They don't list an e-mail address for tech support. If anybody out there has Civ IV, DON'T INSTALL THE UPDATE PATCH: your game will stop working.

I decided to only have one Hotel Day per week: otherwise, I will not be able to save any money. I can't count on Bridget, obviously, to pay me anything any time soon, so I'm going to just have to save the money for an apartment without her paying me back. I figure this could take 8-10 weeks, if I really scrimp and don't spend any money, and it is going to get awfully cold at the PH by that time. Still haven't been able to locate any rooms for rent, but I will look around some more this week. That would be a lot better option than hotels and he PH.

Guess that's about it for now. Not much to talk about today, I guess. I hope I can scrape up the money to eat tonight: I am hungry.

C'est la Vie

Well, went to work and actually worked an extra hour and fifteen minutes, so no-one was mad because I was late. Sasha didn't show up for work in the liquor department, so I spent an hour in there so that Catherine could take her meal break and work Sasha's shift. I can't believe all these people who don't show up for work! I'm not upset about it, because it gives me 40 hours a week, when I pick up their shifts. Hey, I'm homeless: what the hell else do I have to do all day? My schedule is eminently flexible. If I stay late, it's a few more hours of air conditioning (or heating ... it is cold out tonight!) I get to enjoy, with indoor plumbing and food and drink available, provided I have enough money to pay for it.
Sure enough, I had a fucking thief come in! I hate fucking thieves! I mean, I am as poor as any of these guys: I don't even have a place to live, and I don't fucking steal! These lousy ratfucking scumbags just take whatever they want, whenever they want it. I don't care if the stuff they steal doesn't belong to me, the very fact that they take it chaps my ass!

This was a typical one. He was black, forty-something, unshaven and smelly, with a huge beer gut and a stained baseball cap. He was riding a ragged out cheap-ass trail bike. He stuffed two bottles of Absolut Peach in his pants and started out the door. I stopped him and said, “You want to give me back my vodka before you leave?” He said, “What vodka?” I said, “The fucking vodka hanging out of your fucking pants, you fucking moron!”
He pushed past me and went outside. I called for security and followed him outside, where he proceeded to mount his bike (next time, I'm commandeering the bike!). He said, “You can't touch me: it's illegal!” I laughed at him and said, “You fucking ass! Stealing our vodka is what's illegal!” He said, “I come in here like this.” I said, “I saw you steal it, you fat, lying sack of shit!”
Unfortunately, he rode away before management showed up, and I am strictly not allowed to detain shoplifters, or I could lose my job. Apparently, Gardeshia (who used to work in liquor, but has moved on to a better job) used to bust him all the time, and the only time he would come in was when her car wasn't in the lot. She used to stop shoplifters all the time and get the stuff back from them, too, but I know I couldn't get away with it: I am too male and too white. One of these days, though, if there are no witnesses, and we are not in sight of a security camera ... hey: it would be his word against mine.

So, tonight, I made it to Serrano's. Unfortunately, the WiFi is down, and I can't get a good enough signal from The Chimes, next door, to keep a connection, so I'm writing this in OpenOffice, and I'll blog it tomorrow on the way to work, probably at CC's. There are a few good things: half-price margaritas (I'm on number two), guacamole, and a table full of fresh chicken, right next to me. One is the sweetest little thing, in a black hoodie, with honey-blond hair and soft brown eyes. Yum. His buddy in the orange ball cap ain't bad, either.
Sunday, Travis told me that he was lacking only Alaska and Hawaii to complete his State Quarters collection. Today, I got an Alaska quarter in change, so I texted him and asked if he'd trade me the use of his shower tomorrow for it. He hasn't gotten back to me. I am hoping he will, so I can get a shower before work. I hate going around dirty, and hotel day isn't until Thursday. I am going to try to hold myself down to one hotel day a week: I'll never save any money, otherwise. Fresh sheets, AC, TV and a shower are so alluring, though. It's so hard to resist, especially when I haven't had a shower in days, and my neck hurts from sleeping on the plywood at the PH. I'm naming the rat “Dick”, BTW, in honor of our (soon to be ex-!) VP. I'm probably insulting him (the rat, I mean).
Just found out it is not half-price margaritas tonight ... good thing, before I ordered another one and overspent my budget. As it is, I am only going to leave the waiter a dollar tip, which makes me feel bad, but I am in here a lot, and the next time he waits on me, I will tip him double. Maybe I can borrow $20 from Travis tomorrow. A shower would be a good thing, too. It may be Thursday before I can get online again. Oh, well, C'est la vie.

Possum Hilton Redux

This evening, as most, finds yours truly at the Possum Hilton. Worked a shift for a girl who complained that she only got three days off a week. Go figure. If you haven't figured out that I use the phrase “go figure” a lot, you don't know me. I say it a lot. What it means is: here is something to think about that I have thought about, so, let me know what you think about it, because maybe we have come to the same conclusion. Whenever I write anything, that is what this phrase means.

Back at the PH! Yay! I just discovered more interesting things about my surroundings. Let me describe them to you (you, who may not even exist, if this blog is never read by anyone else): there is a space, which used to be a garage for two cars. There is an apartment above it. The foundation for the upstairs apartment is mostly of cinderblock. {here, there is a Strange Interlude}.

STRANGE INTERLUDE:

The winds howl outside ... I feel the chill, from the North ... always from the North ...

I hear a mad scrambling, in the walls, behind me ... could it be ...?

A rat! A rat! Could it be Dick Cheney? No, I reassure myself: it has no Secret Service detail with it, only a single, ropy, ratty tail, like that of a possum . It is fat, fat with the richness of a thousand billionaire bailouts! It waddles, bloated with amortizations, blathering excuses while it wields the whip without mercy. Its tail is scabrous, strangely ... not unlike that of an opossum ... then, BLACKNESS!

END OF STRANGE INTERLUDE.

So, not only do I have a possum as a roommate, but there is (at least) one rat, too. It appears to be a common black rat ( Rattus rattus) and not its larger and more aggressive cousin, the brown rat (Rattus norvegicus). I hope it doesn't carry the Plague. I would really hate to be Patient Zero for the coming pandemic. Of course, if I survived, there would be the book rights and the inevitable movie "based on a true story". Maybe I could get Whitley Streiber to ghost it for me.

It was cold last night, in the PH, when I was writing my Strange Interlude. I had a bottle of chardonnay to keep me warm, but I would rather have had a roaring fire. That isn't really practical at the PH, as there is no fireplace. I've got to get on the landlord about that; that and the lack of a jacuzzi, wet bar and continental breakfast (a free one: not the Courtyard by Marriot sneaky I'll-just-tack-that-onto-your-account-shall-I? type). All hotels should have free continental breakfasts, and free Depends for incontinental breakfasts.

I texted Travis to see if I could borrow their shower this AM, but he was at the library, so it will be a quick sponge bath in the employee rest room at work for me. I probably won't get another shower until Thursday which is "hotel day". I live for "hotel days" and Sundays with Travis and Fernando: I really don't do anything else for fun.

Watched the rest of Iron Man last night. Stan Lee is sure getting his props these days. If you think about it, Iron Man was kind of prescient: it was the first idea I can recall of augmented human systems, which robotics has been pursuing ever since, and which have actually been used, in a limited way, since the 1970's. I wonder if that suit gives Tony Stark climate control. Might be useful at the PH. Rodent control would be useful, too.

Bridget texted me bak and told me how sorry she was that I am homeless, but that her brother died and she had to pay for the funeral. Maybe I should die and she would pay for my funeral. Probably not. At any rate, her brother hasn't died for FIVE FUCKING MONTHS, so that just sounds like one more BS excuse to me.

I am sitting at CC's (like most mornings), drinking coffee and using the free WiFi. There are a few regular denizens here, who are always on their computers. I wonder if any of them are wireless nomads like me. Could be. That black guy who always sits in the corner: he is usually here when I get here and here when I leave. Hmm. Lots of students, but you expect that at any coffee shop, particularly if it has WiFi.

I work 2-8 today. If I get off in time, I will cruise by Serrano's (it's half-price margarita night). Oops: Kyle just called me and told me that I have to be there at 12, so I'd better go right now. Damn: I wrote 2 PM down on my little piece of receipt paper. Oh well, I a close to overtime, anyway, so I doubt if anybody will be too mad at me.

More later, probably from Serrano's tonight.

text duel (n):

the situation where two people engage in an argument and/or name-calling session by texting over a cellular phone or blackberry. E.G: "I can't believe Muffy got in a text duel with me over that thing with Chad! What a bitch!"

Another Perfectly Good Day Shot to Hell

Got a whopping $50 from Bridget. I was at work and she sent Christie (her trained chihuahua) in to give it to me. She didn't even have the guts to face me herself. Christie didn't either, she literally sneaked up behind me, pt $50 on the counter, and was halfway out of the store before I turned around.

I woke up about 9:30 the next morning, when Travis came into the PH to do laundry. We went back to their apartment and had coffee, and I got to take a shower and do my wash. Bridget texted me and said she wanted to talk, and I texted her back and said no, thanks, I just want my money. This prompted a text duel. She texted me back "man if thats how u feel fuck it". I said, how do you expect me to feel, since I bailed you out and I'm homeless, and you have made only the slightest of efforts to pay me back (Imagine, her getting all huffy because I'm pissed at her. Who wouldn't be pissed off, in my situation? Like, I don't have the right to get angry when people crap all over me?). Then, she texts me back: "man im trying fuck my brother just died no insurance im fucking trying get it 2u as fast as I can". I understand that her brother just died,but he hasn't died for the past five entire months. God knows when I will see more money from her. If I could afford to, if I had enough money to live, I'd just blow the whole thing of: this is like dentistry in the days before novacain.

Anyway, I hung out with Travis for the morning, then we all went to Subway and got some lunch. I ended up working 2-10:30, and went back to the PH and watched Iron Man (yeah, there was nothing wrong with my machine: it was those used DVDs from Blockbuster). Travis said they wouldn't run on his computer, either, until he installed a new freeware reader, called Interactual, so I'm going to download it today.

In a bizarre twist, the following story was reported about Michelle Obama: according to the New York Post, on October 16, while her husband was giving a speech, Michelle Obama ordered room service at the Waldorf-Astoria and gorged herself on "imported champagne, lobster and caviar". The only problem is that Mrs. Obama was in Fort Wayne, Indiana, at the time, giving a speech. The Post printed a retraction, but that didn't stop Neo-Con propagandist Sean Hannity from blathering about it all day long on his imbecilic radio show where he repeatedly referred to her as eating "Iranian caviar", as though this (being, I suppose, axis-of-evil caviar, as opposed to merely nasty old Russian caviar) was not only an example of the Obamas' "liberal elitism", but a tie to terrorist sturgeon, as well. I don't recall hearing a retraction from Hannity, but he is a butt-plug.

This morning, I was awakened by an old black guy with a weedeater, which he was utilising to spread large amounts of dust all over the neighborhood. I got dust all over my laptop before I got up an closed it, so I left the PH early (I don't work until 3) and rode to CC's, where I got a large coffee, so I can surf the net, write and blog in peace. Looks like I will have 40 hours this week: I get a lot of hours because I will work any time. Of course, I don't have a lot else to do, especially anything that is particularly time-sensitive or schedule-oriented. I live like flotsam.

Maybe, when I get off, I will have time to get a margarita at Serrano's. All I have eaten today is a blueberry scone, and I probably won't eat again until later. My budget until Thursday is $30. Failing the development of some kind of solution to my housing problem, I guess it's La Quinta again on Thursday, with clean sheets, a shower, TV and (hopefully) WiFi. That, and Sundays with Travis and Fernando, is the only good stuff going on these days.

Travis won a contest at Albertson's (posibly because of me): every time I went into the liquor department, I would fill out these contest blanks for the two of them (since I work there, I can't win anything), for a contest which would get you a case of wine and some other stuff. Travis won it, and got a case of wine, a giant stuffed tiger, an LSU blanket, two folding chairs, portable ice chest and two tickets to the LSU-Tulane game, this week-end! Wow! So they get to go to the game on Saturday. I must have filled out about 20 or more blanks for them, so it is a possibility that that helped, even though Fernando filled out a bunch of them, too. Travis certainly had an advantage, statistically ...

Now, if my dream comes true, and I hit the Lottery ... It wouldn't have to be a lot. I'm not greedy. All I want is enough money to rent an apartment. Okay, buying a condo would be better. Or a small private island. Anything would beat the Possum Hilton.

Gee, it's only 11:00, and I have four hours until I go to work. I would like to be sleeping, right now; it was cold last night (it's going to be colder tonight), I was really uncomfortable and the weedeater dude ran me out of the place with his dust storm. I guess I'll get something to eat in a little while. Perhaps some wonderful new adventure awaits me, just around the corner ...

I sure hope not.

Message in a Bottle

Worked a 10-hour shift yesterday, after my mini-vacation at La Quinta, then, it was back to the Possum Hilton again. It was kind of chilly last night, and it is never really comfortable there, but I managed to get some sleep. I am at CC's, sipping an iced coffee and blogging. Today i game day: LSU vs. Georgia at 2 PM, and traffic is starting to build up on the roads around campus. It was really noisy last night, with a lot of students (and non-students) holding pre-game parties and tailgating. Finally got to sleep around 1:30 or so, when things quieted down a little. Texted Travis a couple of times, to see what he was doing, but he never texted me back.

Of course, the $100 from Bridget didn't materialize. I sent her a message yesterday, that I really needed the money and that I was running out of patience, since it has been FIVE FUCKING MONTHS, and all I have seen from them is $80. She messaged me: "just getting back trying to sell my speakers 2 pay u not fucking u got 2 pick mom up bring u something 2morrow i want 2 pay u off dont have it trying." How about that shit? So, this AM, she texts me: "bring you 5o 2day". Now, it's $50, and I still don't even have that. I have $10 left from my check, until Thursday. Somehow, I really don't think somebody is trying all that hard. I don't want to hear hard luck stories: I think mine would beat hers any day. I am not getting anywhere like this. I can't count on anybody to help me, not even to do what they should do, what they promised to do. If I'm going to get out of this mess, I'm going to have to do it alone, without anybody else's help. I'm beginning to think that nobody really cares.

My family doesn't, apparently. When Evan left, he told me not to think as though I was being abandoned, but, since Dad left, nobody has called me or contacted me. I don't even have Dad's new phone number, in Dothan. I feel as if I have become permanently disconnected: gulaged. I try not to think about things like that, because, if I do, I get really depressed, and it is hard enough to find the will to keep on going, and, if I give up, I'm dead. The loneliness of my existence is bad enough. I actually live to work, now. Isn't that fucked up? Something has got to change. So many people offer platitudes and tell me not to worry, that things will get better, but they aren't getting better. Oh, yeah: and keep praying, as though that will help. The only thing I get from prayer these days is a busy signal. Prayer helps sustain me, but I don't see God jumping up to give me a hand. Sorry: I just don't. I don't buy into that: "Be thankful for the blessings you have." stuff, either. The people who usually say stuff like that are doing fine. You don't hear a lot of people in my situation saying stuff like that. Oh, I could say it, all right, but I wouldn't mean it: it would be hypocrisy. Maybe I am whining too much. Maybe I should just start counting the god things in life, like possums. My possum must have stayed out late last nigh: he didn't wake me up this morning. I hope nothing happened to him (or her); I have become fond of it, whatever it is. It's my only boon companion. Maybe it hooked up with another possum. It's probably having more sex than I am ...

Well, ten days until the Election of the Millennium, and Obama seems to be ahead. November 4th is going to be a real trip. I am going to talk to the officials at LSU Lab School, where our precinct is, about giving us temporary WiFi connectivity (it was locked, last time we were there) so we can follow the election (and so we can have access to the Secretary of State's website, to look up voter's records: that would be a great help). Since Peggy an I both bring our laptops, we can maximize our efficiency that way. I think it will be a long, long day.

Got to get something to eat, before I go to work: all I had yesterday was a piece of fried chicken. We have good fried chicken, but I am tired of fried chicken. I might just eat some salad, instead.

Gee, I wish I had something more fascinating to post, but I don't. I don't even know if anybody is reading this crap. Maybe it's just going out there into the blogosphere, like a tree falling in a forest, and no-one to her it. I guess it's therapeutic, though. I wish I knew if anyone has read any of it, and what they think about it. Maybe I don't want to know. If there's anybody out there, and you read this, please let me know something. I'd like to know that my life has meaning ...

How to Become Homeless

I'm actually writing this without an internet connection. I spent my paycheck today, pretty much. I bought about $60 worth of bike parts that I needed (since it's the only transportation I have). I am spending my one night a week at La Quinta: had a shower when I checked in, and I'll have another before I check out. Bought some deodorant, some insect repellent (de rigeur at the Possum Hilton), some shave cream,and AAA batteries. I was riding last night and my front blinky light was fading fast. I wondered about that until I remembered that I had used the batteries a few times in my little portable vibrator (okay: I don't get any sex these days ... and I don't think, in my current circumstances, that I would want to have sex with anybody desperate enough to have sex with me. Give me a fucking break!), so I got enough for blinky light and happy-toy. Oh, and it's not an anal vibrator, okay: just one of those massage things, for relieving tension. It blinks colored lights, too. Neat-o.

I had lunch at Zippy's, which is this cool taco/burrito place on Perkins Rd. Had a couple of happy hour margaritas (you might think I like margaritas) and tamales. Their prices (especially lunch) are great, and everything is fresh. Hung out with the owner for a while. He is a really nice guy. Then, I rode to La Quinta and checked in. Nice and cool here, but WiFi wouldn't let me connect to the internet. The front desk gave me a number to call, so I called it. The woman on the other end had a foreign accent, and I could hear Russian spoken in the background, so I asked her, in Russian, if she spoke Russian, and where in Russia she was. Turns out she is Polish, and she was speaking to me from Warsova (her Russian was flawless). We spent almost two hours on the phone, while I reconfigured every fucking thing I could reconfigure on my machine. I had this happen at La Quinta before: there is a physical cable problem with the goddamned access point. You can't fix that from Poland. Outsourcing has limitations.

Went to work and worked 6-12, then came back here. It is cool and there are two beds. I wish I could sleep in both of them at the same time. I wish I could drag one back to the Possum Hilton, where I will be spending the next week, until I get payed again. This rut is getting deeper.

Oh, yeah: last night, when I got back to the PH, I found my sleeping bag on top of one of the washers. I had stashed it in the dryer because I was tired of carrying it around. The dryer was full of clothes, so they must have actually fixed the damned things. Wow. So, I plugged my laptop in and worked on my novel for a while. About an hour later, this twenty-something dude came in, and jumped when he saw me.

“Sorry, dude,” he said. “You kind of startled me.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn't mean to.” He got his stuff out of the dryer and said have a good one and I said you too and that was it. Didn't seem like the type to turn me in. I'm sure he realized I was sleeping there, with my bike, backpack and stuff all there. Anyway, nobody bothered me in the morning, even the possum, who usually gets home about 6:30 or so, and doesn't even glance at me any more.
I'll be back there again tomorrow night, I guess. The place stinks bad, but it isn't from me: it's the possum (and / or possums: they all look the same to me)! I always bring a bottle of water back to the PH, so I'll have water at night. When it's empty, and I wake up and have to pee, I pee in the bottle. I don't just piss all over the place. I'm not a fucking bum or a derelict. I toss the bottle in a trash can somewhere. This one guy, when I told him I was homeless (I make sure that I tell a lot of people: It's like “coming out”) said, “You don't look that dilapidated.” That pissed me off. Like, I have to fit your ignorant ideal? He was fat, rich, and (God willing) on his last fucking triple bypass.

“XCUSE ME ... where do my THUNDERBIRD be at??????”

I do change names in my blog to protect the innocent, but I don't change anything to protect the guilty. My so-called friend, Bridget, and her roommate, Christie, are good examples of the latter. They owe me $480, and have owed me money since May. This is the story of how I wound up homeless:

Back around April of this year, I was living with my father, who has Alzheimer's and rectal cancer. I was working at Albertson's (where I work now) and saving money so I could have my own place to live, since it was only a matter of time before he would have to have a “higher level of care”, which means “more expensive level of care”. Bridget had just bought a new car when she lost her job (and so did Christie) and had an accident, which was a hit-and-run. Her insurance had a $500 deductible, and she couldn't afford it, so I loaned her $500 to cover that, and a further $60 to cover some other bills. I had about $1300 saved, at the time, so I figured I could do it.

Well, right after that, my family (of which I am not a voting member, being a no-good, homeless faggot), informed me that it was time to move Dad into the “higher level of care” (q.v.), and it would be that weekend. They love surprising me. I hate surprises. Don't ever give me a surprise birthday party: I will run away very fast. Anyway, at the same, exact time (go figure), my friend, Bridget, told me that they could not afford to pay their rent, and that they would probably have to move somewhere, and God knows what would happen to them, boo-hoo. Their rent was $500.

Well, dumb-ass Carl came up with a solution: “Hey, I'll give you guys $100 a week to stay at your place, and you can pay me back the loan, and then you'll be covered, and I'll get an apartment, and everything will be way kewl!” It was such a perfect plan. I was so happy that I'd thought of it. Everything seemed so rosy.

But, it was not to be ...

I was at their place for not quite five weeks (more about this later) and was informed that I would have to leave, because Bridget was going to move her sick aunt in, to take care of her (of course, this never happened). I said, okay, just give me the money you owe me, and I'll get an apartment, and like, no harm, no foul. What I got was $40 in an envelope, laid on the inflatable bed I was sleeping on . It had “Carl” written on it.. I didn't have enough money to get a place to live, and I was on the streets, where I have been, ever since.

Since then, I have received another $40. Yay. The last time, Christie brought it to me at work. She acted as if she were offended, because she had to give me money (once again, in an envelope).

“Here,” she whined. “We're going to pay you back. Why are you disrespecting us?”

What a joke. In five months, I have gotten $80 from my so-called friends. I kept them from being homeless, and my reward is to be homeless. I payed their fucking rent and paid to fix Bridget's new car. I sleep with mosquitoes and possums and get one night a week in a bed: WHO THE FUCK IS DISRESPECTING WHOM?????

Anyway, I am supposed to get $100 on Friday. Wanna bet on if I get it or not? Right now, I have $20 left, from my check, until I get payed again, in a week. Every penny I earn, I spend just to stay alive. Every day I live, my anger grows. The only thing keeping me alive now is anger. I have a new respect for this emotion.

Well, I'm watching Robot Chicken now, and I'm about to go to sleep. It's so fucking nice here, in room 233, even if the WiFi is down. The sheets are clean and the bed is a hell of a lot softer than plywood. There are no mosquitoes, and I really don't miss the possum. Oh, yeah: I did buy a bottle of Chardonnay: $6.99, plus tax. This is my nirvana: too bad I only get 12 hours of heaven a week.

Psychodrama

Wrote my last post at CC's Coffee House on Perkins Rd. Thank God (or man) for coffee houses with WiFi! Fucking Starbucks charges for the privilege, which I think is really absurd for a company based in Seattle, which is, like, IT central and a very progressive city, with free WiFi all over the place, but then, I didn't have to close down hundreds of my franchises nationwide, so what the fuck do I know, anyway? It is half-price margaritas tonight at Serrano's (one of my favorite places, if you haven't noticed) and I am drinking a couple of margaritas and eating queso dip and chips (which is all my current budget will support, at least until I get paid tomorrow), and writing this.

I am a Commissioner-in-Charge for elections, which is one of the people who sits at a table when you go in to vote and certifies that you are qualified to vote, and we had a class for CICs tonight, way down Perkins Rd., at LPB (Louisiana Public Broadcasting), which was a good 5-mile sprint from CC's, and a good 7 miles back to campus. The Election Department is expecting record turnout for the election. There will also be unprecedented coverage by individual voters, via YouTube, which may make this the most reported election in history, by more people than ever efore, in real time. Sounds awesome, but it could present some problems for those of us who have to run the election, so we went over that and a lot of other issues for about 90 minutes, and then I rode back here.

Perkins Rd., like many of Baton Rouge's major thoroughfares, is not terribly bikeable. Streets are spottily maintained here, at best, and that means that I have a LOT of flats and broken spokes. The drivers here are, for want of a better word, mostly assholes. They act as if they had never seen a bicycle before: many are just simply oblivious to the fact that their idiotic actions compromise your life and safety, and a lot of them are just plain nasty. It is a rare day when I don't get horns blown at me and/or obscenities screamed out of windows at me. I have had things thrown at me and even had people follow me down the road, just to harass me longer. Tonight, I was called a "fucking bitch" by some redneck in a black pickup. If he only knew ...

The other night, I was invited to spend the night at my friend, M's. She told me that she had talked to her bf, and that we might work out some kind of deal, at least where I might be able to stay over a night or two a week, and borrow the shower (which is a MAJOR consideration in my current predicament). I said, yay. So, I went by their apartment after I got off. He was out with some friends, which she said she had given him permission to do, since he had been working hard lately and hadn't flown into one of his (apparently frequent)rages. I got to take a shower, and she gave me a samdwich. We sat up talking for a while, and I went to bed, in the spare room, about 1 AM.

About 2:30 or so, I was awakened by the sounds of raised voices and then something being smashed in the living room. I decided that it might be more prudent for me not to involve myself in their "discussion", because I generally do not like insinuating myself between people (especially when they are arguing, and it is none of my business), and for fear of making things worse. Imagine my surprise when she came into the back bedroom a few minutes later and asked to borrow my cell to call the police, because he had turned the electricity off so that she couldn't use the (only) cordless. I let her, then got up and got dressed, because I was not going to let anything happen to my cell: that and my laptop are my lifelines to an actual world.

When I got into the living room, he was gone. She told me that he had split when she called the cops. A cop had come by and she had told him what the situation was, and he had advised her to leave. Of course, being from Montana, over a thousand miles away, she really had no place to go. I could certainly understand that situation: it is mine. Of course, I am not a woman. Being on the streets might be rougher on a woman, although finding shelter might be easier. Of course, the shelter you find might come with a price you are unwilling to pay.

So, we talked for a while. He had left, supposedly for a friends, after destroying her portable stereo and his own laptop (yeah, go figure). He had left the only key and his cell. She told me that she was planning to leave him, once and for all, and go home to Montana. I told her that I sympathized with her, but, because it is against my personal ethos, couldn't tell her what to do. We talked for a while, and I went back to bed again.

About 4:30 or so, I was awakened by pounding on the front door and her bf screaming incoherently outside. A few moments later, the window above the bed where I was sleeping, along with the blinds, came crashing down onto the bed where I was lying, and psycho bf crawled in through it, nearly on top of me.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" he yelled, before exiting the room. I decided that I should get up and see what was going on at this point, for my own safety, as well as hers (he had firearms in the apartment), so I pulled my jeans on and went into the hall. She was backed up against the wall, telling him that she had called the police again, and that they were on the way. He noticed me and turned around.

"Sorry about all this, bro'" he said, in a surprisingly mild tone. "But she's fucking nuts!" Then he left again.

This time, I waited with her for the police. An officer came (the same one as before), only this time, he actually filed a report. He took my name and asked me what I had seen, and I told him. When he asked me my address, I told him I was homeless, and that I had been offered a bed for the night. He asked me why I was homeless, and I explained the story, of how I had stuck my neck out to help some friends, and they had burned me (more on this later).

"I think we had a call like that, a while back," he said, eying me suspiciously.

"If you did," I said. "It wasn't me." It's amazing how some people react when you tell them you are homeless. I notice that a lot of people suddenly look at you as if you aren't quite trustworthy, as if something is wrong with you. One guy recently, an older man, upon my telling him that I was homeless, looked at me strangely and asked, "Are you gay?", as if that had anything to do with it. I asked him why he would ask such an absurd question, and he mumbled something about a lot of "gays" being homeless. I told him that that was one of the most ignorant things I had ever heard.

Anyway, the cop went to look for psycho bf, and I stayed up with M. for a little while. I finally put the window back into place (kind of) and went back to sleep, with one eye open.

I woke up in the morning, and psycho bf was back. I changed into my riding gear and got my stuff and got ready to leave.

"You busted things up!" she told him. "Even your own laptop!"

"You made me do it," he whined (actually WHINED). Isn't it amazing that it's never the abuser's fault. "You made me hit you!" come to mind. Anyway, I was on my way out the door and he said, "I don't want you staying here any more." I was about to say, "No way in hell, you drunk, psycho lunatic fuck!I'll take the possum any day (or words to that effect)!" when he said: "Not you. I mean her." I split.

Of course, my tire was flat and I had to walk to work and fix the tire before I left. M. had told me to tell either Me. or D. at work that she wouldn't be in that afternoon, and explain why, so, when I got there, I told Me., who said that she knew something about the story.

"She's afraid that, if she leaves, he'll lock her out of the apartment," I said. Then added: "He's a violent, abusive, alcoholic psycho." Then I went to work.

I worked a 12-hour shift, then headed back to the Possum Hilton, suddenly appreciative of it's relative peace and quiet. I settled in for the night in my sleeping bag. I had just got to sleep when my cell rang (I have GOT to remember to put it on silent when I sleep!), and it was M.

"My bf really felt bad about last night," she said, sounding as if nothing had happened at all. "We had a long talk, and he's going to stop drinking. Hey. Do you know anybody you can score some weed from? You could come over and we could get high, and you could spend the night. I really need to get totally stoned tonight."

"Uh," I said, half asleep and the other half trying to put my head around this conversation. "I'll get in touch with a few people and I'll get back to you." Then, I went back to sleep. The phone rang again, an hour later: it was M. This time, I put it on silent.

Foo Tamp

The Office of Family Services, which oversees (if such a word is applicable) Social Services in the area in which I live is a squat brick building on the edge of a seedy area near downtown Baton Rouge. When I came here about ten days ago to apply for food stamps, I got here about 7:30 in the morning, to avoid the line. There were about ten people in line,and things went fairly quickly. I filled out my application and waited until my name was called, and then I went through “Door #1”, as a sign made of yellow construction paper, taped to the wall, indicated.

I had my interview with an intake worker, who went over my application with me, took my ID and entered information into a computer. She told me that I might not receive a lot of aid, since I didn't have any recurring expenses. I explained to her that I was homeless, and that I wound up spending most of my money to stay in hotels whenever I could, as I had no place currently to stay at all and had to hold a job, which required some attempt at personal hygiene.

Last Saturday, I spent the last bit of money I had to stay at Hampton Inn. I knew I wouldn't have much for food this week, but I counted on my food stamp award to feed me until Thursday, when I get paid. Didn't have a bad Sunday: Travis and Fernando and I went to see “W”, which would have been a lot funnier if it hadn't all been true, and I split an order of chicken fingers with Travis at the mall, and then we walked around the new “Boulevard”, which has some new shops and a bookstore and restaurants.

Monday, I checked my food stamp balance and was amazed when I found out that I had been credited exactly $0.24. I checked the transaction record, and, sure enough, a transfer was made to my account on the sixteenth of exactly twenty-four cents. So, Monday night, I stayed with my friend M. (more on that, later), and ate a sandwich there. Last night, I was back at the Possum Hilton, after working a twelve-hour shift, and ate a sandwich which one of my co-workers bought for me because she felt sorry for me, and I was starving. So, here I am, on Wednesday morning, back at the food stamp office, waiting to talk to somebody about this farce. This is nuts. Apparently, if I had a place to live, I could get food stamps, because then I would have regular expenses (which would actually be lower than my current ones). Of course, if I was straight, and pumped out three or four or five additions to world overpopulation, I would qualify for even more food stamps, as well as Section 8 HUD housing (which you really wouldn't want to live in, but which beats being out on the streets by a mile). I am beginning to draw the conclusion that the system is really not set up to help anyone. It seems to be some kind of strange game that I don't know the rules to.

So, I wait in the waiting room for three hours, while line after line after line of people file past and disappear behind Door #1, Door #2 (only a few here: must be special cases) or into Room 120, where they show videos about How Not To Use Your Benefits. Finally, there are only three other 'clients' (I love this word)in the waiting room, besides me and the lady cop, who is really nice and says she sees me all over town on my bike. So, I go to Window #2 and say, "You know, I hate to be rude, but I've been here over three hours and nobody has called me to go to a door, and I'm feeling kind of neglected."

The lady takes my SSN (you don't exist to the government without this), flips through some papers, and tells me to take a seat (again). So, I pick up my laptop and continue working on the novel I have been writing. I actually wrote half a chapter, sitting there, so my time hasn't been completely wasted. Finally, a phone on the wall (there are three of them, separated by partitions)rings and the intercom calls my name and says "Pick up Phone #3. So, I pick up Phone #3 and a voice tells me how sorry they are that I've been waiting "for a little while". Then, it tells me that my case has been rejected, and that I don't qualify for benefits.

"Do you guys realize that I am homeless?" I say. "And that most of my income goes towards finding occasional shelter, and that means staying in hotels when I can? And, do you guys realize that I have to work, so I have to bathe at least a couple of times a week, so I'm not all stanky?" Yes, the voice says, but you make too much money to receive benefits." It seems that I average about $1200 per month (gross), and the maximum allowable income for a single individual is $1,157 (gross). Go figure! I'm too rich for Foo Tamp! I guess that should positively affect my self-image, but I would have rather had the food. The voice goes on to tell me that they will be glad to provide me with a resource sheet, and I am tempted to tell the voice what to do with the resource sheet (which lists soup kitchens and the Food Bank), but I just politely say "thank you", and hang up Phone #3.

"Well," I tell the lady cop on the way out the door, "It wasn't a complete waste of three hours: at least I finished a chapter." She says,"Hey. You be safe out there," and I say, "You, too". Then I leave.

I go by the store where I work and ask the Store Director about a $20 advance on my check, so I can eat today and buy a spare inner tube (I had a flat yesterday, and I don't like to travel without a spare, and he says to talk to the bookkeeper. Me. is a wonderful lady (she let me spend the night at her house, once, and her husband even cooked me breakfast!), and she says not to tell anybody, just promise to give it back to her tomorrow, so I get $20, so I can eat tonight and get my spare inner tube. Yay.

I work Thursday night. My plan is to cash my check, pay Me. back (of course)and, hopefully, La Quinta will have a room. If I get in about 3 or so, I can have a shower and clean up before I go to work, and I can wash clothes there when I get off. I will call them Thursday (I have a Preferred Customer card!)and see if I can reserve a room. Something to look forwards to.

It is strange, working in a grocery store with all the wonderful food in it, and checking people out at the register with all kinds of stuff I would love to buy and eat, but I don't have the money. Like yesterday, where I checked people for 12 hours with nothing in my stomach but six pieces of bread from the bakery sample case. One woman bought over $300 worth of snack foods: chips, dip, pizza, sodas, etc. Her kids were coming back from college for a week for Fall break. That was for "in between" meals, if they got hungry. Then, there are the people with their Foo Tamp cards, like the one I have, except they have benefits on theirs. Watching some of the things some of them buy actually makes me angry, sometimes: meat and seafood and luxury items Of course, I couldn't use any of those things anyway, because I have no way to store or cook food, but it makes me jealous, all the same. That's another thing I don't understand: why Foo Tamp doesn't cover hot food? For a while, after Gustav visited us and knocked out most of the city's power, Foo Tamp covered hot meals, but that is over. So, if you are homeless, like me, you are not allowed hot food; punishment, I guess, for your status in life.

And another thing weird: after Gustav, FEMA authorized $160 emergency Foo Tamp cards for everybody living in the affected area. I could have gotten one, but I was working so much I never got the time to go apply. So, all kinds of people are still buying food with the "storm cards". This includes middle class and even upper middle-class folks whose opinion, previously, was generally that Foo Tamp was a program greatly misused (and it is, sometimes) by Cadillac-driving welfare mothers with 67 children and no job. These guys have none of the shame that is often evident with regular Foo Tamp customers, who often hide the front of the card so other people in line won't know that they aren't using a credit card. What a world!

So, what the hell is Foo Tamp for? Well, apparently, not for people like me. I keep wondering: what the hell is wrong with a system that offers little or no help to people who are willing and trying to get out of a bad situation? What is all this for? If I was straight, and had a few dependents, there are a lot of services (albeit not enough, or very good ones) available. Me, by myself, I'm not even a blip on the radar.

Moving to Montana

It's Sunday afternoon and I am back at Serrano's, blogging on the porch and sipping a margarita. It might seem to you like that's all I ever do. It isn't. It occurred to me that some people might read my stuff and think that this homeless stuff is like a vacation or something. It isn't. Yeah, I hang out here and a couple of other places where I can hit a WiFi signal, and I stay in a hotel when I can (like last night), but I pay dearly for it by spending nights at the Possum Hilton and days wandering the streets with nothing at all to do and no place to go. The boredom is terrible. If I am going to keep from going insane, I have to find something else to occupy my time. I am looking for a second job to replace the bread route, since Chester is going elsewhere, and I won't be on the route with him any more. He took a management job with Holsum.

Yeah, I spent last night at Hampton Inn. I highly recommend Hampton Inn. I didn't have quite enough money for a room, so I was headed back to the Possum Hilton, but the desk clerk, a very cute twenty-something boy-next- door type named Sean, asked me if I was a member of AARP or AAA. I said no, and he said, "Sir, the correct answer to that question would be 'yes'", and winked at me, so I said 'yes' and he knocked $10 off the room price, and I got to stay in room 712, with a lovely view of College Drive (and the Albertson's where I work). I figure I will find some way to let Hampton Inn know what a good kid they have working for them: that was way kewl of him.

Another thing happened yesterday that melted my heart. I was checking people out at work and a little old lady came through my line. She made a comment about how high the cost of food was and I said that I agreed with her, and I told her that, when you are in a situation like mine, you sometimes have to forgo food for shelter, and that I thought that this was a terrible thing to happen in a country that is so wealthy, where we can find hundreds of billions of dollars to bail out banks and the men who ran these banks and investment houses into the ground walk away from the train wreck with multimillion dollar golden parachutes, and I can't afford to live anywhere. I have been very outspoken about this kind of thing lately, not because I am whining, but because I am acutely aware of this situation, since it affects me directly, and, I am sure, a lot of other people, in the same kind of situation.

She looked very moved by what I said. I checked out several other people, and then someone tapped me on the shoulder, and it was the lady I had spoken to, and she handed me a bag and said, "Here, this is for you." I said, "No, I couldn't possibly ..." and then she put her hand on my arm and said, "I really have too much." I thanked her and took the bag from her: she had bought me an eight-piece chicken dinner, with cole slaw and potato salad. I almost started crying. So, I enjoyed fried chicken at the Hampton Inn last night, courtesy of a kind little old lady. Every once in a while, I am reminded that, with all the no-good fucking bastards in the world, there are still a few good people around.

So, I debauched myself totally in room 712: fried chicken, chardonnay (of course!) and cable TV. Wrote some on the novel I have been working on, jacked off (which I haven't done in weeks!) and got a good night's sleep between clean sheets. The hotel was full of hot little teen-aged baseball players, here for a tournament. Yum. Couldn't touch, but I could certainly look. That's another thing about this homeless shit: not much chance of sex these days. I don't remember when I actually put my arms around another guy last. I really miss that. This is a lonely existence. I miss human contact. Being touched is a luxury.

One of my co-workers is a girl from Montana, named M. I was working with her the other day and she was telling me how wonderful it is in Montana. She said that wages aren't as high, but that it is really cheap to live there, and that people are amazingly tolerant of others. She said that she was shocked at how bigoted people are in Louisiana. I agreed. A lot of people here hate anyone who even appears to be different. They sure hate bicyclists. I get yelled at, honked at and have things thrown at me, all the time.

So, maybe, when I get some money together, I will move to Montana. Reminds me of the Frank Zappa song, which features the lyrics: "I might be movin' to Montana soon, raise me up a crop of dental floss ..." Anyway, M. is a weird gal, kind of hyper ADHD-type person, but intelligent and sweet. She loves to write, and we got talking about stuff we were writing, and she invited me to spend the night in their spare room. She said she would also ask her bf if we could work out a deal where I could stay with them while I saved money for an apartment (or to move to Montana). So, I hung out with her, where we stayed up all night talking about all kinds of things, and especially stuff we were writing. Her bf finally came home (he works graveyard shifts as an aircraft mechanic) and she asked him about it, but he said no, which she had predicted. "He's kind of an asshole," she said. "But I'm used to it."

So, here I am, sitting on the porch at Serrano's, spending money I can't afford to on a margarita, so I can blog. I'm going by Travis n' Fernando's later, and we are going to the 'mall'. Yay. At least it is something to do, and I can hang out with them for a while before I retire to the Possum Hilton, where, no doubt, I will be spending the next few days. I get paid Thursday, so I can probably get a hotel room Thursday night, even though I shouldn't spend the money. Maybe I can find a place to stay before that. That would be kewl. Otherwise, Montana seems a long, long way away. Big Sky country ...

The Possum Hilton

Ok. So, he other night,, like a lot of nights, I wound up with no place to go. I wandered around for about three hours, until about 12 AM or so, and finally wound up at the church I attend (when I can), St. Alban's Chapel, where I sat in the cool and quiet and prayed and meditated for about 45 minutes. That being done, and no miracles having suddenly occurred, I rode around some more, checking out a few places that looked reasonably safe to crash for the night. Have I mentioned the mosquitoes? Louisiana mosquitoes have been known to carry off pets and small children. Some have reputedly wandered down to Puerto Rico and Mexico where they are referred to as chupacabra. I actually put about 14.5 miles on my bike, just mostly riding around campus.

I finally settled on an abandoned laundry in the little complex that my ex, Travis, and his bf Fernando (who was the one who gave me the idea to start this blog) live. It is under one of the apartments, and is in terrible repair, but there is a big piece of plywood that I could lie down on, and a working outlet that I could use to recharge my laptop. So, I settled in for the night, using some dirty clothes as a pillow. I didn't figure on the number or ferocity of the mosquitoes, which plagued me all night. I got about an hour's sleep. I think I was bitten about two hundred times, which means that I probably now have West Nile virus, Yellow Fever and Malaria.

The piece of plywood that I used for my bed was pretty uncomfortable, but I managed to sleep a little, right before dawn. I was awakened by a lot of noise, like a bus or something, passing overhead. When I looked up, I observed a large, very fat and clumsy possum,crossing a piece of one-by-three, directly over my head. I figured he (or she: I am not really good at sexing marsupials) was probably returning from a night of foraging. I didn't bother it and it didn't bother me, and, a little while later, I got my stuff together, got back on my bike, and left for the day.

When you are homeless, or as I prefer to call it, a "Tempoarily Unhoused Person (TUP), day and night are about the same: there is never anywhere to go. For me, the places I have that I can go to during the day or night are limited. If I am not at work, I have to look for a place to go. The public library is a good place: I can use wireless internet there, they have public rest rooms, and you can always read. I can even check out a couple of DVD's and watch a movie or two. The worst thing is that I can't undertake one of my favorite activities, which is sleeping. It is so very kewl to get have the luxury of going back to your apartment or house, whenever you have a litle time to spare, knock out the lights, crank up the AC, and snooze on the couch or catch a short nap in bed. God, I miss that!

If you have fundage to burn, you can take in a movie, and sleep through it. Pick on that looks really bad, so that you will have no interest whatsoever in it. Sit totally in the back of the audience (matinees are best, during the week), and knock out. Unfortunately, these days, they send bored teenagers in to clear the house between showings. If you wake up in time, you can try ducking: if you are lucky, they won't see you. Sometimes, they don't care. I have sat through three showings of National Treasure 2, and I have only vague recollections of it. It was really cool in there, though, and I assuaed my guilt by consuming a big Coke and a hot dog at prices better suited to Japan.

So, I actually had a little money last night, so, after I got off work, I did something I swore I wouldn't do: I got a hotel room. Not only that, but I actually went to Outback and ate an (albeit inexpensive) steak. I too a shower, washed my clothes, drank a bottle of cheap Chardonnay, and watched Adult Swim. It was fucking paradise! You don't realize, until this happens to you,what you are willing to spend, just to feel like a human being for a few hours. It's like crack to us TUPs. I set the AC to 65, and I didn't feel guilty (not at those prices).

What was worse, after the guilt at spending money I couldn't afford to spend for such fleeting pleasure had just started to set in, I wandered downstairs, in the morning (I had to deliver bread in the AM) to find a lovely breakfast buffet in full swing. Figuring it was like the Continental Breakfast at La Quinta, I loaded up a plate and ate. Imagine my surprise when I was handed a check for $9.79! Beware any food that appears to be free at your better hotels ...

So, I slung bread for 10 hours in Donaldsonville, and got paid $100 cash. got back to Albertson's, where I am an indentured servant,to check my schedule,then headed off to Wal-Mart, where I purchased a sleeping bag and a can of Off. They were out of possum repellent. I figured that I would probably be back at the Possum Hilton, since I really couldn't afford anothe hotel vacation this week.

So, my cheat is, that I rode over to Serrano's, sat on the patio (where I am now, listening to a table full of straight college kids discuss their high school sexual urges), ate a nice (yet frugal) dinner, drank frozen margaritas, listened to a litle live folk music, and blogged, which I am doing now. This is true multislacking.

My next stop is the Possum Hilton. I have a new sleeping bag and a can of generic OFF!, and a computer game I haven't tried yet, and there is an electrical outlet that works. It's a cool night, so it shouldn't be too bad, as long as I am not raped and/or murdered, infected with Ebola, or spattered with possum poo. It is only 11:30: THE NIGHT IS STILL YOUNG.

Another Night on the Street

Okay, so I finally hooked up with m ex and his bf, and hung out with them for a few hours. Drank a few beers, had a sandwich, and we watched Hairspray (the remake, not the old John Waters one). I was kind of hoping they might offer me the couch for the night, but they never do, and I never ask anyone if I can spend the night at their house: I wait for them to offer it. I don't know if this is prde or just being polite on my part. Maybe it's part of both.

So, I had to leave there, with no place to go. I had scoped out a couple of possible places, and one seemed to be okay: even had a somewhat mouldy couch I could sleep on if I had to, but the mosquito problem was so fucking bad that I couldn't possibly stay there. All I need t add to my troubles is a dose of West Nile virus.

So, I cruised the neighborhood, which is right off of campus, looking for some place I might hole up for the night that might be reasonably safe and somewhat mosquito-free. No luck. I was leaving a parking lot over by these apartments when this young guy yelled to me and I recognized him as this kid Brian that I worked with during my brief stint at the car wash in Prairieville, back when Bridget and I were friends, before she fucked me over and left me to rot on the streets. Turns out he lives with his gf in this apartment block. Told him I was looking for a place to crash, but he didn't know any place nearby. So, I took off and rode around the same area for a while, sort of aimlessly, oping something might mysteriously appear and alleviate my fucked-up sitation, but nothing did.

Finally stopped by HIghland Coffees, which is a cool spot where LSU people congregate at night, and they have free wireless, which is where I am now. I don't have any coffee, though, since I wastd my last few bucks on margaritas. I won't have any money until Chester pays me on hursday for helping him with the bread route. So, here I am, on the patio at Highland Coffees, surrounded by happy people all drinking coffee nd chatting and studying and all. This may be as good as it gets tonight. I've got about an hour before my battery dies. There aren't too many mosquitoes, but still a few, buzzing around. There is enough breeze to kind of blow them away.

This would be a good place to tak about how it feels to be absolutely nowhere: it sucks. The worst thing aout being homeless is that there is an acute sense of not belonging anywhere. It's almost like walking on the moon. There is no rest, nor is there a place to rest or sleep, or any hope of one. All the people around you, for the most part, have places to go. They can find peace somewhere. They can sleep and be comfortable for a while. You can't. You are truly a stranger in a strange land. There is the most awful feeling of never being anyplace safe. You wind up having to mve all of the time, for fear of attracting the attention of unsavory people, who will hurt or kill you to get what little stuff you have, or the poice, who will fuck with you out of curiousity, boredom or just plain malice. For a short time, here, I am somewhat safe, but the place will be closing soon and then I ill have no place else to go tonight. I will probably get no sleep tonight, same as last night. On top of that, my battery is down to 45 minutes, and, since I can't afford to buy coffee, I am too ashamed to go inside and plug my laptop into a wall socket: that seems to me to be really rude.

I texted my friend, not asking for asylum, but just hoping he would offer it, but he hasn't gotten back to me. Again, I won't ask for a place to spend the night, but, if it were offered, I would certainly take him up on it. I am so fucking tired. My eyes hurt. I have no idea when I will get a chance to sleep. I intended to go down to the Office of Family Services tomorrow and apply for food stamps before work, but I may be too tired and depressed for that.

There is a table next to me where some young people are sitting: one is an amazingly cute boy with blond hair. He is talking about his trip to Europe, and eating a muffin: a muffin with a muffin, go figure. I envy him. I can hear music from a live band next door at Northgate Tavern. If my situation didn't suck so much, if I had a few companions with me, I might sit back and enjoy the ambiance, but circumstances rob me of that.

All I desire right now, all I truly want, is a safe place to stay for the night, where I can get some sleep, so I can go to work tomorrow. Somehow, I have to find a way to change this situation: I can't endure this much longer. I is draining. It sucks you dry like the mosquitoes that are chewing on my ankles and whining around my ears as I write this. I need shelter. All human beings need shelter: it is one of the basic needs in the hierarchy of needs. If I don't change things soon, I very well may not survive this, at least not intact. My worst fear is to stop caring. I don't want to stop caring. If I stop caring, I'll wind up one of those smelly guys who lives under a bridge and begs you for change so he can buy a bottle of Thunderbird or Heaven Hill Whiskey. I am far too fabulous to let that happen to me. It would be a tragic loss of a vital national resource.

homeless hump (n):

1. the amount of capital needed to convert one's existence from a homeless one to a non-homeless or domiciled one. E.g: "I almost had the money scraped together for that studio, but I couldn't get over that damned homeless hump". 2. A person who is homeless, with whom one has sex; the act of having sex with a homeless person or the state of having sex while being homeless oneself. E.g: "Brian is a real loser: that night in his tent was just a homeless hump". 3. An even-toed ungulate of the genus Camelus, which is unhoused, whether temporarily or permanently. 4. A euphemism, used primarily by social apologists for neo-conservative capitalist ideologies, to explain why certain members of society "prefer" to remain in sordid social conditions. E.g: "The numbers confirm that the nation is almost over its homeless hump, yet a small percentage of society remains homeless."

First Post

Okay. People who have known me for years are going to say something like: "well, gee, you've been playing around with the internet since it was all BBS and text browsers and you've written dozens of websites and never bothered to even put one up, so what's up now? Now you have a blog and you've never even had a half-assed MySpace or Facebook page, so just what the fuck is going on with you? (or words to that effect)."

Well, honestly, up until now, I really didn't think I had anything that important to say.

So, what changed my mind?

Well, almost two years ago, at the advanced age of 53, I suddenly, due to a series of unfortunate events, found myself utterly and completely homeless, with most of my few remaining possessions either in a storage unit (a small one) or on a backpack on my back. So now, like the Wandering Dutchman, forbidden to touch land but once every ten years, I find myself cycling through the streets of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, aboard my trusty 24-sped Cannondale R-300, equipped with my wireless laptop and cell phone, yet every bit as homeless as the local crack addict, stew bum or wandering schizo, relying on my own wits, dumb luck and the help of a few true friends to stay alive, stay employed and (hopefully) one day reach again that acme of human existance: a crummy little studio apartment to call my own.

Sounds like a great plot for aTV show? Maybe. And if it sounds like one to you, and you have a shitload of money to pile into such an adventurous scheme, I am all for it, so long as the laws concerning plaigarism still hold true. Remember, a happy ending to this all to true story would be to get my miserable butt out of this situation and into one a bit more comfortable: a nice condo or beach house, for instance. Hell, this would be a great adventure series if it wasn't so goddamned monotonous, uncomfortable and dirty, and TV and movies are great for airbrushing that stuff out of the gritty truth. Hell yeah, I'll sell out! Right now, I'd give up my virginity for a night at Motel 6 (okay, maybe not Motel Six, but at least La Quinta or Red Roof Inn), if I had any virginity left.

Right now, I am sitting on the patio at Serrano's, just North of LSU, spending my last ten bucks (until Thursday) sipping happy-hour margaritas, glomming the free wireless, and writing this. I am waiting for my ex and his boyfriend to get home, so I can maybe hang out with them for a while, and hoping another friend might text me and ask me if I want to stay over tonight, so I don't spend tonight (like a lot of nights lately) on the streets. I am also enjoying the scenery. It is a pleasant afternon (unless you have to be outside in it, in which case it bites), and there are lots of realy cute young guys out and about on the streets outside. Yeah, if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm gay. There's another plot twist for you.

Oh, yeah: and don't think I am just a bum. I work. Of course, the job I have doesn't allow me to really save enough to get over the homeless hump (q.v.), and climb up out of the primordial ooze in which I seem to be stickily enmired, but it does get me a margarita and a meal every now and then, and a very occasional hotel room stay, with a real bed with real sheets, TV, air conditioning and (if I'm lucky) wireless internet.

As I blog on (is that usage correct?), I will go into the history of my present circumstances in more detail, complete with entirely deserved vitriol, as well as my personal (and probably verbose) observations on the Meaning of Life and other such crap, replete with household (or anhousehold) tips, survival strategies and witty homilies, as I see fit to include them.

Suffice it to say that I am currently on my third (very excellent) margarita, plugged up next to the electric fountain, overlooking scenic Highland Road, and it is a quarter past three. I am still hoping that I mightwind up on somebody's floor or couch tonight, but, if not, I have spent the afternoon scoping out a few secluded spots where I might be able to crash undisturbed for few hours, before I have to b at work tomorrow, at noon. One must always have a contingency plan. Damn, this margarita is good! At least I got to fill up on chips, in case I don't have enough to eat tomorrow.

I guess that's about it for this first blog. I am going to try and cover as much stuff in as much detail as I can while this shit is going on. I hope you don't mind if I hope this is the shortest blog in history, because, believe me, I ain't in this shit for the fun!