Mardis Gras Madness

Last night was loads o' fun! It's really great to work every damned holiday in the universe, and your friends all have fun, and you get to sell alcoholic beverages to people who have had more than enough alcoholic beverages to feel better than you feel tired of working. The only parades I have seen this Mardis Gras are the parades of loons, drunks, fools and thieves that pass by, and they don't throw me something, mister.

Bridget sent me a money order for $100. She still owes me $330, but she is claiming that she only owes me $150. perhaps, in her alcohol and drug be-sotted brain, she actually believes her own bullshit, but I am cognizant enough of her ability to remember what other people owe her under such circumstances to doubt such an assumption. I think she just doesn't want to pay me what she owes me, and is trying to get off as cheaply as she can. Too bad: I used to think of her as one of my best friends. Selfish people are the bane of society. I think I shall attempt, in future, to recognise them, early on, and avoid them. I have been, after all, through the annealing fire.

A skanky black guy shoved a bottle of Bacardi 151 in his stinking pants and walked out last night. He got into a trashy car with the right rear window broken out and taped up with visqueen, and several of us watched them drive away. We are not allowed to stop thieves. They had taken the license plate off of the vehicle, so they were down to thieve. I called Perkins Rd. and told them to watch out for him. I hate a thief.

Almost got killed last night, going home. There is this weird guy who haunts the store all the time, and comes in just about every day for a can of beer. I think he is homeless, because I pass the bus stop over by Perkins and Acadian and see him crashed out there sometimes. He rides a bike, albeit slowly, wears an helmet with reflective tape on it, and has a myriad of things hanging around his neck: a radio, a lighter, a compass, and several other things (I don't have any idea what the hell they are). He's strange, but okay. One of the people I don't really mind seeing in my store; actually look forwards to seeing him.

Well, O Best Beloved, I was pumping my way home on Perkins Rd. about 10:20 PM or so, and had just passed him, and waved and yelled hello, as he was going the same way I was. I had got about 30m ahead of him, approaching the inlet to the car park in front of a local tavern called “The Caterie”, where, apparently, local denizens were gathering to celebrate the holiday. Two vehicles turned left as I approached. As I reached the driveway, a third vehicle, a monstrous silver Suburban, cut left, directly in my path.

I was doing about 20 mph, so it was too late to brake. I cut right about 45 degrees, as far as I could, without losing control, and dropped two gears and hit it as hard as I could. He braked, but not in time. He missed my leg by a scant foot. Thank God, the kerb I hit was one of the old slanty ones, and not at a right angle (that would have pranged my wheel to hell and thrown me over the horns). I wound up skidding to a stop in the grass about 2 m from the driveway.

Of course, he just drove on, as if nothing happened. I had had a split-second when I imagined my left leg cracking like a twig, under the onslaught of his bumper. Having had my right leg broken in an accident before, I cannot recommend the feeling to you. The sound is like a dulled pop, like a firecracker under water, but you feel it all the way up into your groin. When I skidded to a stop, that memory was quite vivid in my brain. I unleashed a chain of invective that would make my sainted Irish mother proud. I considered going back, dragging out of his fucking gas-guzzler and beating him into a bloody pulp, but then cold reason stepped in. I stopped at the signal at Acadian Thruway, the next block.

Well, the weird guy stopped right behind me. I yelled, “Didi you see that stupid motherfucker? I almost got killed!” He said, “Yeah. I didn't think you were going to make it.” If he had broken my leg, I would be in hospital now. I would be off work for at least a month. I would lose my job. I would lose my apartment. My cats would be homeless, and I would be sleeping behind buildings again, as I was when Bridget first fucked me out of the money she owes me.

Which brings me back to the theme of this post: I will, never again, ever, in my life, put others' fortunes ahead of my own. Not to say that I am not a good and generous man: I am. Not just tooting my own whistle, either: ask anyone (besides Bridget and her trained Chihuahua). One small accident, one slip, one tiny interference with my daily routine of work, and I can be right back where I was before, sleeping behind buildings. I know that. I cannot allow that to happen.

Which is why I will get what I am owed, or the Devil will get his due.


HBCG Stats: 2 KOCs, 1 QT, 0 Mhs, 2 CHK and 0 C-10s. What a bust!

Some Goofy Shit

Got home last night and took a shower. A friend came by and brought some food with him, so I cooked it for him on the stove and then tutored him in French, which he is taking and having trouble with, especially the pronunciation. He asked me if I would tutor him on a regular basis and I said okay. He told me he would pay me in food, which I said was just fine, as I really have nothing at home right now except a few oranges and a bunch of damned MREs that I really don't want to tap into unless I have to (especially after living off them while I was homeless).

Of course, should Bridget come through with what she owes me, as she promised to, then I can afford to get something to take home and cook tonight and I will be able to go down to the Bet-R store on Kahlurah first thing tomorrow and pay my utility bill, which means that by the time I get home tomorrow night, I shall have electricity again (yay). Of course, this all depends upon Bridget doing as she promised she would, which is problematic. I am not holding my breath.

Travis texted me from New Orleans: they are going to watch Endymion tonight. I am at work. I don't get a day off until Thursday. For the past two weeks, I have worked seven days straight, with one day off. I need the money, though, so I'm not complaining. At least I have Sunday off, because I really, really need to do wash, and I would like to get something decent to eat for a change. I've been living off next to nothing recently. I shall be so glad to get my income tax back: that will catch me up. Maybe I can even afford a luxury or two. That's at least two weeks away, though. All I've had to eat today is half a bag of potato chips that someone else didn't want at work. At least I have cat food, but I really need to get litter soon. I hate having to scrape like this.

Travis gave me a couple of these weird catalogues full of goofy shit. They've got all kinds of crap that is of dubious usefulness and value that you can order by mail. One of the weirdest things is the “Snuggie”, this freaky “blanket with sleeves” that they plug on TV, too. I can just imagine someday, that there will be Snuggie fetishists, probably riding Hoverounds. They look like something cult members would wear. Of course, the back of the Snuggie is open, like those awful hospital gowns, which would facilitate rear entry.

They've got the Ultrasonic Pest Repellers, too, which are totally useless. My mother had great faith in them and gave me two for my apartment, years ago. I decided to take one apart, after I'd had it for awhile, and found that roaches had taken up residence in it. There are butt-slimming (and padding) devices, copper and magnetic thingees that miraculously cure joint pain, foot plasters that “draw” toxins out through the soles of your feet while you sleep, foot alignment socks, hair-growing cream, the Miracle Haircutting Umbrella, all manner of personal vibrators and stuff to make your pee-pee hard, listening devices (not intended for eavesdropping), “cell phone” stun guns, plus “collector's editions” of everything from coins to Bowie knives. Most of this junk is absolutely useless to the average human being. Where does this crap come from? Obviously, someone took the time to dream up this junk, and at least some of it must be selling, because they keep sending out these catalogues, and they offer free shipping. It's bizarre.

Granted, there are some products that might actually work, like the Ronco food dehydrator, but why would anyone buy a pound of “wheat” pennies (about 120 coins) for $19.99? Why would you pay $ .17 for a penny? And the digital slide/negative scanner that plugs into your USB port sounds like it could be useful, but does the solar-powered ultrasonic gopher chaser really work? The collapsible hand truck might come in handy, but does anyone really need inflatable vibrating leg and foot massagers, and will the “powerful hydrodynamic (?) magnets” in the “Fuel Optimiser” actually “break apart clusters of fuel molecules” and improve gas mileage?

Crack open one of these catalogues, and it's like entering an alternate universe.


HBCG Stats for the evening: 4 KOCs, 5 Qts, 3 MHs, 9 CHK and 0 C-10s. Ho-hum.

Lost in Space

It was incredibly busy last night. I got to take a 30 minute break and ate an $ .89 pot pie (yay). Didn't move from behind the register again all night. Wasn't a bad night for eye candy, though (see last night's stats). Got the laptop at work again, so I can charge it and my phone. Not having electricity sucks donkey dicks. Watched one and an half segments of “Rome” last night before my battery finally died, and then I re-inflated my deflating bed and went to sleep. Of course, I had to wake up about 3 hours later and pump it back up.

I woke up when Yang ran over my head while they were playing chase. Went to feed them and, lo and behold: they had gotten into the bag of cat food and spread it all over the floor. I don't know why, because they had plenty of food in their bowl. So, I cleaned up as much as I could before I took my shower and got ready for work.

I miss Adult Swim. I also miss going online. I haven't been because it drains my battery so quickly. I watch Hulu as much as I watch television, and I watch a lot of the old TV series “Lost in Space”, which all the kids watched when I was growing up. I had a terrible crush on Billy Mumy, the adorable redhead with blue eyes who played the son, Will Robinson. We are the same age, actually. So, I had my first crush on a boy when I was about 11 and so was he, only we never actually met. I wasn't so sure what I would actually DO with him, if I ever met him (I was 11, after all), but I thought he was the cutest boy I had ever seen. After the series, he continued playing music, which he always loved and went on to work on several other Sci-Fi series, notably “Babylon 5”. He recently remarked, on his website, that he had spent 50 years in entertainment, and what a good time he had had. He is married, with grown children, and still plays music. I wonder what he would think, if he read this.

Anyway, “Lost in Space” was a creation of Irwin Allen, who did all those cheesy disaster movies in the 70s, like “Towering Inferno” and “Poseidon Adventure” (possibly Travis' favourite movie of all time). He had a successful series at the time called “Voyage to the bottom of the Sea”, about an high-tech submarine with windows in front, called, eponymously enough, the “Seaview”. He wanted to do a space series based on the book “Swiss Family Robinson”, which had been made into a film by Disney a few years previously.

Allen decided that he wanted to do something unique with the score for the series. Rather than having an opening theme and just incidental music and stabs to accentuate the action, he decided to hire a composer to write a kind of leitmotif score, with specific themes for specific characters and situations. He had heard about a young composer out in Hollywood, a fellow named Johnny Williams, who had scored several films and gotten some attention, so he approached Williams about his project and Williams signed on, even though, as he told Allen, he had never scored anything in the Sci-Fi genre before.

The show ran for three seasons, from 1966 to 1969. It was watched by a budding young filmmaker out in California who had this idea to make a sweeping space drama. After working on a number of films and directing and producing a low-budget dystopian fantasy, “THX-1138”, George Lucas got enough funding to produce “Star Wars” , even though the studio had doubts that a “space opera” would make any money. He was looking for a composer to write a leitmotif score for his story, which he had already had decided would be a series of at least six films, and he wanted unifying themes to run through them all. I don't know if he did, but I rather think he thought back to Irwin Allen and “Lost in Space” , because he called up Johnny Williams, who had dropped “Johnny” for the more mature “John”, and asked him if he would consider the project. Williams agreed, and the rest is cinematic history.

George Lucas had a friend who was also a director, named Steven Spielberg, and they kicked an idea around for awhile, to do a series of films based on the old cliffhanger serials of the 30s and 40s. Of course, they hired John Williams to do the scores for the “Indiana Jones” films, starring Harrison Ford, who had worked with Lucas in the “Star Wars” films. John Williams became one of the highest-paid composers in history, with more Academy Award nominations than any individual other than Walt Disney.

And I still enjoy watching “Lost in Space” on Hulu. Watching Billy Mumy reminds me of that “first crush”, long before I even knew what “gay” was. It kind of takes me back to a gentler time, before I knew much about the evils of the world, when a whole planet could be made out of papier-mache' and quirky aliens abounded, and nefarious space villains and hideous monsters could be defeated by the staunch heart of a little boy and his faithful robot companion.

HBCT stats for the evening: 12 KOCs, 10 Qts, 10 Mhs, 13 CHK & 1 C-10. And the last one was absolutely gorgeous ... 21, long, copper-coloured hair and blue eyes. To die for.

Magic Blog?

This was a shocker: Living Foods, Baton Rouge's oldest organic food store, on Perkins Rd., is shut for good. It was a great little store and I did a lot of business with them over the years. They simply couldn't compete with the big organic food chains like Whole Foods, which opened one of its mega-organic-marts on the corner of Corporate Blvd. and Jefferson Highway just over a year ago. I can't afford to even walk into Whole Foods: it is so expensive. I even applied for a job with them, but never heard back from them. It makes me feel sad to pass the old building and see it vacant.

Miraculously, I still have utilities. I am thinking maybe God finally decided to give me a break or two. Either that, or my blog really IS magic. I still don't expect it to last much longer. If it lasts until I can pay the bill, it will be a true miracle, kind of like my own private Chanukah. Maybe I'm just being silly. It wouldn't be the first time. Anyway, I'm going to test the "magic blog" theory:

It's really a bitch that, with all the lottery tickets I have bought over the years, the total amount I have ever won is about $60. The lottery is like a special tax on poor people: we are the only ones who play it consistently, because it offers false hope. I never seem to win any kind of contest. I am dutifully collecting all the Monopoly pieces I can for the store Monopoly game, but, if it works out like every other Monopoly game I ever played, I will get all of the pieces but one of each category, and never see the winning piece.

There. Now, if my blog is truly magic, I should win something. Hey, I don't really need to hit the Grand Prize: anything reasonably kewl will do, say, um, a widescreen TV or a grocery gift card. We'll see. Remember: this is not exactly a scientifical type experiment, although, if my blog turns out to be magic, I promise to use it for the Betterment of Mankind, and not just for personal gain. Yeah. Right.

Oh, yeah. For those of you interested, tonight's final count was:

2KOCs, 6QTs and 1MH, of which 3 were CK, and no C-Tens. God, I need to get laid!

Hot Guy Counting Game

Well, by some miracle, my utilities were still connected when I got home last night, so I had a hot meal of leftover chicken, fettuccine Alfredo and green salad. The power was still on when I left, too, so I had a hot shower and fed the cats and was at work for 4. Actually have my laptop with me at work: in case it is slow tonight, I can actually write a blog post from work, even if I can't post it, because there is no accessible signal.

It would be a minor miracle if, somehow, my utilities didn't get cut off until I can pay the bill, which will (with luck) be Tuesday. Bridget, after begging, cajoling and threatening, finally promised to pay me the $430 she owes me next Monday. If the utilities stay on until then, Entergy will get payed and I won't suffer needlessly. Of course, that won't happen: I expect any day now they will get around to cutting me off. Oh, well: a few days without power, after all I have been through is nothing. I can do that standing on my head. Of course, I'd rather not. It gives me headaches.

When I get bored (which is often), I amuse myself by keeping statistics on the hot guys who come in. This being a college town, there are more than a few. I have five categories of hot guys:

1.KOC (Kind of Cute): Meets minimum standards of do-ability. Has potential. Can be quirky.
2.QT (Cutie): Exceeds minimum standards: really easy on the eyes. The kind you remember.
3.MH (Major Hottie): Makes you actually drool. Probably out of your league, but you can still fantasize about him (and probably will). He's probably a conceited little bitch, too.
4.CHK (Chicken): of legal age, but young, like 17-22 and young-looking. Usually a lot of fun. I generally date guys in their twenties, but chicken is good for a snack now and then.
5.C-TEN (Chicken Tender): These range in age from about 12 to 16. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES, SAMPLE CHICKEN TENDERS! They are not to touch, only to be appreciated. Eventually, they will ripen and attain maturity, but leave them alone for now. Of course, working in the Liquor department, I don't see many of these, but that's okay, as long as enough hot boys in the other categories come in.

Obviously, most guys will fit into at least two categories. For example, the count for last night was:

6 KOCs, 3QTs and 1MH, of which 3 were CHK and no C-TENs.

See how easy that was? It's fun, and you can play, too! Just keep count during the day and post me back your numbers, and we'll compare. I shall be posting my final numbers on my daily posts, and we can total them at the end of the month. Don't know about prizes, though.

Anyway, the total so far tonight is: 3QTs who were all CHK. The night is young ...

Will Wonders Never Cease?

I was on my way to work the other day and, lo and behold, the city had actually finished repairs on the bike trail bridge: amazingly, they completed it in just over two weeks. This, coupled with the two spots that actually had tarmac slapped on them on Perkins Rd., leads me to believe that I may have been sucked into the Twilight Zone. Of course, another plausible explanation is that I have a "magic blog", and anything I bitch about it is magically fixed. So, I decided to test this.

Okay: I don't have the money for the utility bill, so I am going to bitch about that and see if, magically, something will happen and my utilities won't get cut off before I can pay the bill. We'll see if that one works. Of course, I expect the electricity to be cut off tomorrow: I was kind of shocked to get home tonight and find it still on. If this works, I'll do the economy next. Reality is that I will probably spend a week without power, which means that I will have to get Travis and Fernando to keep my meager frozen goods. I've got some meat I can give them that won't last if the fridge isn't working. Bridget promised to give me the money she owes me next Monday, and that would pay the bill, with money to spare, if she actually does it that, in itself, would be a miracle.

Weather has been ridiculously warm: bike shorts and t-shirt weather. It has rained a lot, but I have been lucky to mostly dodge it. I would estimate that roughly half of the drivers I see on the road are on their cell phones. Many times, they don't pay attention to me or other traffic: I saw a driver on Perkins Rd. the other day barely miss the rear bumper of a pickup because he was on his cell, and a woman pulled out directly in front of me from a parking lot because she was on hers. What I saw today, as I left for work, really blew me away: a guy was coming down State St., the opposite way that I was heading, on a bicycle. The idiot was riding with one hand and texting with the other. No lie. You take your life in your hands every time you ride a bicycle on Baton Rouge streets: this imbecile must have a death wish. What a boob. I was flummoxed.

So, we'll see if. tomorrow night, when I get home, Entergy has miraculously neglected to cut off my power. It's a nice fantasy to drift off to sleep with, but I rather doubt it. Guess it will be MREs and take-away until I can afford to pay the bill. Oh well. I've had it a lt tougher than this.

Darwin and Duality

Okay. Thursday was the 200th anniversary of the birth of Abraham Lincoln. It was also the 200th anniversary of the birth of Charles Darwin. One of Darwin's closest associates wasn a naturalist and self-tought anatomist named Thomas Henry Huxley. Huxley had a son, Leornard, who was a schoolteacher, who had a son named Aldous Leornard. Thomas Henry Huxley was such a staunch defender of Darwin's work that he was known as "Darwin's Bulldog". He was never totally conviced about natural selection, though he did finally admit that it was the best explanation availible at the time.

Aldous Huxley wrote the dystopian novel, Brave New World, borrowing heavily on the theories of Thomas Robert Malthus, who had greatly influenced Darwin, in fact, whose theories of population pressure and economy formed the basis for the idea of natural selection. At university, Huxley met Eric Blair, who became known for his pen-name, George Orwell, who also wrote a dystopian novel, 1984.

Okay. So, I worked all day yesterday, without even a break, because Ken didn't schedule anyone to work with me. It was busy as fuck all. Then, I had to be at work today, for 11:00. So, I worked three hours and went by Travis and Fernando's and Fernando cut my hair and we ate dinner and chilled for awhile. I finally left because I was tired and nodding.

Amazingly, in this day and age, in this, the Twenty-First Century, just last year, Gov. Bobby Jindal, darling of the conservatives, who was courted by John McCain himself, for Vice President, pushed for and signed into law a bill which mandated the teaching of "alternative" theories, alongside of evolution, in short: pseudoscience. This predigested fundamentalist crapola is referred to as "intelligent design", but it flatters itself needlessly. All it is is the Biblical account of creation, as found in Genesis, with a lot of loony theories tacked on. That anyone in this day and age should question evolution is, well, for want of a better word, wack.

So, anyway, Orwell meets writer and theologian C.S. Lewis. Meanwhile, Huxley, an early experimenter with LSD, publishes a book called The Doors of Perception, leading a California-based psychedelic band to christen itself "The Doors". Orwell and Lewis die on the same day, but their deaths are largely ignored because of the date: 22 November, 1963. Huxley expires a few years later. His last request is that his wife inject 100mg of LSD-25 into his veins, whch she does. What a way to go!

So, what's the point? Two men born on the same date in 1809 , or the fact that I really, really need a good spanking and a little sex too, please. Which is why I was glad that a friend whom I hadn't seen in a couple of years walked into the store last night: he is just as hot as he ever was, and he was really glad to see me. Hey, I got a haircut, now, so I look a lot sexier. I thank God every day for the evolution of my wee-wee. Really. Opposable thumbs can be useful, too, especially when you haven't had sex in 10 months or so. I just listened to "Riders on the Storm". Guess I'll have a good, long. slow wank and turn in.

Poverty Sucks!

Some good stuff, some bad stuff:

Well, I transferred back from the Grocery side of the store to the liquor side. My former boss offered me as many hours as he could give me (I got 30 this week and I will have 36.5 next week). This is good, but it doesn't get me out of my current predicament. I have almost enough money for rent, and I am sure I can work out a deal with my landlord to pay him the balance next payday, but there is the $286 I owe Entergy, which I don't have, and won't have, until mid-March. I called them this morning to try and get an extension, but they declined, as I knew they would. They don't care. They will get their money, anyway, and, if they cut my services off, they can charge me a re-connect fee and more deposit, and thus increase their profits, the soulless bastards.

So, I am trying to locate a charity that might help me to solve this situation, but it looks grim. I wish I could borrow the money somewhere: I will have plenty of money by mid-March. I should have my tax refunds by then and I will be getting plenty of hours (guaranteed). In addition, there is an election in March that will pay me $250. If only it were March. But, it isn't. So, the grim reality is that I may spend about a month without electric or gas. Oh, well: at least I'm not sleeping out of doors and (shudder!) I do have a stockpile of MREs.

So, about 11:30, I will cruise on down to work, collect my meager earnings, and go pay what I can on my rent. Then, I will go by Social Services and see if I can acquire some contacts which might help me pay my power bill. I am also going to text Bridget and ask for money, since the bitch owes me $430, and has owed it since May, but that is a long shot, because she has really convinced herself that she doesn't owe it to me because I "disrespected" her, which is a total load of crap and an excuse to not pay me. It's also unpleasant, because every time I ask her for my money back, she gets all huffy and sends me nasty text messages, or I get nasty drunken voicemail from her trained chihuahua. But, I'm desperate, and, if I don't prod her about it, I'll never get anything from her at all, ever. Some friend, huh?

OMIGAWD! I was on my way to work the other day, and, lo and behold: the City of Baton Rouge actually fixed something! No kidding, two of the worst spots on Perkins Rd. were actually repaired, after a fashion (see photo above). Of course, all they did was throw some tarmac on the problem and whack it with a shovel, but it's the first actual attempt at repair I have seen in ages. Now, all they have to do is fix the other hundred or so holes on Perkins Rd., and everything will be hunky-dory.

So, keep a positive attitude: why not? Sure, you're really daft to do it, considering how shitty everything really is, but reality sucks: that's what drugs are for. More's the pity, I can't afford drugs.

Crappity Doo-Dah

Things are just fucking tough, and that's all there is to it. Okay, I have had to scrounge hours here and there because the Front-end Manager took me off the schedule for two fucking weeks: that's bad enough. I rode home Thursday night and hit a piece of crap on Perkins Rd., and had to walk the last mile home, and didn't get home until 11:35, and I was starving and tired and totally pissed off. I nuked something (I think it was a pot pie), watched Adult Swim for awhile, and crashed.

So, I wound up paying $27 to the bike shop to fix my wheel (I busted a spoke, too), which I can't really afford, because now I don't have enough money to pay my bills. Let's get one thing clear: Baton Rouge has the shittiest streets for a city it's size that I have seen in my life. Perkins Rd.,which I have to ride on an almost daily basis, is less an highway than an interconnected series of potholes. Riding on Baton Rouge streets means dodging holes, cracks, rocks and assorted debris, which is made more problematic by the fact that Baton Rouge drivers, for the most part, don't give a crap about your safety, if they are not openly hostile towards bicycles, which many are. If the City of Baton Rouge owns a single street sweeper, I am not aware of it: I have never seen one or any results of the existence of one.

And, they don't fix anything! The bridge in the picture above, which is a bridge on one of the few "bike trails" in the whole city, was smashed by a car over two years ago: they have just got round to fixing it, and they haven't done much on it in the past two weeks. Rather than ride across it, which I actually could before they started fixing it, I now have to go around it. It is now an obstacle.

So Sunday,I got together with Travis and Fernando, and we did laundry and Fernando grilled burgers and we watched War of the Worlds (the new one) with D. who came by. Then, I went home and watched Kubrick's Lolita. On the way back to my chair from taking a leak, I managed to stub the fuck out of my left great toe on the big, clunky iron heater, with the result that the nail jabbed into my flesh and blood went everywhere: it was ghastly. It finally stopped bleeding, and I went to bed.

This morning, the Liquor manager called and asked me if I could come in and work for five hours. My phone wouldn't dial out (I had to pay $45 on the bill), so I went by Travis' house and used his phone and went in to work. The ride over caused my toe to bleed, and the blood soaked through my brand-new trainers. Yay. It gets better.

I get home and I finally got a power bill and, with it, a disconnect notice for $268, that has to be paid by Friday (the 13th, of course). So, I have to give my landlord all the money I have tomorrow, pay him the rest on Thursday, and come up with $268 by Friday. Which brings me to my point: why the FUCK can't American corporations pay their employees enough money to live off of? Why do they not feel a MORAL COMPUNCTION to take care of the people who work for them? I have NO benefits, because I AM NOT ALLOWED FULL-TIME EMPLOYMENT. This is the only country among modern, industrialised nations to allow corporations to treat their citizens in such a despicable manner. American corporations who treat thier employees like this SHOULD BE ASHAMED! Their officers grow fat and rich, and their stockholders prosper, while the very people who toil for their benefit CAN'T EVEN FUCKING SURVIVE IN POVERTY!

Yeah, it stinks. Maybe Obama and the new breath of hope in this country will change that, but it won't be before my electricity is cut off or I am homeless again. Tomorrow, I will take what I have to my landlord and ask his pardon. Then, I will start calling local charitable organisations, to see if, just maybe, I can find someone who can help me out. Then, I will pray that I don't have another Crappity doo-dah day anytime soon.

Poo Days Redux

Either the grocery side of the store is punishing me for being sick or they are just cutting hours again in order to get management bonuses: it matters not, the reason, but the effect is the same. I be's fucked up de butt. After three days sick, I called work to find that I have been scheduled to work 12 hours this past week. 12 MOTHERFUCKING HOURS!!! WHO CAN LIVE ON THAT??? Thank you. This is a great way to insure employee loyalty. YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!!!

So, yesterday, when the liquor manager called me and asked could I please come in and work, because one of his regular employees had an emergency to attend to, I said yes, even if it was only 4.5 hours, because I need the money. So, I took a shower, rode down to work, and worked from 11:30 until 16:00. Well, about 15:00, the manager of another store, about 5 miles away, called to ask if I could work for her, as one of her employees was out sick. So, when I got off work from my store, I rode directly to her store (I covered the 3.5 miles in 20 minutes!) and worked until close, which wound up to be about 22:15. I had no breaks, not even a 15, and nothing to eat all day, because I had not had time for it.

Things went okay, except that three little shits came in and stole a bottle of high-class vodka. Earlier, at my store, a guy came in and walked out with two bottles of liquor, mumbling "you ain't gonna catch me" on the way out the door. Well, I got his license plate number as he drove away, in A BIG EXPENSIVE PICK-UP (why pay when you can steal?). We called the police,but they never showed up. Typical, here in Baton Rouge. The three little shits, all dressed out in the most expensive GANGSTA crap, left in a nice mid-sized car. I can't afford a car. I don't steal, either.

Okay: I am not racist. How come about 90% of the guys who steal in my store are black? It's true. I have seen white guys stealing, but most of they guys who steal from me are black. Not only that, but only about half are the "crack addict" types, who sell the stolen liquor to buy crack :the other half are kids who have money, more than I do: what's up with that?

Anyway, I hadn't eaten all day. When I don't eat all day (which is often), I tend to get watery diarrhea. I did, twice. Had to run to the toilet, and soiled one of my favourite pair of trunks. This happened twice. Great fun. Had to wipe my butt and my underwear: thank God, it didn't come through my pants. When I got home, I changed underwear and scrubbed my trunks until they were spotless. Hey, I admitted to being almost fanatically fastidious, many posts ago. My house may be a bit messy, but I am always clean.

It was cold on the way home, but I wore my new tights (THANX, LISA XXOO), so I was actually warm going home. Bought cheap frozen food at work, and ate a pot pie, a bowl of peas and a potato, before going to sleep. Best meal in a week. Fresh undies, too.

If I would steak anything, it would be food, or cat litter. But, then, I don't think like a thief.

Just Random Shit

Hung out with Travis and Fernando yesterday. We did wash and ate lunch (at FUCKING MACDONALDS!) and just hung for a while. Our cute young friend, H., came by. He is 22 and an avid runner, and had just completed the Crescent City Marathon, down in New Orleans, and was so pumped by the experience that that was all he would talk about, which was okay, because he is such a nice kid, and it made me feel good to see him so excited about his achievement. He is SO CUTE! Oops, shouldn't say that: he has FRIEND status, but he has hot little ass ...

We were talking about Mike the Tiger. For those of you who don't know, Mike the Tiger is an icon in Baton Rouge. He is the living mascot of Louisiana State University, and the current one is Mike VI, mixed Bengal and Siberian tiger, so it's really an university tradition. All of our athletic teams are "Tigers", especially the football (American) team. I swam at LSU, and we were the "Tiger Tankers". So, it's a big thing.

So, we were talking, and H. says it's so cruel to keep a tiger in a cage (actually, he has a really nice little habitat, with stuff to play with and a swimming pool), and I said, well, you really don't know cats, because all they really like to do, besides play and eat, is sleep, and that's what they do most of the time, when they are not destroying everything that you own, and using your DVD collection for skateboards.

So, day before yesterday, I was on my way to work. There is a "bike trail" along Dalrymple, which is on my way, but half of it is so rutted that it is unusable, and, yesterday, there were so many fucking joggers and baby stroller pushers and dog walkers on it that I couldn't use it. So, I'm on the road, on the right side, obeying the FUCKING TRAFFIC LAWS, when a pickup, redneck-equipped, passed me, and the passenger side cretin leaned out the window and screamed "BIKE LANE", to which I answered "ASS HOLE", and gave him my best three-fingered salute.

Which reminds me of something that happened years ago, when I was on my way home, around midnight, on my bike, on Perkins Road. Another pickup, with three stupid shitkickers in it, passed me, close, blew the horn and screamed obscenities at me. I yelled "fuck you", and they actually turned around and came back for another pass, so I got up off the road, laid my bike down, and put my U-lock (a really heavy thing to lock a bike up with) in my hand, in case they got out of the truck.They didn't. One of them threw a beer bottle at me, but it missed. Then they drove away.

Well, I got up to the next major intersection and, lo and behold, the same truck is parked outside of a popular bar. So, I got the multitool out of my tool kit and cut all four valve stems off of the tyres. This was a Saturday, and the truck was still there on Tuesday. Every time I drove by, another wheel was up on a cinderblock. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and it was a chilly night.

So be nice to cyclists: we don't fuck with you, pollute the environment or drive up oil prices. Plus: you may get away with it today, but may God help you if I finally catch up to you. And, I mean that.

Cat-aclysm

Okay: I don't know if they really are responsible for it, but my inflate-o-bed now leaks so badly that I had to buy an electric pump to pump it up every night so I can sleep in it. Now, the thing is made of really tough plastic: it's meant to be used for camping trips. I doubt whether their claws could really get that far into it, and one or two little holes should not cause it to deflate with such rapidity. However, Yang (the male), who now weighs about 6 pounds, enjoys jumping off of the Ugly Green Chair (q.v.) onto the centre of the bed and bouncing to the other end of the apartment, as if it were a trampoline. So, maybe it is possible. At any rate, I intend to deflate it and take it back to Wally World and see if they will replace it, because it might be defective and, at any rate, those China-loving bastards owe us decent Americans, especially in a time of economic crisis, so, that's my excuse.

So, my buddy D. stayed over last night, and experienced Cat Hell. They bounced off him this morning around 7. Now, let's get this straight (right...): we are good friends, and, because of that fact, we don't have sex with each other. There are Gay Rules of Conduct that every decent fag should live by. Here's a quick rundown for you straight people out there:

1. A friend is a friend, and you don't fuck friends. You'll either lose your friend or you'll wish you had, before it's over.

2. A fuckbuddy is a guy you like having sex with and you do it more than, um, once. You don't want to get too friendly with a fuckbuddy, particularly if the sex is good, because then he will become a friend, and rule (1) will apply.

3. A trick is a trick. That's a guy you have sex with once. A lot of the time, having had you once, he will move on to other guys, because if you have sex with him again, he will become a fuckbuddy, thus moving up the ladder of social responsibility, and, should he ascend higher, become a friend, and then he can't have sex with you ever again, unless ...

4. A boyfriend is someone who used to belong to at least one of the categories above, usually attaining the level of friend before one or both of you stupidly violates the GRoC, and you wind up all ga-ga over each other, shopping together and moving in. This is to be avoided, at all costs. It's also what I see friends have, and I don't any more, and I miss so badly that it hurts inside.

So, I hope you straight guys understand this stuff now. Remember: these are just guidelines, and not everybody is smart enough to understand them, nor resolute enough to practice them. God knows, I'm no saint.

Anyway, with luck, I'll have a new bed tonight.

Work is Insane

At work, I spend time between the grocery side and the liquor side (which is separate). This week, I have spent most of my time on the liquor side of the store, which is quite different from the main store because of the nature of the, ahem, clientele. On the liquor side, for example, there is a much higher concentration of drunks, bums and thieves. It's true. At least 10% of the customers who come into the liquor side of the store are impaired in at least one sense of the word, and the percentage rises as the night goes on. I usually wind up closing, so I get to see it all.

The other night, I was working with another guy, a young black guy who is a student at LSU. We get along pretty well when we work together, and we don't usually have a lot of trouble, because a lot of the skanks that inhabit the area won't come in if we are working. So, it's like, mid-afternoon when we get the first indication that things might be interesting, wen one our co-workers, who was outside having a smoke, comes in to inform us that one of the locals walked up while he was smoking and peed on the soft drink machine. Of course, we all know this guy: I have turned him away because he was too incoherent to function. Also, another employee, a month or so ago, went into the store's public rest room and caught him in there, wanking. So, he was told not to come back, but he was so fucked up he probably won't remember so he'll be back eventually.

So, everything is going smoothly, and I am waiting on customers, when these two guys come in, each grab two 1.75l bottles of liquor, and run out the door. My buddy chases them out while I call for help, but they jump the fence and are gone before anyone can get to them, and, besides, we are not allowed to even try to apprehend them: we can get fired for it. So, we figure, as long as it's kind of slow, I'll stand behind the counter (which is impossibly long and it takes you too long to get around) and he'll just stand at the door and watch out.

Sure enough, he's not standing there for half an hour, when a customer comes up o the counter and buys cheap beer, and is on his way out the door when D. stops him and asks, "You want to give me that bottle you have in your pants?" They guy says, I don't know what you're talking about, but D. just says, "Well, just call the police, then," and he produces a bottle. "All of it," D. says, and out comes another one. So, we tell the guy not to come back, and he leaves, and we are going like, what is wrong with these fucking people? Three thieves inside of an hour! So, for the rest of the night, he stands guard while I ring, unless it gets really busy.

Later on, D. goes off shift, and I m left to close. About an hour later, I hear a commotion outside, and it is Blue, who is one of the smelliest and skankiest of all the skanks, and he is outside bumming money from customers to buy Thunderbird. So, I have to call a manager, and he runs him off, and Blue leaves, with his beat up old shopping cart and the six iron he uses for a cane (which is why some of the employees call him Golf Club Man).

This is pretty much a typical evening in the liquor department, but it is still much quieter than the main store, even if the clientele is, um, different. Of course, it is not all bad: most of our customers are decent people, and I have gotten to know a lot of them quite well. Still, work is insane.

Oh, yeah: the picture of the flock of pelicans has nothing to do with this post at all, except that I didn't really have a pertinent photo and they are pretty. This same flock shows up on the lakes every year and spends a month or so here.