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!.

Lunatics Abound!

They do. Without even trying, I have met three lately:

Loony #1:

Whilst I was at work, selling Food Bank bags at $8 apiece to benefit the hungry and starving of Baton Rouge (this is something that I have first-hand knowlege of), I approached an elderly gentleman, he of leonine countenance and snowy mane, and solicited his assistance in this worthwhile endeavour.

He wanted to know to whom the proceeds would be going, and I told him:"To buy food for hungry people in Baton Rouge." He considered this for a moment, then told me that one had to be careful just where things were going these days, lest that $8 find itself in the wrong hands. He then asked me what would be done with the food purchased for the Food Bank. I told him that I supposed that it would be eaten by hungry people.

He then involved me in a lengthy discussion of how world poverty was being manipulated by nefarious One World Government  plotters in order to bring about One World Religion, One World Government and One World Currency, that President Obama had recently signed a bill into law that would mandate these sweeping changes, and that the mysterious Bilderbergs (q.v.) were behind it. He rattled off a list of organisations who could tell me all about this plot (I was familiar with several, including the Heritage Foundation) and made me promise that I would look into this as soon as I could. I told him that it sounded like the Illuminati to me, that it sounded just like something they would do, and referrred him to Robert Anton Wilson. He didn't donate, but left resolved to track down the Illuminati.

Loony #2:

I got back to the Kamp (I have decided that this is a better spelling option), exhausted, and was taking a shower when I heard another client cursing in the shower. Thinking that he might have injured himself, I asked him if he was all right. He was a fat, hairy redneck guy who has a perpetually angry expression on his face, to whom I have not spoken before (he is a newbie). He told me that he really hated it at the Kamp. I concurred, and said that I was saving money so that I could leave Baton Rouge for parts elsewhere. He asked me why I wanted to leave, and I said because I couldn't find a decent job and I didn't like it here. He then said: "You're a motherfucking liar! You're fucking lying! I growed up in Baton Rouge and I wouldn't live anywhere else! Baton Rouge is the best town anybody could live in! You're a motherfucking liar!"

So much for commiseration. He's on my Do Not Feed! list.

Loony #3:

So, today, I was standing outside the Public Library, waiting for the doors to open. Several others were waiting, too, including the maintenance guy. I said hello to everyone, as is my wont, and said something to the effect that the weather had been unusually Spring-like for the past week or so. One of the waiting patrons, a tall, skinny fellow with long, dark hair who always dresses completely in black, commented:

"That's because of the weather control facility they have under the Bermuda Triangle. That's why they don't let planes fly over it. It's all part of that alien technology they got from Area 51 (I am not making this up, I swear!). It's called Project Icarus (wasn't that in a Bruce Willis movie?). Katrina was just a test: the next one is gonna wipe New Orleans off the map!" He then went on to tell all of us (enthralled as we were) that he had been told by the FBI not to discuss this with anybody or else, because he had hacked into top secret government websites and downloaded all of this tippy-top secret information that nobody else even knew about. He claimed that they were going to have to invent a Force Six designation, just to classify the next one!

I told him that the best way to keep Chinese satellites from beaming those microwaves into his head was to buy a cap and line it with aluminum foil.

Where do they come from? Why do they all want to talk to me?

Just lucky, I guess.

Myriad of Musings

Okay: I have discovered how to post to my blog directly from my mobile, although I still don't know how to post a title to the blog from my mobile or how to post a photo from my phone to my mobile, or even if it is possible, which I hope, since I have had the dickens trying to post photos on my blog through public computers.

Anyway, I was reading this story by Ann Rule, who is this really successful true crime author (she has a website named http://www.annrules.com/) and came accross the following really weird sentance:

     "Death notification, especially of the young who have perished as the result of criminal violence, is the hardest assignment any detective or police officer ever has.(my italics)." I should say so. I should think it was virtually impossible to notify anyone who has perished, no matter how young, or whether or not death was the result of violence. Really, Ann: you are an experienced writer. How did this one slip by you. Okay. You had to be there.

Raining all day (I have the day off, so, of course). Wore my rainsuit, but I won't put it back on unless it really starts to come down, because it is unseasonably tepid today, and it doesn't do you any good to keep the rain off if you wind up being soaked with sweat under your rainsuit. Today, I shall replace my brake shoes (round of applause).

CCs has become my morning haunt, which isn't too bad. I see the same crew just about every day and talk to a number of the early birds. There is an interesting collexion of folks: several retired fellows (including an ultraconservative guy who seeks me out with tales of the decay of just about everything and the meager triumphs of the Right), a number of students (high school and college), professional people getting a little work done online before they physically arrive at the office, at least one Fire Chief, several police officers (one of whom, with CSI, even comes in on his day off!), a strange black lady who sleeps in chairs, at least one homeless guy (who attends to his toilette in the spacious and comfortable lavatory), a number of attorneys, the two reallly cute young guys who sit and discuss obscure Biblical references of dubious import (I think they are queer for each other!), one of the mentally challenged courtesy clerks from our store (who comes in with his dad a lot) and assorted various caffeine addicts (CCs is a tower of strength, a haven against Mor(m)ons: never trust a guy who wears sacred underwear!).

Today, I commisserated with a fellow victim of Vista. We both agreed that it was the Worst Operating System in the Known Universe, and probably contains dark matter or neutrinos or something, which makes it act so flaky. Of course, I would kill to have my laptop functional again, even though I may curse its operating system. Everything would be so much easier if I could use my own computer.

So, here I sit, at Middleton Library (God, there are a lot of cute boys at LSU!) trying to work on a terminal with a weird lime-green coloured screen. I will probably kill another hour or so here, working on internet stuff that I could do a lot easier with my own laptop, and skillfully devising alternative methods of getting what I want done while using a public computer. At least it is a form of intellectual exercise that I can pretend actually accomplishes something, since not a lot else seems to be moving very swiftly.

But, I am saving money, and I have been talking to a friend up in Wyoming about moving up there, which I want to do. I really need to get out of here, and if I blow this opportunity, I may die here, which would be disappointing. At least, there is that.

News From the Front (and Back)

I awakened this morning, as most mornings, to a respiratory symphony. Apparently, snoring has become a major problem in this country, whilst I slept. I, myself, have even been accused of snoring, although I have never heard myself doing it. I DO hear a lot of others doing it, particularly at Camp Winge-a-Lot. I never realised before how many varieties there are to nocturnal melody.

Some guys just buzz. Some buzzes are continuous with inhaling and exhaling, whilst others are more of a staccato or sequential series of mini-snores. There is one fellow whose stacatto buzz sounds something like: AHZZZ-AHHZZ-AHHZZ. Then, there are are the whistlers. One whistler sounds like: TWOOO-TWOOO-TWOOO. There are at least two groaners, who sound like this: AARRUUN-AARRUUN-AARRUUN; and two grunters: UNKH-UNKH-UNKH. There are also two snorters (thank God, the loudest one is in the other half of the dorm, which is seperated from me by a cinderblock wall), which sound like this: AWWRUCCH-AWWRUCCH. Cracks in the cinderblock are becoming alarmingly apparent.

Of course, mere onomatopoeia cannot really do these sounds justice. One night this week, I shall attempt to record some of these sounds on my mobile and (if I can ever figure out how to transfer these files using a public computer) post them on this blog, to the greater edification of my numerous (and apparently invisible) readership. Suffice it to say that the buzzers sound a lot like fire alarms, the whistlers like a chorus of demented whippoorwills, the groaners like diesel marine engines turning high revolutions, the grunters like grizzly bears in heat (I have never heard a grizzly bear in heat, but this is what I suppose it sounds like) and the worst, the snorters, like a garbage disposal of gargantuan size attempting to process a Blue Whale full of bottlecaps.

Put together, it sounds somewhat like this: TWOO-TWOO! AHZZZZZ! AARRUUNN!UNKH-UNKH! AWWRUCCH-AWWRUCCH! Of course, there is no real sequence or order to these different sounds (or, at least, I have not discerned one), and they occur at various volume levels. This also does not include the two babblers, who are not, per se, snorers, but who also contribute to the nighly cacaphony. One of them mumbles and shouts incoherently. The other one holds conversations in his sleep, mostly with a doctor, his mother, and someone named "Jake" or "Mike" (it's hard to make out, with all the noise).

When I first started living at Camp Winge-a-Lot, I had a pair of foam earplugs, which reduced the noise to a dull roar, but some pigfucker stole them from my nightstand. I hope he gets hearing AIDS! At any rate, it doesn't seem to keep me up much any more, except occasionally, when several of the effects combine simultaneously to produce earth tremors. I am of the opinion (so far unfounded) that something like this could have happened in Haiti. If this is true, South Louisiana could be next.

I hope I make it out of here before the Big One hits.

My Daily Schedule

Here is a draught version of my daily schedule: note that some activities (such as work) vary from day to day. Unfortunately, not much else does.

0415: Awaken, if the background noise (snoring, manaical screams, big things outside going beep...beep...beep as they back up) hasn't already awakened me.

0430: Having put together all of the things that I will need for the day and packed them away in my backpack, and having dressed appropriately for the day's ride, I exit the dormitory, and enter the activity room.

0430-0445: If there is no coffee made: make coffee. If there are no doughnuts, biscuits, etc., laid out, lay them out as instructed by the Warden of the Evening.

0445-0530: Charge my mobile. Check weather conditions. Look at the newspaper, if there is a newspaper and if no-one else has laid claim to it. Bask in cameraderie and scintillating conversation.

0530-0545: Clean up stuff and throw trash away as is needed and/or directed by the Warden of the Evening.

0545: Depart for the day.

0600: Hang out at CCs Coffee for an indeterminate period of time, depending on whether I work early or not.Read and check news on my mobile.

0900: If I do not work early, go to either the public library or Middleton Library to access the internet. Write, do research and work on my blog and other stuff. Take a few minutes' time to play Imperion.

1100ish: Depending upon when I go to work (if I work that day): go to work. If I do not work, I either spend more time at the library or find something else to do to waste time until I must return to camp.

1600-2000: Dependent upon work schedule, return to camp. If I do not work or get off work early, either hang out with friends or go have a pint somewhere (only not too close to check-in time, as I don't want to be accused of inebriation and thereby forfeit my bed).

1730-1800: If I am back in time for supper, help set up for supper: set tables, get out condiments and/or mix Kool-Aid.

1800-1830: Eat supper. A different group and/or groups provide a free meal almost every night. Fare is generally palatable, and there is enough of it to leave me satisfied. If I arrive late (after about 1830) I eat a late plate (q.v.), which may or may not contain enough food to satisfy my hunger.

1830-1845: Help clean up after supper and/or help clean up dorm. On laundry day, help clean the lavatory area.

1845-2000: (Every day except Thursdays): Engage in cameraderie and/or watch television, on the few occasions when the television is not immutably fixed upon ESPN. When it is, I go back into the dormitory.

1900-2000?: (Thursdays only): Participate in the (mandatory) house meeting, which generally consists of a 45-60 minute harangue which touches upon the latest complaints against residents who are either doing things that they shouldn't be doing or not doing things that they should be doing. There then follows an extensive diatribe about lazy, good-for-nothing bums who should be going out and finding jobs instead of lazing about the camp wingeing about everything and how unfair it is and making up excuses for not having a job which the lecturer has heard all of in the entire universe with the result that he is now sick to death of hearing them and boy-oh-boy are certain individuals (you know who you are!) are going to be in for a rude awakening when the find themselves tossed out on their butts because they are lazy, shiftless bums who don't deserve even a single ounce of compassion because they expect everybody else to do everything for them that they are not willing to do for themselves.

2000-2100: Attempt to read in the dormitory over the mindless blather that passes for conversation (see previous post). Brush teeth.

2100: Lights Out! Drift off to a blissful, restorative sleep that will give me the fortitude to face the next day.

That is pretty much it. If it seems monotonous, it is. If it seems pretty much devoid of constructive activity, it is. If it seems as though it would drive any rational person to the brink of madness, it does.

Oh, yeah: and anyone who is not heartily thankful that he is privileged to reside at Camp Winge-a-lot doesn't deserve to reside there, and should, by all means, be cast into the outer darkness, where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth!

Oh, yeah ... it's Thursday! Huzzah.

My daily schedule

Camp Winge-a-Lot

After many desperate attempts to utilise the computers at the public library to access my blog, and running afoul of Websense, I have taken the extraordinary measure of using the public computers at Middleton Library, at LSU, which give me pretty much unlimited access, so long as I don't attempt to change any settings or meddle in things that I have no business meddling with (and probably don't really need to, anyway). I am still experimenting with some kind of method of uploading photo files to my blog without the use of my interface cable (which is somewhere in my storage unit) or Bluetooth. I have posted some photos to my Sprint photo site, and to Twitpics, but I haven't figured out quite how to transfer the files without saving anything on the computer. I now have a 4.0 GB flash drive, which I will be experimenting with today, hopefully, with some success.

So, about the shelter where I am now housed, which I refer to as "Camp Winge-a-lot", because of the proclivity of many of the residents (or, clients)to winge about just about anything and everything.

A lot of the fellows at the Camp are total losers. Sorry, but this is true. There are some fellows there who have run into a bit of hard luck (like I have)and wound up stuck with no place to go, at least temporarily. Then, there are others who are simply there, i.e., they are staying at the shelter until (a) they get thrown out for being fucked up; (b) miss their curfews (1800 for non-workers, 2000 for those working late); or wear out their welcome. The shelter is supposed to be a temporary fix, in order to allow "clients" some time in which to secure employment and save enough money to move on to more permanent living arrangements. This is my intent. I am decidedly not happy as a resident, and want to get my butt out of the place ASAP.

Residents are awakened from slumber in the spacious dormitory (which holds 30+ men)between 0445 and 0500, by having the lights switched on. I am almost always up at that time, as I have no desire to stay in the shelter any more than I have to. We have to leave by 0600, and are not allowed to return until 1600.

Upon returning to the Camp, "clients" (I love that word: same one they use in the Laughing Academy)must sign in by their bed number. If a client fails to show before the curfew time (either 1800 or 2000), or fail to sign in properly, he loses his bed, and cannot come back to the shelter. After 5 days, if he fails to claim his property and clothing, it is "donated" to the vast pile of used stuff that will eventually be given to someone else who is lacking in stuff.

Upon arrival, one must shower and put on clean clothing. There are some clients who do not have clean clothing (see "stuff", above)and there are also those who apparently would melt like the Wicked Witch of the West if water touched them. I take a shower, shave and put on clean clothes, which are kept in a locker with a sturdy lock on it.

Supper is generally served between 1730 and 1800. For those working late, "late plates" are prepared, which are notoriously skimpy, depending upon who is dishing out the fare. If you are lucky, there is enough to eat. Those who dine at table are usually allowed second helpings on a "first-come, first-served" basis. The food is donated by various groups, many of them religious (mostly Roman Catholic), but some simply families who do this as a public service. Most of these people are salt-of-the-earth types; many bring their kids along, which I think is an excellent way to expose children to the habit of Christian giving.

Clients are responsible for setting the tables and cleaning up after dinner, as well as sweeping and mopping the dormitory and lavatory area. This is supposed to be done on a more or less rotating basis, but, as things generally happen, there are those of us who actually care enough to do chores around the shelter and the majority, who don't. As a result, there are a handful of us who do pretty much all of the daily chores, whilst the rest sit on their fat behinds and watch television, or sleep.

Lights Out is at 2100 (but sometimes a bit later, if the shelter Warden of the evening is remiss in his duties, which can happen). There is no talking or mobile usage allowed in the dormitory, which means that there is talking and mobile usage in the dormitory. As I am not a basketball (which seems to be about the only thing on the television in the "Activity Room") fan, I usually retire to my bed after chores to read, so that I can, for a brief few minutes, forget where I am.

Of course, there are those who prefer the dormitory as a table for open discussion (usually very loud and punctuated with raucous laughter), so it often is not particularly quiet in the dormitories, except when "smoke break" is announced, and the smokers all go outside for a few minutes.

There are generally two topics of conversation which dominate: (a) how much pussy the speaker is getting, in graphic detail and (b) where to go to get free stuff, how to get free stuff and how much free stuff is availible. I thank God for such intellectual diversion.

I shall attempt to post a photo on this blog. The photo is of the sign in the dormitory, which spells out chores to be done each night. I have swepted the floor many a time, but never mopted it. I am not sure exactly how to mopt, but, as soon as I figure out how it should be done, I have no doubt that I shall be mopting away with the best of them.

Farewell from glorious Camp Winge-a-lot. More to follow.

Internet Gyrations and Such

Finally figured out how to post to my blog from the library (you have to get around their filter): I open my gmail account and post from there. Haven't quite figured out how to post from my phone yet, but I am sure that it is possible.

Anyway: The Caterie, a venerable establishment that was a venue for many local bands, particularly those starting out, burnt on New Years. They thought the fire was out, but when I rode past there about 6 AM, it had flared up again and was burning again. It wound up wiping out a copy shop, a liquor store and Claitor's Books (which publishes most of the books used by Law students), before they finally put it out. It did about $10 million in damages. I got a few pictures that I will try to post (haven't figured out how to do that without my laptop, which has bluetooth). I'll post those in the near future.

I am going back to work where I was working before. Yay. At least I will have an income, so they won't boot me out of the shelter into the street. Right now, things suck with a great suckiness, unparalleled in the annals of sucky things. At this rate, it is going to be a while before I have enough money to move (hopefully, out of Lousyana). I also worry about my cats, even though my former neighbours are looking after them and I DO go by, just about every day, to take them food and commune with them. With luck, I will be able to bring them along when I move.

Until then, I am living the life of Riley (if Riley were an impoverished fellow living in an homeless shelter). It is wonderful. Every day, they kick us out at 6 AM (I am usually gone by then). We can come back after 4 PM, and, if you don't show up by 6 PM, you lose your bed and are put out into the cold, unless you are working and sign a sheet to that effect, in which case you are allowed an extra two hours.As a result, I will have to work days, until the situation changes, which I hope it does soon, before I go stark, raving mad.

More to follow. I shall try to work on my blog faithfully and dutifully record all such things as may be of interest and enlightenment to the reader, blah, blah, blah [insert example of selflessness here].

So, when does my life quit sucking?