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.

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.

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.