Apparently jihadist are all gay. The tribe that lives the third house west in the alley, are hootin' it up. There's no music but they clap and sing jihadists songs. You know, "Allah, Allah, hey hey, ho ho." Only men. Well--young men. I guess they killed the women there. Some months back I heard one screaming for help and I called 911. The cops came as she kept screaming, "He's trying to kill me," and apparently he did. Killed all the women I suspect, and that's why the upbeat tune of the day, "Allah-Allah-hey-hey-ho-ho," is being sung.
Pick-up trucks and fast cars line the alley right now. It's a jihad revival and the D.J. is clapping and a singing the latest rap. "Allah-Allah-hey-hey-ho-ho. No more women to cook and sew. We'll have to pack the fudge and rip it up. Allah-Allah-hey-hey-ho-ho."
Gotta love them. And they clap together so well too. Not like white people at the park who can't clap in unison at all because they have no rhythm gene. No, these folks clap the beat. They sing the songs and they really like to touch each other. A lot.
I mean, when you killed all your women, who the fuck is left to touch? That's right, the brother on your left and right and the one in front because the one in back is touching you. "Alla-Alla-hey-hey-ho-ho. I get a tingling when we are a mingling. Alla-Alla-hey-hey-ho-ho.
Not my idea of a good party without the girls. In fact, I like girls. I like all of them, the ones in drag, the real ones and the ones that want to be a girl. What's a party without the girls?
Stories from living in Los Angeles
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Border Crossing
There are two borders here in Encino. One is Ventura Blvd and the other is the 101 freeway. If you live South of the Boulevard, you are probably rich but it depends exactly where South you live. In the hills, yes you have arrived. Up to the boulevard? Well...not so much. Now North of the boulevard and South of the freeway is a very unusual area. A hodgepodge of sorts, mostly wealthy. Where I live is no question, you are not rich but wouldn't mind it if it came along.
When I was just sprouting hairs around my dick, I had a paper route. It was the Mirror I delivered. At that time there were two main papers in Los Angeles and one was the Mirror, then when they folded it was the Times-Mirror. I lived where I do now, in the first set of track homes in the valley. Every fourth house is identical, they were sold at first like this, "D-2 has a picture window". What a picture window meant was that the front window had a stucco looking frame around the window. That was it. They sold for seven thousand in 1949 and my parents bought this house in 56 at ten thousand. the original owners had converted the garage and built a two car garage in the alley and sold the house of three thousand more than they paid for it to my mom and dad.
What it is worth now is incredible. To think my mom made payments of twenty-nine dollars a month for twenty years to buy it is incredible.
A footbridge goes over the freeway. To a neighborhood I played in before the Ventura Freeway, the 101 cut into it like a chasm. When I rode my bicycle through the neighborhood, before and after the freeway, It was mostly small ranch homes. Even my neighborhood was a ranch at one time. Some of the acreage was large. Others, maybe a half or one acre lots. Chickens, produce, citrus, walnuts.
One old farm house stood for a very long time with plowed empty fields surrounding it. It was a small Victorian house, wood siding and it stayed even after the condos were being built but not a soul did I ever see leave or enter the old house. The other ranches were, over time, torn down and in their place went up apartments and condos. That was West of White Oak. East of White Oak until Balboa, where a few old ranch houses are still left, is the homes of the rich that didn't buy or build in the foothills. They had the money but opted for one reason or another to stay with the flat-landers.
You walk over the footbridge and feel the rush of freeway traffic, the wind it creates and the roar it makes. It is tornado walking. Fast, furious and it can make you dizzy. On the other side is lush gardens with old oak trees. Moss and ferns that thrive, houses so far back you can only see their roofs and chimneys and the private road that takes you to them.
At the end of the road, Encino, which means, the oaks, in Spanish, is the Coral Tree cafe. You can sit there all day and do your computer wi-fi thing with a latte and a little something to munch on while writing screenplays.
One house has stayed the same since I was a kid. Well, not the same actually. The original house, which is unchanged and the gardens surrounding it are the same. It sits in a hallow, all wood with large oaks that shade it. The garden rises from the house as it comes to the street, giving it a cool, cottage by a brook look. That is all still there except the new owners put a wooden bear that holds the address near the street. There is some really stupid art work in the yard. Something from swap meets, like the bear. And there is an American flag hanging from one of the old oak trees by being fastened with screws that are sunk deep into its bark.
And that's the trouble in paradise. The new owners of these properties are brash, they have the taste of a jackal. They are the new-rich and I despise them for having money and not a notion on how to use it properly. It's all around where once stood orange groves and walnut groves, there are mansions of stucco, a Mediterranean there, a Greek classic here and a Tudor over there. All in chicken wire and stucco in every imaginable color and shape. Temples to the Tasteless but that's Encino for you. Where the Jews call the old country--Beverly Hills.
When I was just sprouting hairs around my dick, I had a paper route. It was the Mirror I delivered. At that time there were two main papers in Los Angeles and one was the Mirror, then when they folded it was the Times-Mirror. I lived where I do now, in the first set of track homes in the valley. Every fourth house is identical, they were sold at first like this, "D-2 has a picture window". What a picture window meant was that the front window had a stucco looking frame around the window. That was it. They sold for seven thousand in 1949 and my parents bought this house in 56 at ten thousand. the original owners had converted the garage and built a two car garage in the alley and sold the house of three thousand more than they paid for it to my mom and dad.
What it is worth now is incredible. To think my mom made payments of twenty-nine dollars a month for twenty years to buy it is incredible.
A footbridge goes over the freeway. To a neighborhood I played in before the Ventura Freeway, the 101 cut into it like a chasm. When I rode my bicycle through the neighborhood, before and after the freeway, It was mostly small ranch homes. Even my neighborhood was a ranch at one time. Some of the acreage was large. Others, maybe a half or one acre lots. Chickens, produce, citrus, walnuts.
One old farm house stood for a very long time with plowed empty fields surrounding it. It was a small Victorian house, wood siding and it stayed even after the condos were being built but not a soul did I ever see leave or enter the old house. The other ranches were, over time, torn down and in their place went up apartments and condos. That was West of White Oak. East of White Oak until Balboa, where a few old ranch houses are still left, is the homes of the rich that didn't buy or build in the foothills. They had the money but opted for one reason or another to stay with the flat-landers.
You walk over the footbridge and feel the rush of freeway traffic, the wind it creates and the roar it makes. It is tornado walking. Fast, furious and it can make you dizzy. On the other side is lush gardens with old oak trees. Moss and ferns that thrive, houses so far back you can only see their roofs and chimneys and the private road that takes you to them.
At the end of the road, Encino, which means, the oaks, in Spanish, is the Coral Tree cafe. You can sit there all day and do your computer wi-fi thing with a latte and a little something to munch on while writing screenplays.
One house has stayed the same since I was a kid. Well, not the same actually. The original house, which is unchanged and the gardens surrounding it are the same. It sits in a hallow, all wood with large oaks that shade it. The garden rises from the house as it comes to the street, giving it a cool, cottage by a brook look. That is all still there except the new owners put a wooden bear that holds the address near the street. There is some really stupid art work in the yard. Something from swap meets, like the bear. And there is an American flag hanging from one of the old oak trees by being fastened with screws that are sunk deep into its bark.
And that's the trouble in paradise. The new owners of these properties are brash, they have the taste of a jackal. They are the new-rich and I despise them for having money and not a notion on how to use it properly. It's all around where once stood orange groves and walnut groves, there are mansions of stucco, a Mediterranean there, a Greek classic here and a Tudor over there. All in chicken wire and stucco in every imaginable color and shape. Temples to the Tasteless but that's Encino for you. Where the Jews call the old country--Beverly Hills.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Odd
So this friend of mine, David, he doesn't want a copy of Sarge and the Sailor Boy. Guess what he brings over with a cheese and ham? An old erotic paperback going way back. Yellow pages, ads, really awful story. He won't take a signed copy of my book but thinks I would want something he found in his garage cleaning. He said he has a box of them.
His asshole as been more places than a pedophile priest has been transferred. He wanted to marry an actual street prostitute at one time who was using two cell phones to line up business, one of the phones was David's, while David sat there smiling.
I'll never forget it, "Oh Mike, he's a really nice guy and I would appreciate if you invited him over for brunch." There he is, dick hanging half way to the knees and booking for later while lattes and parfaits are being served.
Of course, all eyes were on the hustler. He loved it.
And guess what my long time friend didn't like about the book? They spit into each other mouths. Oh gee, how terrible when David was shoving crystal meth up his ass and sucking on a ten inch dick for three days. I would call him and this gravel voice would croak out a "Hello,"
"What ya been doin' Dave, suckin' dick for the weekend?"
"I've got a sore throat."
"Really? I thought you were gargling with gravel."
I don't get it and on top of that, I get this really great e-mail from some guy that really liked the story, said it as the hottest thing he read in years and is there a sequel and what other books do I have out.
I think you can legally set fire to friends like that. I mean, what jury would convict a long time friend that was insulted in such a way. I know in Afghanistan he would certainly have his nuts chopped off for such an offense. He's lucky he lives here where I have to worry about lawsuits if he should survive the fire.
His asshole as been more places than a pedophile priest has been transferred. He wanted to marry an actual street prostitute at one time who was using two cell phones to line up business, one of the phones was David's, while David sat there smiling.
I'll never forget it, "Oh Mike, he's a really nice guy and I would appreciate if you invited him over for brunch." There he is, dick hanging half way to the knees and booking for later while lattes and parfaits are being served.
Of course, all eyes were on the hustler. He loved it.
And guess what my long time friend didn't like about the book? They spit into each other mouths. Oh gee, how terrible when David was shoving crystal meth up his ass and sucking on a ten inch dick for three days. I would call him and this gravel voice would croak out a "Hello,"
"What ya been doin' Dave, suckin' dick for the weekend?"
"I've got a sore throat."
"Really? I thought you were gargling with gravel."
I don't get it and on top of that, I get this really great e-mail from some guy that really liked the story, said it as the hottest thing he read in years and is there a sequel and what other books do I have out.
I think you can legally set fire to friends like that. I mean, what jury would convict a long time friend that was insulted in such a way. I know in Afghanistan he would certainly have his nuts chopped off for such an offense. He's lucky he lives here where I have to worry about lawsuits if he should survive the fire.
Friday, March 26, 2010
It is Finished
The very words Jesus supposedly used before he died tortured on a cross. It makes sense to me.
Why the synopsis for Jawbone was so difficult to write, I don't know. It was re-writing the story again, I think and I wanted to do other things--maybe. It is twice as big as it should be so there is a great deal of editing for me to do yet. But it is finished and once the fat has been gleamed from the bones, I should have something decent to send to publishers.
The wind has picked up. It is suppose to blow strong tomorrow, a Santa Ana is a-comin our way. Where we live that is not too bad. If it is windy here, there is a gale blowing just five miles away. A wall of sorts about midway in the valley and those on the North side get blown to kingdom come. We are at the foothills of the Santa Monicas and usually protected pretty much from the really strong gusts.
I made reservations for the beach rental today. Two weeks in the first part of fall up by Morro Bay, lots of writing for me in a beautiful little garden by the sea. I can open a back gate and take a short walk to the sand and shoreline. One of the few pleasures Wally and I have left to enjoy really. He has been distant somewhat in the past few days. A little more confused than usual. It comes and goes but each time it seems to linger longer before he clears up. Maybe the warmer weather will get him active again, I hope so.
Why the synopsis for Jawbone was so difficult to write, I don't know. It was re-writing the story again, I think and I wanted to do other things--maybe. It is twice as big as it should be so there is a great deal of editing for me to do yet. But it is finished and once the fat has been gleamed from the bones, I should have something decent to send to publishers.
The wind has picked up. It is suppose to blow strong tomorrow, a Santa Ana is a-comin our way. Where we live that is not too bad. If it is windy here, there is a gale blowing just five miles away. A wall of sorts about midway in the valley and those on the North side get blown to kingdom come. We are at the foothills of the Santa Monicas and usually protected pretty much from the really strong gusts.
I made reservations for the beach rental today. Two weeks in the first part of fall up by Morro Bay, lots of writing for me in a beautiful little garden by the sea. I can open a back gate and take a short walk to the sand and shoreline. One of the few pleasures Wally and I have left to enjoy really. He has been distant somewhat in the past few days. A little more confused than usual. It comes and goes but each time it seems to linger longer before he clears up. Maybe the warmer weather will get him active again, I hope so.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The 3-D Thing
There are more ads for 3-D movies. When I watched Alice In Wonderland, at a special theatre geared for this kind of film, I have to say it was breathtaking. That's the problem, there was no sitting back from the action. You had to face the demons yourself.
I'm a, hold up the hand and look through the cracks in my fingers kind of guy. When it gets too intense, I like to know there is an escaped route. Now with these glasses, once you put them on, you can't leave. Everything is dark in the room except for the movie. The film is throwing things at you right and left and you know if you move, any kind of move, you will be falling to your death.
To climb to your seat is an accomplishment. To look up and see that you might need ropes to guide the way and that if one false move on your part, say stepping on someone and then having them scream at you so that you loose your balance and tip. Well, let's say tipping is not optional because one tip the wrong way, you become the boulder that caused the landslide and many deaths along the way.
I was terrified of having to pee and a good thing I was, because I did take a good whiz before going in and drank only half my soda. I couldn't find it with all the stuff flying by my face from the movie.
Do not go to one of these theaters if you are over sixty. They are made for people who climb cliffs to slay dragons and wait to piss when it's all over. And you can't be a scaredy-cat. Put your hands up and you're sure to be hit by a flying teacup.
I'm a, hold up the hand and look through the cracks in my fingers kind of guy. When it gets too intense, I like to know there is an escaped route. Now with these glasses, once you put them on, you can't leave. Everything is dark in the room except for the movie. The film is throwing things at you right and left and you know if you move, any kind of move, you will be falling to your death.
To climb to your seat is an accomplishment. To look up and see that you might need ropes to guide the way and that if one false move on your part, say stepping on someone and then having them scream at you so that you loose your balance and tip. Well, let's say tipping is not optional because one tip the wrong way, you become the boulder that caused the landslide and many deaths along the way.
I was terrified of having to pee and a good thing I was, because I did take a good whiz before going in and drank only half my soda. I couldn't find it with all the stuff flying by my face from the movie.
Do not go to one of these theaters if you are over sixty. They are made for people who climb cliffs to slay dragons and wait to piss when it's all over. And you can't be a scaredy-cat. Put your hands up and you're sure to be hit by a flying teacup.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Beer Can Chicken
Tuesday is the day we go to Rossmore to water and clean the hallways. It isn't a hard job but what is hard is driving into town and back. It sucks the life from you to be on the freeway that long. When we got home and settled, I decided to try the beer can chicken I had seen on a cook show. I forgot exactly how they seasoned it but I seasoned it my way and cooked it their way. What you do is season your bird, take any beer in a can, don't use the large can, the regular can size is perfect. Pop the tab, drink half the beer in the can and shove the entire can with the rest of the beer up the chicken's ass.
Now, I have had friends that did this to chicken, and in today's world it hardly fazes youth to take a beer can anymore up the kazoo. But if you do it to poultry, well it comes out incredibly delicious. Stand the chicken on your grill using the legs of the chicken and bottom of the beer can to balance the chicken so that it looks like it's going to walk right off the grill. It is quite sturdy I found and stayed that way while I slow cooked and smoked the bird. Have your fire to the side with a pan under your chicken half filled with water to even the temperature out. Put some wood chips on the coals, sit back and get pleasantly toasted while the bird cooks to your liking.
It comes out moist, evenly cooked and when you go to pull that can out of the chicken's ass, it will be hotter than a blue-balled sixteen year old. So stay on the safe side, and always wear your gloves.
Now, I have had friends that did this to chicken, and in today's world it hardly fazes youth to take a beer can anymore up the kazoo. But if you do it to poultry, well it comes out incredibly delicious. Stand the chicken on your grill using the legs of the chicken and bottom of the beer can to balance the chicken so that it looks like it's going to walk right off the grill. It is quite sturdy I found and stayed that way while I slow cooked and smoked the bird. Have your fire to the side with a pan under your chicken half filled with water to even the temperature out. Put some wood chips on the coals, sit back and get pleasantly toasted while the bird cooks to your liking.
It comes out moist, evenly cooked and when you go to pull that can out of the chicken's ass, it will be hotter than a blue-balled sixteen year old. So stay on the safe side, and always wear your gloves.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Alice in Wonderland
The 3-D is a dramatic difference from the 3-D's I've seen earlier. Friends said Avatar's 3-D effects were better, I believe they probably were though I didn't see Avatar.
Most of the scene was slightly blurry, out of focus except for where the camera was mainly focused when on a character, which bothered me.
But what did it for me was the story. It was not what I was expecting or hoping for because I wanted something more to, Through the Looking Glass. It was a typical Disney script.
Sunday's dinner party was fun except for one horrible event. In the morning, when David came over to go with us to Culver City to see Alice in Wonderland, he said, "You were absolutely perfect last night. You didn't offend anyone, you didn't embarrass anyone."
Like a knife, it cut into me. And I knew at the time, if I allowed myself to get drunk before the steak and lobster were cooked, we might not eat at all and apparently by then it was too late to get drunk enough for at least one good insult.
Cayr'ls poll dancing is now too old to draw a yawn. Barbara hardly blinked when I signed a copy of, Sarge and the Sailor Boy, telling her to make sure it wasn't in her hand when she died, especially if she had a towel in the other. I signed it, To Barbara and Mickey, when all else fails--read this.
The lobster was exceptional.
Most of the scene was slightly blurry, out of focus except for where the camera was mainly focused when on a character, which bothered me.
But what did it for me was the story. It was not what I was expecting or hoping for because I wanted something more to, Through the Looking Glass. It was a typical Disney script.
Sunday's dinner party was fun except for one horrible event. In the morning, when David came over to go with us to Culver City to see Alice in Wonderland, he said, "You were absolutely perfect last night. You didn't offend anyone, you didn't embarrass anyone."
Like a knife, it cut into me. And I knew at the time, if I allowed myself to get drunk before the steak and lobster were cooked, we might not eat at all and apparently by then it was too late to get drunk enough for at least one good insult.
Cayr'ls poll dancing is now too old to draw a yawn. Barbara hardly blinked when I signed a copy of, Sarge and the Sailor Boy, telling her to make sure it wasn't in her hand when she died, especially if she had a towel in the other. I signed it, To Barbara and Mickey, when all else fails--read this.
The lobster was exceptional.
Friday, March 19, 2010
A Shopping Spree
It was the drink glasses that had starfish and little fishes with a sprinkle of glitter floating in water that started the frenzy. Armed with two Twenty dollars off coupons, I bought eight. They're made of plastic with a space in between like double pane windows where the water, glitter, and the fish and starfish floated about. Had to have.
Needed an ice bucket, half off and eight plastic wine glasses, in glimmering colors, all in plastic. Some small and large plates and a serving dish for chips and dip. A new shaker that came with all the bar tending doo-dads, opener, skimmer, tongs, I've got all the shit to get hammered real proper now.
Too bad it's wasted on the old. The youngest person will be in her mid-fifties and she looks younger than that. Everyone else is sixty and above. Not that they can't drink, well two can't but the rest can and do.
I was going to get plastic throw away crap but this stuff is easy to clean and re-usable. I'll look so cool and eco-friendly. After the Titania experience, I needed something to jazz it up a bit. I did mow the lawn, sort of, at least where the grass was growing the highest. And with this plastic stuff, there's no worry of some old codger dropping their glass or plate and then lacerating themselves on the cut shards in their broken hip fall.
Now I need to vacuum and plug Betty's ass so she won't tooth paste shit near the back door. The damn dog has no excuse now, the fucking door is open and the bitch still shits in front of it. Where the fuck are the terrorists when you need them?
They came in today. I saw, for the first time, the brother and a younger man with him. A son looking type of guy. They didn't look over even though we both drove up at the same time. Me, from my shopping spree and them, from some terrorist cell hidden deep in the city. Okay, you think I'm joking. Why then do they drive an old piece of shit in need of a paint job when they have two other fashionable cars to drive? It doesn't stick out. It looks like maids going to work or cobblers to their shop. What the hell is with these people?
Juanster and Caryl are coming over to ride with me. Gad, poor me on a bike going to the Corner Bakery and with all that vacuuming to do by Sunday.
Needed an ice bucket, half off and eight plastic wine glasses, in glimmering colors, all in plastic. Some small and large plates and a serving dish for chips and dip. A new shaker that came with all the bar tending doo-dads, opener, skimmer, tongs, I've got all the shit to get hammered real proper now.
Too bad it's wasted on the old. The youngest person will be in her mid-fifties and she looks younger than that. Everyone else is sixty and above. Not that they can't drink, well two can't but the rest can and do.
I was going to get plastic throw away crap but this stuff is easy to clean and re-usable. I'll look so cool and eco-friendly. After the Titania experience, I needed something to jazz it up a bit. I did mow the lawn, sort of, at least where the grass was growing the highest. And with this plastic stuff, there's no worry of some old codger dropping their glass or plate and then lacerating themselves on the cut shards in their broken hip fall.
Now I need to vacuum and plug Betty's ass so she won't tooth paste shit near the back door. The damn dog has no excuse now, the fucking door is open and the bitch still shits in front of it. Where the fuck are the terrorists when you need them?
They came in today. I saw, for the first time, the brother and a younger man with him. A son looking type of guy. They didn't look over even though we both drove up at the same time. Me, from my shopping spree and them, from some terrorist cell hidden deep in the city. Okay, you think I'm joking. Why then do they drive an old piece of shit in need of a paint job when they have two other fashionable cars to drive? It doesn't stick out. It looks like maids going to work or cobblers to their shop. What the hell is with these people?
Juanster and Caryl are coming over to ride with me. Gad, poor me on a bike going to the Corner Bakery and with all that vacuuming to do by Sunday.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Joneses
One of the solar globes in the garden was broken and repaired with duct tape. It has that, 'There, I fixed it," look. Searching the Internet, I came across at Target a Titania fairy statue. She held a glowing solar globe and the statue looked pretty damn good. A hundred bucks and I could now keep up with the Joneses who are coming over Sunday. They aren't Jones, they are Sirkus, Lower, and Brogden. The three snobs. Okay, the Titania fairy statue would be perfect among the carnations and it was almost three feet high.
It came yesterday and when we pulled it from the box the entire base was shattered. It was said in the description that it was a kind of fake rock. That turned out to be a brittle thin plastic that had the strength of an eggshell. Made in China. Now there's something to think about. China, where they have so much industrial garbage they have become experts at reusing the shit. I'm sure the fairy was full of toxic waste.
It went back to Target today and a review was submitted--mine. The first review said they tried several times to get a statue that wasn't broken. Now I know what they mean.
Back to searching for the Jones, one up special, to make them run out and get some of their own goddamn toxic waste from fucking China.
It came yesterday and when we pulled it from the box the entire base was shattered. It was said in the description that it was a kind of fake rock. That turned out to be a brittle thin plastic that had the strength of an eggshell. Made in China. Now there's something to think about. China, where they have so much industrial garbage they have become experts at reusing the shit. I'm sure the fairy was full of toxic waste.
It went back to Target today and a review was submitted--mine. The first review said they tried several times to get a statue that wasn't broken. Now I know what they mean.
Back to searching for the Jones, one up special, to make them run out and get some of their own goddamn toxic waste from fucking China.
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Hood
It was active today. The terrorists in the alley moved in another set of terrorists. The old terrorist moved out over the weekend and then a new moving van showed up today in the late afternoon and moved in new ones.
I'm not kidding. Some idiot on his cell phone was talking in the alley right behind our bushes. Probably because it's a green zone because of the bushes. They don't have any. I now know why they call it the Green Zone in Iraq . Because it's green there. I guess? I mean why go two houses down to have a god-damn cell phone conversation in Middle Eastern dialect if you don't like talking where it's green. They don't have green at the compound at the third house in the alley, they have Baghdad brown. A kind of brown, it's mixed with a lot of other shit but basically your bark colors over cement and stucco.
I'm not a xenophobic, actually I like the mix. But yelling in your fucking cell phone while chamber music is being played in a beautiful garden, beloved and with the pleasantries of tea and paper is pretty fucking barbaric. Go to your own fucking shit-hole and yell in your phone ass-hole.
Okay, that noted, it was a really swell day. Although I bought too expensive meat and fish from two guys peddling from a frozen food truck. I mean I paid. BIG. What the fuck was I thinking of when I did this!!!.
If you want a good steak, call me. We'll get hammered and I'll try to grill you a steak on the barbie while I think what it cost per pound but only after the second martini. Please let me drink two before I run this over again in my brain.
I'm not kidding. Some idiot on his cell phone was talking in the alley right behind our bushes. Probably because it's a green zone because of the bushes. They don't have any. I now know why they call it the Green Zone in Iraq . Because it's green there. I guess? I mean why go two houses down to have a god-damn cell phone conversation in Middle Eastern dialect if you don't like talking where it's green. They don't have green at the compound at the third house in the alley, they have Baghdad brown. A kind of brown, it's mixed with a lot of other shit but basically your bark colors over cement and stucco.
I'm not a xenophobic, actually I like the mix. But yelling in your fucking cell phone while chamber music is being played in a beautiful garden, beloved and with the pleasantries of tea and paper is pretty fucking barbaric. Go to your own fucking shit-hole and yell in your phone ass-hole.
Okay, that noted, it was a really swell day. Although I bought too expensive meat and fish from two guys peddling from a frozen food truck. I mean I paid. BIG. What the fuck was I thinking of when I did this!!!.
If you want a good steak, call me. We'll get hammered and I'll try to grill you a steak on the barbie while I think what it cost per pound but only after the second martini. Please let me drink two before I run this over again in my brain.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Going Retro
The last time Wally and I mowed the backyard we did it with a gas mower. Wally had just finished when it ran out of gas and the gas tank we use to refill with was out as well. At the apartments we use to mow the strip of grass on the parkway. We bought a hand mower at Sears for eighty bucks. It worked great but during the course of this last year we have gardeners to maintain Rossmore.
I picked up the push mower we had stored there on our last visit to clean the hallways and water. I put it in the garage and today we used it here in our backyard. It was great exercise for Wally and he enjoyed pushing the mower. I used it to finish up what he missed and there wasn't any gas to buy or a back-sprain from trying to start the gas one. We may never go back.
Now the weed-whacker is electric, the gas one was taken from the alley in ten minutes two weeks ago. Good luck if they use it, whoever picked it up needs prayer to start the damned thing. The electric does a much better job, it's stronger, lighter and could skin a buffalo in ten minutes.
We have the patio all set for the warm weather coming up. Brunch with friends Sunday with the papers and good weather and then a barbecue in the afternoon. A tri-tip I took from the freezer. I'll smoke it with a rub to the tri-tip. I read a tip on rubs. When you have meat, use regular mustard to coat the meat before the putting on the rub. It doesn't effect the taste but does keep the rub and smoke on the meat. I'll let you know if it works.
The garden is really looking good. The primrose look like something from a 3-D movie. The white iris are just about to bloom and the vegetable garden is getting real pretty. To me, there is nothing as nice as a well maintained, working vegetable garden. I have a flat of beans, and different tomatoes planted in seed I'm waiting on to sprout. I saw the first sprigs of basil coming up today where I seeded in the garden and I'll be planting the South-forty soon from the flat. The girls had their coop cleaned out and fresh straw put down, now that the monsoon ended. I hope it ended.
This time of year is kind of special, the beginning of Spring and the Awakening. Even the heavens look fresh and clean. Let Earth Mother heal.
I picked up the push mower we had stored there on our last visit to clean the hallways and water. I put it in the garage and today we used it here in our backyard. It was great exercise for Wally and he enjoyed pushing the mower. I used it to finish up what he missed and there wasn't any gas to buy or a back-sprain from trying to start the gas one. We may never go back.
Now the weed-whacker is electric, the gas one was taken from the alley in ten minutes two weeks ago. Good luck if they use it, whoever picked it up needs prayer to start the damned thing. The electric does a much better job, it's stronger, lighter and could skin a buffalo in ten minutes.
We have the patio all set for the warm weather coming up. Brunch with friends Sunday with the papers and good weather and then a barbecue in the afternoon. A tri-tip I took from the freezer. I'll smoke it with a rub to the tri-tip. I read a tip on rubs. When you have meat, use regular mustard to coat the meat before the putting on the rub. It doesn't effect the taste but does keep the rub and smoke on the meat. I'll let you know if it works.
The garden is really looking good. The primrose look like something from a 3-D movie. The white iris are just about to bloom and the vegetable garden is getting real pretty. To me, there is nothing as nice as a well maintained, working vegetable garden. I have a flat of beans, and different tomatoes planted in seed I'm waiting on to sprout. I saw the first sprigs of basil coming up today where I seeded in the garden and I'll be planting the South-forty soon from the flat. The girls had their coop cleaned out and fresh straw put down, now that the monsoon ended. I hope it ended.
This time of year is kind of special, the beginning of Spring and the Awakening. Even the heavens look fresh and clean. Let Earth Mother heal.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Taking Care of Business
It was a pleasant day, if you didn't mind a neighbor sandblasting the shit out of his house. This house, rather, compound for the deranged, is the third house going west on the other side of the alley. Somehow, it is connected to the third house on the other side of the ally going east too. You see, I live in the land of possible terrorists, Encino.
I'm not joking. Across the street to the east one house is a man and woman who only handle big, black cars. The man is big and black and the woman is white with black highlights, her hair and eyes. Not a week into the rental a swat team shows up from another county. Six men, with bullet proof vests and sidearms are in the hood asking questions about the two. And they are waiting for them to show up. My neighbor across the street with four children, has her kids nestled in the furthest room from her neighbor, in case of gunfire.
I'm not sure what came of it, they seem to deal in cars, always black and always with the driver's door so close to the side of the house that no one could open the door. Another black car is parked sideways blocking it, usually a black Benz, sometimes a black convertible mustang.
Next door to me on the west side is a Middle Eastern group of people. I'm not sure what they are, Jewish, Palestinians, Persians, I have no idea except for their language and habits, which don't place them from Jacksonville, Florida. It is always dark next door. Dark and quiet, yet a teenage girl lives there, two men and a rather attractive middle age woman. I've never seen the second man, brother to the other man, only that his brother says he plays the piano. They borrowed my ladder to remove leaves from the gutters when I was putting up Christmas lights and he asked me to look at something in the back. Our gardeners had trimmed the tree and they wanted to know why they didn't trim the foliage spilling over on their side.
Rather than explain that in America, if it is growing on your side you have the right to leave it or cut it at property line, I said I would take care of it and cut it all back from their fence. So now they wave at us when they happen to be parking one of three cars or leaving. One day last summer I left the hose going on the side yard that separates the properties, the water was trickling down their driveway and when I was out to move the hose, the attractive woman drove up with daughter and said, " It's okay, we were going wash the driveway anyway."
The first thing they did moving in was fire the gardener and they have auto sprinklers that they have no idea how to operate. They mow when it looks like a cow pasture and at night. No lights, no lights in the windows, no front porch light, no back porch light ever goes on. The house is as dark as a terrorist cell.
The other two houses, the ones in the alley have Middle Eastern people in them as well. I'm not sure from where, but they fight. They fight a lot. Cops come, people scream for help, "He's trying to kill me!" And in all this, there is building going on. There are additions to both houses clear out to the alley with a fence two feet from it. There is no green. It is house, cement and that's it. Just like you see in Baghdad. In both places. Okay, every fucking day they have a crew working on one of the two places. So much so that a roach coach shows up at lunch in the alley.
Why would you sandblast something that was just painted? Why not paint over it if you don't like the tawdry color of Baghdad sand.
So they're creating Desert Storm, it is in its, I think, tenth year now of creation. The noise of the sandblasting can be heard inside our house. I'm trying to write but, it is that steady noise of sand. Sand that blasts from a firehouse sending clouds of chipped paint into the air. It has to make them feel right at home.
I can't write and so Wally and I go to the feed store and buy a hundred pounds of organic chicken feed and a bail of straw. It all fits into the trunk of the fat-ass Cadillac. That makes me wonder now if my neighborhood terrorists would use the trunk of the fat-ass for Big Bertha. You know, the bomb. It holds a lot of shit.
We bought dog food, cat food, cat litter and most important, shit-stain remover for Betty's constant bowel problem. She shits like toothpaste from a tube anytime after I let her out to crap, or I should put, hoping she'll take the hint and shit her toothpaste on the goddamn lawn. But of course she stands at the door waiting to shit inside. If the terrorists strike, please let the Fates allow it to be Betty.
I called Social Security and asked about the Medicare benefits I was to receive from filing a claim six months ago. I wrote an e-mail to the publisher of my erotic book asking when I was going to get my copies, they should arrive in two weeks or less, he wrote back.
And I'm surrounded by terrorists. Thank the Goddess I have a hundred pounds of chicken feed, dog food, cat food and litter to see me through in case the FBI descend on our little piece of heaven any time soon.
I'm not joking. Across the street to the east one house is a man and woman who only handle big, black cars. The man is big and black and the woman is white with black highlights, her hair and eyes. Not a week into the rental a swat team shows up from another county. Six men, with bullet proof vests and sidearms are in the hood asking questions about the two. And they are waiting for them to show up. My neighbor across the street with four children, has her kids nestled in the furthest room from her neighbor, in case of gunfire.
I'm not sure what came of it, they seem to deal in cars, always black and always with the driver's door so close to the side of the house that no one could open the door. Another black car is parked sideways blocking it, usually a black Benz, sometimes a black convertible mustang.
Next door to me on the west side is a Middle Eastern group of people. I'm not sure what they are, Jewish, Palestinians, Persians, I have no idea except for their language and habits, which don't place them from Jacksonville, Florida. It is always dark next door. Dark and quiet, yet a teenage girl lives there, two men and a rather attractive middle age woman. I've never seen the second man, brother to the other man, only that his brother says he plays the piano. They borrowed my ladder to remove leaves from the gutters when I was putting up Christmas lights and he asked me to look at something in the back. Our gardeners had trimmed the tree and they wanted to know why they didn't trim the foliage spilling over on their side.
Rather than explain that in America, if it is growing on your side you have the right to leave it or cut it at property line, I said I would take care of it and cut it all back from their fence. So now they wave at us when they happen to be parking one of three cars or leaving. One day last summer I left the hose going on the side yard that separates the properties, the water was trickling down their driveway and when I was out to move the hose, the attractive woman drove up with daughter and said, " It's okay, we were going wash the driveway anyway."
The first thing they did moving in was fire the gardener and they have auto sprinklers that they have no idea how to operate. They mow when it looks like a cow pasture and at night. No lights, no lights in the windows, no front porch light, no back porch light ever goes on. The house is as dark as a terrorist cell.
The other two houses, the ones in the alley have Middle Eastern people in them as well. I'm not sure from where, but they fight. They fight a lot. Cops come, people scream for help, "He's trying to kill me!" And in all this, there is building going on. There are additions to both houses clear out to the alley with a fence two feet from it. There is no green. It is house, cement and that's it. Just like you see in Baghdad. In both places. Okay, every fucking day they have a crew working on one of the two places. So much so that a roach coach shows up at lunch in the alley.
Why would you sandblast something that was just painted? Why not paint over it if you don't like the tawdry color of Baghdad sand.
So they're creating Desert Storm, it is in its, I think, tenth year now of creation. The noise of the sandblasting can be heard inside our house. I'm trying to write but, it is that steady noise of sand. Sand that blasts from a firehouse sending clouds of chipped paint into the air. It has to make them feel right at home.
I can't write and so Wally and I go to the feed store and buy a hundred pounds of organic chicken feed and a bail of straw. It all fits into the trunk of the fat-ass Cadillac. That makes me wonder now if my neighborhood terrorists would use the trunk of the fat-ass for Big Bertha. You know, the bomb. It holds a lot of shit.
We bought dog food, cat food, cat litter and most important, shit-stain remover for Betty's constant bowel problem. She shits like toothpaste from a tube anytime after I let her out to crap, or I should put, hoping she'll take the hint and shit her toothpaste on the goddamn lawn. But of course she stands at the door waiting to shit inside. If the terrorists strike, please let the Fates allow it to be Betty.
I called Social Security and asked about the Medicare benefits I was to receive from filing a claim six months ago. I wrote an e-mail to the publisher of my erotic book asking when I was going to get my copies, they should arrive in two weeks or less, he wrote back.
And I'm surrounded by terrorists. Thank the Goddess I have a hundred pounds of chicken feed, dog food, cat food and litter to see me through in case the FBI descend on our little piece of heaven any time soon.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
My Job As A Ghetto Baron
Wally has an apartment building in town. It is within walking distance to Paramount Studios, to Larchmont, which use to be trendy until they let in a Koo-A-Roo fast food joint. That started the downhill. There was a little French cafe there that Wally and I would walk to on a warm summer evening. They had a fantastic free range organic roast chicken that we always ended up ordering, even after saying we would try something else, just once. It closed, the hardware store closed where you could get just about anything you needed including kitchenware.
Anyway, the apartments are nice. Six units, hardwood floors, and each apartment has its own layout. Each is different in some way. It is from the early fifties I think, the style is anyway and it is right across King of King's church. A lovely edifice to the Catholic gods with bells that peel out chimes at the hour. It is a school in the day, beastly children roam the asphalt, chain link preventing them access to anything green. But that's Catholicism for you. You have to suffer if you want to go to heaven. That's why they think every sperm is sacred. You get so much more suffering that way and on such massive scale. Think of the future starving saints of the Church, how more delighted god will be with such suffering. Anway...
I digress, Vine becomes, Rossmore at Melrose. It is the dividing line between the rich and the poor. The portal is the church sticking into Melrose like a sword. As if to say, 'Beyond this point live the privileged. Enter at your Peril'. Right away, the highway is brought down to a one lane road. People have to merge to pass by the church and Wally's apartments across the street.
It is a careful place to live. The merging of traffic, people cutting off others, horns honk, rage, it's a city with a lot of very important people converging into a single lane so imagine what it is like for them to be behind someone else. Wally's apartments are amazingly quiet with all this going on, It could be the old type of construction, it could be the vegetation, sycamore trees in the parkway that shade the street and assorted plants in front.
Not a bad place and remember, six units. The good side for the tenant is that there is not a lot of other people. Not too much of a problem to do a load of laundry. There are front and back doors to all the units. The back door at the kitchen or located nearby. All front doors go into a two story small lobby that has only a staircase, no elevator, to the upper three apartments. The mail is located inside so that no one has to go outside for it. Each has a separate, one car garage in back with a large cement area to get to the garages fixed with genie garage doors.
The tenants, those that get along and they usually do on some level--like it there. The rent can't be raised too high, there are no amenities. No security except for security doors on each outside door and bars on windows that can be opened in an emergency from inside. No air-conditioner, and the heaters, except for one, have to be turned on manually. But only on occasion does it get hot enough to really want air-conditioning. For some reason, a cool breeze blows there. It is located in what use to be a swamp in the early days of Los Angeles. A low point that collects the cooler air. The mail carrier always says she loves to get the building on a hot day because going up to the door was like having air-conditioning on your face. And she's right, it is cool right there. A tunnel of sorts is formed by separation of properties and the wind is funneled between, bringing a cool breeze from the North side of the buildings and the foliage along the way, cooling the air further.
Six fucking units and you would think the tenants would be appreciative. The building is worth millions, if sold. Because of the location and what you could build on the piece of land probably an apartment with sixty units like the new one next door. The six units go for about a thousand each, more or less, in rent a month. A real bargain for that area. Some months there is no rent money coming in, the bills to maintain six units, the taxes, and all the rest of what owning an apartment building can and will take a big chunk of change. We get, on average about three rents for ourselves, minus income tax and the other three units go for the bills for the building.
So why the petty bullshit? Why the whining about the goddamn church bells. That's from the fucking Catholic that moved out. Why did he think anyone would want to move into an apartment that he painted green and red on certain walls? He wanted his deposit back, it was just painted he said and yes, it was a nice paint job. But fucking green and red? So he got the security, just wore me down and it is now painted, an off-fucking white.
I use to have empathy for their plight, now I wait for that day when vultures circle the little village.
Anyway, the apartments are nice. Six units, hardwood floors, and each apartment has its own layout. Each is different in some way. It is from the early fifties I think, the style is anyway and it is right across King of King's church. A lovely edifice to the Catholic gods with bells that peel out chimes at the hour. It is a school in the day, beastly children roam the asphalt, chain link preventing them access to anything green. But that's Catholicism for you. You have to suffer if you want to go to heaven. That's why they think every sperm is sacred. You get so much more suffering that way and on such massive scale. Think of the future starving saints of the Church, how more delighted god will be with such suffering. Anway...
I digress, Vine becomes, Rossmore at Melrose. It is the dividing line between the rich and the poor. The portal is the church sticking into Melrose like a sword. As if to say, 'Beyond this point live the privileged. Enter at your Peril'. Right away, the highway is brought down to a one lane road. People have to merge to pass by the church and Wally's apartments across the street.
It is a careful place to live. The merging of traffic, people cutting off others, horns honk, rage, it's a city with a lot of very important people converging into a single lane so imagine what it is like for them to be behind someone else. Wally's apartments are amazingly quiet with all this going on, It could be the old type of construction, it could be the vegetation, sycamore trees in the parkway that shade the street and assorted plants in front.
Not a bad place and remember, six units. The good side for the tenant is that there is not a lot of other people. Not too much of a problem to do a load of laundry. There are front and back doors to all the units. The back door at the kitchen or located nearby. All front doors go into a two story small lobby that has only a staircase, no elevator, to the upper three apartments. The mail is located inside so that no one has to go outside for it. Each has a separate, one car garage in back with a large cement area to get to the garages fixed with genie garage doors.
The tenants, those that get along and they usually do on some level--like it there. The rent can't be raised too high, there are no amenities. No security except for security doors on each outside door and bars on windows that can be opened in an emergency from inside. No air-conditioner, and the heaters, except for one, have to be turned on manually. But only on occasion does it get hot enough to really want air-conditioning. For some reason, a cool breeze blows there. It is located in what use to be a swamp in the early days of Los Angeles. A low point that collects the cooler air. The mail carrier always says she loves to get the building on a hot day because going up to the door was like having air-conditioning on your face. And she's right, it is cool right there. A tunnel of sorts is formed by separation of properties and the wind is funneled between, bringing a cool breeze from the North side of the buildings and the foliage along the way, cooling the air further.
Six fucking units and you would think the tenants would be appreciative. The building is worth millions, if sold. Because of the location and what you could build on the piece of land probably an apartment with sixty units like the new one next door. The six units go for about a thousand each, more or less, in rent a month. A real bargain for that area. Some months there is no rent money coming in, the bills to maintain six units, the taxes, and all the rest of what owning an apartment building can and will take a big chunk of change. We get, on average about three rents for ourselves, minus income tax and the other three units go for the bills for the building.
So why the petty bullshit? Why the whining about the goddamn church bells. That's from the fucking Catholic that moved out. Why did he think anyone would want to move into an apartment that he painted green and red on certain walls? He wanted his deposit back, it was just painted he said and yes, it was a nice paint job. But fucking green and red? So he got the security, just wore me down and it is now painted, an off-fucking white.
I use to have empathy for their plight, now I wait for that day when vultures circle the little village.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Manipulation
Pulling the pud is one form, another is when a friend tries to get you, in a variety of ways, to do what they want without asking or talking about it. Last night we went to Dream Girls. It was okay, the musical would have been better if not on Oscar night and if it wasn't so bitchy. A few more songs, completed all the way through would have been nice.
Caryl's boyfriend, the one she just broke up with and then got back together in a kind of sort of way, he won't tell her again when he is suicidal, she told his therapist. But there seeing each other, okay whatever the hell works for these two. But he didn't want to come to the performance when an extra ticket came up. So guess what? Caryl was bummed. Not that he was going until the ticket holder called and said he was sick and could we find someone who would enjoy seeing it. The boyfriend didn't want to drive thirty miles alone.
She wanted to pay for dinner that night, okay fine. Only she wasn't moving her ass to get the damn chicken. So I mentioned that we needed to eat soon, if we were going to be on time. That's when she came up with this lame answer that we never left for dinner before five before. The performance starts at six-thirty. Can't work, I tell her, and after she took her sweet time getting ready and needed to deposit a check in her bank, we ended up at In&Out for a burger. Big spender and then I had to wolf down the burger, get on the freeway and fly to the red line. We made it in time, but I'm getting pissed with all this.
Sunday she wanted to go bike riding, I didn't. Sunday is my day to read the L.A. Times and the New York. I don't like to be disturb. I don't want anyone over before ten in the morning earliest. And if someone does come over, I expect them to read, drink tea or coffee and not bother me until after ten. The rule has been broken now two weeks running. This last Sunday, Caryl and Juan wanted to meet here because they stow their bikes here and ride from our house. Juan wanted to annoy me, ask for things, interrupt me with wanting to be fed and on and on. If I don't answer him, he is like some eight year old and asks louder and more persistent until you get pissed. The last two Sundays have been this way.
I'm not sure if her and Juan think it's funny to annoy me but they are about to find out what a bitch I can really be. Wally and I aren't saying a fucking thing. When Sunday morning comes, we are going to have breakfast out with our paper. Someone can wait on me while I read, how nice that will be for a change.
Caryl's boyfriend, the one she just broke up with and then got back together in a kind of sort of way, he won't tell her again when he is suicidal, she told his therapist. But there seeing each other, okay whatever the hell works for these two. But he didn't want to come to the performance when an extra ticket came up. So guess what? Caryl was bummed. Not that he was going until the ticket holder called and said he was sick and could we find someone who would enjoy seeing it. The boyfriend didn't want to drive thirty miles alone.
She wanted to pay for dinner that night, okay fine. Only she wasn't moving her ass to get the damn chicken. So I mentioned that we needed to eat soon, if we were going to be on time. That's when she came up with this lame answer that we never left for dinner before five before. The performance starts at six-thirty. Can't work, I tell her, and after she took her sweet time getting ready and needed to deposit a check in her bank, we ended up at In&Out for a burger. Big spender and then I had to wolf down the burger, get on the freeway and fly to the red line. We made it in time, but I'm getting pissed with all this.
Sunday she wanted to go bike riding, I didn't. Sunday is my day to read the L.A. Times and the New York. I don't like to be disturb. I don't want anyone over before ten in the morning earliest. And if someone does come over, I expect them to read, drink tea or coffee and not bother me until after ten. The rule has been broken now two weeks running. This last Sunday, Caryl and Juan wanted to meet here because they stow their bikes here and ride from our house. Juan wanted to annoy me, ask for things, interrupt me with wanting to be fed and on and on. If I don't answer him, he is like some eight year old and asks louder and more persistent until you get pissed. The last two Sundays have been this way.
I'm not sure if her and Juan think it's funny to annoy me but they are about to find out what a bitch I can really be. Wally and I aren't saying a fucking thing. When Sunday morning comes, we are going to have breakfast out with our paper. Someone can wait on me while I read, how nice that will be for a change.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Yet He Still Lives
Every Saturday the leech comes over, Wally's ex. It use to be Thursday but now Saturday. He's Wally's ex-lover but not dead lover, and I am patiently waiting for him to die. Well I'm not patient, I gave him a stick of butter for his popcorn tonight and added the cheese he wanted in with it. Gladly too and while I was preparing it, offered him another drink to go with his cigarettes he can smoke on the patio. I did buy him cartons of the coffin nails but it got expensive, he does smoke a lot. And that's why you would think he should be suffering from something? He can't climb hills, he can't walk to far yet he still lives. He is still able to whine that he doesn't have enough money, does anyone think they have enough? Yet he thinks his requests are different. The car won't start, I can't pay the property tax and on and on. He does nothing but smoke, stiff creditors and find reasons why he can't pay back a cent he has borrowed from Wally my husband.
I only look forward to Saturdays to see if he will show up, or that perhaps he burnt up in bed and couldn't make it. Yet he still lives to come here on Saturday. I always have beef. Never fish but beef, butter, sugar, booze and ashtrays. The stink of his is awful. Almost as awful as the breath he seems still able to draw.
It rained tonight and the roads are tricky. Perhaps, just perhaps he might not make it through the gang territory and fall prey to their lethal games. I'll have to wait until next Saturday though to see if he still lives.
I only look forward to Saturdays to see if he will show up, or that perhaps he burnt up in bed and couldn't make it. Yet he still lives to come here on Saturday. I always have beef. Never fish but beef, butter, sugar, booze and ashtrays. The stink of his is awful. Almost as awful as the breath he seems still able to draw.
It rained tonight and the roads are tricky. Perhaps, just perhaps he might not make it through the gang territory and fall prey to their lethal games. I'll have to wait until next Saturday though to see if he still lives.
Friday, March 5, 2010
A curious case
My battle with the chicken that likes to sleep in her nest box and thereby, shit in it at night has been resolved--I think. She stayed out tonight without me pushing her feathered ass from the nest. It has taken a good part of a month to get there earlier enough to find her, before that I used a paper bag to fill the nest.
Evidently her ma didn't tell her, "You don't shit where you sleep.
Evidently her ma didn't tell her, "You don't shit where you sleep.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Why can't some people say what's really going on?
So, I have this friend. I like her, she's nice, but. Right at the moment she wants to loose weight. Always after the last boyfriend dumped her and again when she finally meets someone.
"I'm having stomach problems. I can't eat right now."
"Okay, you wolfed down that Subway earlier pretty good, but hey, it's your stomach. And just because dinner came from the garden and I spent some time digging up the white radish and sun chokes to go with the oak-leaf lettuce salad and culled the Swiss chard for the tenderest greens I could fine for the pasta that's sitting on your plate untouched. And went to the trouble of cooking it when we could be at an In-and-Out with a bad ass double-double with a side of fries, but hey, I'll bag it for you, maybe later, you'll want some."
Why didn't she say, "I am totally stuffed from a twelve inch meatball sandwich. And can't eat anymore or men will hate me for being perfectly healthy."
I had to wash the damn plate too.
Oh, the dinner? Just about as good as you can get, especially with the price I charge. Zip.
"I'm having stomach problems. I can't eat right now."
"Okay, you wolfed down that Subway earlier pretty good, but hey, it's your stomach. And just because dinner came from the garden and I spent some time digging up the white radish and sun chokes to go with the oak-leaf lettuce salad and culled the Swiss chard for the tenderest greens I could fine for the pasta that's sitting on your plate untouched. And went to the trouble of cooking it when we could be at an In-and-Out with a bad ass double-double with a side of fries, but hey, I'll bag it for you, maybe later, you'll want some."
Why didn't she say, "I am totally stuffed from a twelve inch meatball sandwich. And can't eat anymore or men will hate me for being perfectly healthy."
I had to wash the damn plate too.
Oh, the dinner? Just about as good as you can get, especially with the price I charge. Zip.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Hangovers
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Once we went through the vodka, which was kept in the freezer, to switch to the gin on the counter and thereby requiring ice to dilute and chill it. But we still got drunk and somehow ended up in a sushi bar. I remember being reminded that children were there, I forgot what it was I was talking about and there were two really hot guys with one girl that I was sure were making porn movies. Those kind that involve Russians and bad lighting. We got home, thanks to always making sure to invite someone involved in AA and looking for a free meal to come along.
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