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!.
28 January 2010
25 January 2010
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.
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.
19 January 2010
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.
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.
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.
14 January 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
06 January 2010
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?
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?
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