One day at work someone had the radio playing and "Hotel California" came on. One co-worker who is about 40 said "oh, this brings back good memories" and another guy in his late twenties said "oh, yeah it brings back memories for me". The 40 yr. old turned to him & said "what, of the smell of your crib!?" I laughed but it made me think about how music is a soundtrack to your life. When I was a child my Dad played Elvis records & danced around the living room pretending to be Elvis. My Mom had a Seals & Crofts tape & I remember riding around in the car listening to "hummingbird don't fly away, fly away". As a kid, my sister had record albums of "The Monkees" but, I had more refined taste in rock n roll & bought a Beatles "Magical Mystery Tour" album at a neighbors garage sale for 25 cents. I'm sure then (in the 70's) those people had no idea what a collector's item that would become. I remember going to the rollerskating rink & skating to Rush's "Tom Sawyer" and feeling cool. In my teen years I enjoyed all types of music from New Wave to Hard rock to R&B. I remember riding around in the car with my sister & her friend listening to Duran Duran and feeling important because they let me hang out with them. I remember my first concert I went to was Hall & Oates at the Omni & I felt like "Wow, I've made it!" I finally knew what it's like to go to this magical thing called a concert. Music defined my life. When I was sad, I liked sad songs & when I was happy, I still sometimes liked sad songs. My wedding song was Paul McCartney's "My Love" & I never realized how long it was until I had to slow dance to it in front of 80 people. I like sappy & cheesy songs & songs that people probably think are dorky. So what if I like all of the BeeGees songs & Barry Manilow & Rod Stewart. And so what if I like Dolly Parton's "Hard Candy Christmas". And so what if I like all of the Rocky soundtracks & that I've seen all of the Rocky movies dozens of times. So go ahead & make fun of me because Dan Fogelberg's "Same Old Lange Syne" still makes me all sentimental or if I can bowl a spare or strike by playing "Brick House" or "dancing Queen" in my head. I like what I like. And music completes me.
And I really do think my infant son likes me singing Minnie Ripperton's "loving You" to him.
JLW
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
Who am I?
I am fed up with the IT business. Each time you change jobs, which is every two years or less, you have to requalify yourself with a technical interview. "But G, you have been programming eleven years, you should be able to pass that tech interview with flying colors." That is what one would think anyway. I have been fishing around in the Atlanta IT market for a few months now, and have had to take the dreaded tech phone interview. Phone interviews are bullshit anyway. It is so easy to say no, when you can't see the person or be effected by his or her humanity. I could say no to the Pope if he called me promising everlasting life. I could turn down a bj from Carmen Electra. I could deny a cripple kid selling raffle tickets for his next operation. Last week I went through a particularly embarassing tech ( as we call em in the biz ), with IBM. I answered a correct question here and there but soon fell into a big streak of wrong that I could not shake. I ended up feeling defensive and desperatly trying to convery my worthiness to the guy on the other end of the phone. I even began doubting that I had ever programmed. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe I am still a landscaper. But wait maybe I was just a laborer who was dreaming that he was a landscaper. It pisses me off to no end, trying to pass the tech. Eleven years of programming must be worth something. Just the fact that I held the title of developer and was paid and was never fired should mean something. But hell no, someone wants to grill me on linked lists, the proponents of object oriented programming, and database theory. And that is another thing, why in the fuck do developers have to know about datbases but database people don't have to know about programming! Anyway, the whole process makes me want to puke, and it just seems to be getting worse, the older I get. The competition is cut throat. I have to compete with uber geeks from tech who stay up all night playing World of Warcraft and have photographic memories. Most of these freaking geeks don't even study, they are just quick to understand. I try not to confuse what I do for money with what I do for a living, but it is a hard mother fucking thing to do. I am a good programmer. I really am. You belive me don't you?
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Ghosts, shrimp and beer
Three days alone sounded good…REAL Good. I managed to wiggle out of going to Allentown, Pennsylvania with my significant other by the hair of my teeth. She even understood…”I am only going up to see my nephews and give them their Christmas presents.” Deep down inside of her, she knew and she did not want to give me a lot of shit about it. I just needed some ME time. I could have gone anywhere. Things were slow at work, people were taking vacation…projects were entering into a state of hibernation. It was a good time to disappear. I had actually never driven that far…five hours, plus or minus an hour, depending on your speed. RButler told me that he had driven there in 3 hours and 15 minutes one time…half the time normally allotted to the speeding impaired. I would be lucky if I made it in seven. Savannah. The name sounded complete without any verbs, adjectives, adverbs or direct objects. It could stand alone. A beautiful word…mysterious, sexy and as foreign to the Yankee tongue as a Varsity Chili dog, walking through the garden, painted red. Close enough to Atlanta, to be considered a neighbor but far enough away to be a complete stranger. I could go there and melt into the scenery. I could be just one more tourist on River Street. One more target for the pick pockets. I could be just like everyone else.
The drive down was not so bad. It had its boring moments. I stopped off in Macon, to let Duane Allman know that thirty-five years after he ate a peach, someone still thought his guitar work soared like an eagle. Rosehill Cemetery’s carriage sized roads is not exactly easy to traverse in a big old Lincoln Towncar. If H & H Soul Food had not been closed for Christmas, then my trip to Macon would have been complete. I however, had to content myself with a few Krystal burgers, and then I was on my way.
The drive down to Savannah is a boring one. Straight as hell, all the way there, although it crosses crooked across Georgia. I made a single turn into Reynolds’s Square, and jutted my lengthy automobile’s ass out into a side street, assuming a valet would jump to my service. You know what assuming does. The Planters Inn is a nice hotel… three and a half stars according to the Expedia website. However, I have been in cheaper hotels and felt richer. The room was nice and clean but a bit small. The water was hot and the towels clean, and there was no lingering cigarette smoke from 1966, so I guess that things were…suitable. I am not trying to be a snob but for…well as much as I paid for 3 nights…well, I thought I would get my ass kissed.
The hotel room turned out to be the worst part of the trip. I can’t remember anything that it did to harm me, or deliberately annoy me, but the room sucked. Maybe it was Reynolds’s Square sending up some of it’s ghosts. Maybe it was the rude, young Indian male hotel attendant. Whatever it was, nothing could wash the stench of loneliness off of the place. The best part of the room was the TV. I watched episode after episode of banal, Bob Saget crap TV, and loved it. My brain rested…my eyes had candy. I laughed at stupid shit. I was King of the Planter’s Inn trailer park, and I mucked about in my sty.
River Street is really the only reason to go to Savannah. It is not particularly great or special, but you can eat fat shrimp and drink cold beer. Bay Street runs perpendicular to it, and you can do the same…big freaking cargo ships, run as slow as sludge into the river from the sea. I actually saw one from China. It is easy to forget that Savannah is actually a port.
I tried earlier in the month to get some friends to meet me in Savannah, but December is not the best month to drag your buddies away from their families, so I spent my three days alone for the most part. I met a retired Major from the Navy, and a guy that looked like Jim Croce, and his partner, a lady that worked at Lady and Sons (the most popular restaurant in Savannah). She even gave me a box of salty country fried chicken and I did not even wait in line.
By the time that Saturday came around, I was glad to leave my haunted hotel room. It was not haunted because of ghosts; it just suffered from a bad vibe. I was glad to get the fuck out. Savannah is a beautiful place, on the outside. But like a friend of mine said of Edinburgh, Scotland: “underneath the surface, there is always something ugly.” Savannah, certainly felt like that too, but I figured that I would come back again anyway. A little evil can be tolerated if you have enough shrimp and beer.
The drive down was not so bad. It had its boring moments. I stopped off in Macon, to let Duane Allman know that thirty-five years after he ate a peach, someone still thought his guitar work soared like an eagle. Rosehill Cemetery’s carriage sized roads is not exactly easy to traverse in a big old Lincoln Towncar. If H & H Soul Food had not been closed for Christmas, then my trip to Macon would have been complete. I however, had to content myself with a few Krystal burgers, and then I was on my way.
The drive down to Savannah is a boring one. Straight as hell, all the way there, although it crosses crooked across Georgia. I made a single turn into Reynolds’s Square, and jutted my lengthy automobile’s ass out into a side street, assuming a valet would jump to my service. You know what assuming does. The Planters Inn is a nice hotel… three and a half stars according to the Expedia website. However, I have been in cheaper hotels and felt richer. The room was nice and clean but a bit small. The water was hot and the towels clean, and there was no lingering cigarette smoke from 1966, so I guess that things were…suitable. I am not trying to be a snob but for…well as much as I paid for 3 nights…well, I thought I would get my ass kissed.
The hotel room turned out to be the worst part of the trip. I can’t remember anything that it did to harm me, or deliberately annoy me, but the room sucked. Maybe it was Reynolds’s Square sending up some of it’s ghosts. Maybe it was the rude, young Indian male hotel attendant. Whatever it was, nothing could wash the stench of loneliness off of the place. The best part of the room was the TV. I watched episode after episode of banal, Bob Saget crap TV, and loved it. My brain rested…my eyes had candy. I laughed at stupid shit. I was King of the Planter’s Inn trailer park, and I mucked about in my sty.
River Street is really the only reason to go to Savannah. It is not particularly great or special, but you can eat fat shrimp and drink cold beer. Bay Street runs perpendicular to it, and you can do the same…big freaking cargo ships, run as slow as sludge into the river from the sea. I actually saw one from China. It is easy to forget that Savannah is actually a port.
I tried earlier in the month to get some friends to meet me in Savannah, but December is not the best month to drag your buddies away from their families, so I spent my three days alone for the most part. I met a retired Major from the Navy, and a guy that looked like Jim Croce, and his partner, a lady that worked at Lady and Sons (the most popular restaurant in Savannah). She even gave me a box of salty country fried chicken and I did not even wait in line.
By the time that Saturday came around, I was glad to leave my haunted hotel room. It was not haunted because of ghosts; it just suffered from a bad vibe. I was glad to get the fuck out. Savannah is a beautiful place, on the outside. But like a friend of mine said of Edinburgh, Scotland: “underneath the surface, there is always something ugly.” Savannah, certainly felt like that too, but I figured that I would come back again anyway. A little evil can be tolerated if you have enough shrimp and beer.
Friday, December 22, 2006
The Magnificent 7, no err 4.
I meant to follow up with this a year and a half ago,to complete a post on a expedition to Savannah.
Spring 2005 March, conditions cloudy,phone rings from a customer .Man owns a development on a island off Savanah, needs screening 11' tall and 580' long put up on his boatyard before the weekend.The pay is good, I negotiate it high because I know the girls are gonna want to stay on the beach if we go.I begin with assembling the strike team,Kara a 5'9" brunnette with a husky low voice, the looks of a Liv Tyler and the temperament of sleep deprived badger with its head in a bag of hornets.A fast worker and even faster tongue.So sharp that I have warned her that one day her razor tongue was gonna cut out her teeth. Mickey, the long standing semi-reliable pill and alcohol addicted ex-dancer,Pamela Anderson post opt body and the focus of a redillin addicted 5 year old boy in the middle of a Shriners Circus grand finale.She has been known to pick up her 6' 4",189lb husband and use her 5'4" 135lb mass to throw him over the back of the couch , down the stairs ,and into the basement garage of their modest split level.M.J.,my ex-girlfriend before the trip,think of young "hot lips Houlihan"(Loretta Swit) Tiny, unevenly tempered between engaging exuberance and whiney pesimissim raised to just under supersonic speeds.
The deal was worked out as schedules were made, bags packed and a plan was as usual half formed because I know things will change,never stick to a plan in this business as things WILL change regardless of how well it is thought out.I make a sorta of idea in my head and then proceed trusting to luck,skill and random miracles to propel this outfit into its next job.And to crash out of it on the other side all the while exuding a Errol Flynn devil may care attitude to the general public.
The Plan:
Two trucks, Me in the Big ford, Kara and Mickey in her boyfriends Dodge Dakota,pick up MJ after she gets off work,leave at 6pm from Atlanta and go down to the Tifton plant to pickup the screen at 8 am in the morning, staying at a hotel in Tifton that night so we can be over in Savannah by 12 the next day to start work.The plan was for about 10-11 hours of work since the customer sent some vague pictures of the terrain and we assumed that there would be problems .That would mean about 55' per hour due to height of the fence.Work from 12 to 6-7pm and finish the next day.That left two days for r & r at the beach on Tybee.
HOW IT REALLY WORKED:
MJ is about as punctual as a Nigerian government official on a fact finding trip on corruptipn..Departure time from Atlanta 8pm.Arrived late in Tifton,that morning a major front pushes across to stall over South Georgia, we have 3 inches in 4 hours.Soaked when we load the fabric at the plant and then we literally have to slip and slide our trucks all the way across Ga to Savannah.I call ahead and the customer meets us at 5pm at the jobsite in the drizzle that the front has now become.He shows us the fence while we come to terms that we are sweating into our rainsuits more than they are shedding water,and then there are the gnats.Now I have always heard the tales of the South Georgia gnats and carried a few memories of them from my youth on fishing trips with my dad when he was sober enough not to drive the neon green 73 4 door Torino with the vinyl, green seatcovers into the pond that he was checking out for the states next fishing report.These gnats in Savannah however were a locust plague of bibical proportions,eyes nose,moth,hair,skin,ears everything was up up for grabs.I felt like the Texas panhandle and they were the illegals swarming Brownsville.
Our customer assumed by the lateness of the day we would be starting tomorrow as all at once the chorus went up,no it will be finihed today.He looked down the long row of fencing ,at the black silt that passes for dirt on Skidaway Island, at the drizzle falling from the sky with renewed fervor,slunk back to his truck and contemplated the girls dubiously as they began setting the ladders that sank a foot or more into the rainsoaked black muck that surrounded the fence.
"LET THE GAMES BEGIN" Then it began,gnats in every crevice,MJ crawling under the fence to secure the center seam ,me throwing ladders up and down,Mickey losing work boots, giving up and working barefoot,Kara's hoarse cries to keep going, the sun racing down to leave us in the dark with only the idiot rap hum of the gnats,mud and black silt in our mouths.By the dark hour of 8pm we had finished.Done.Perfect.The packing up. The throwing away of some clothes the girls didn't even want back.I rang up the customer (Who had left hours before)to notify him of our completion,as he asked after a stunned pause if I was kidding him,did it look good? etc..Confidently I told him if he found any problems to let us know and I would like my check on the terms we had agreed on.On Completion.
"Are We Having Fun Yet"
Traditionally I try to set up out of town jobs like mini-vacations.Set a fee for the girls, put in my markup, include hotel,fuel,food etc...As we assumed it would be off season in April we thought a hotel would be no problem and ended up at the worst motel I think that has ever operated in Georgia,You remember passing those half-closed motor lodges on ML King(any city).Vagrants and whores wondering around aimlessly outside,busted out lights on the marques offering 1959 area rates?Cracked concrete pools with green water and trash floating in the slime?Doors nailed up and spray painted walls?THE WALDORF compared to this place.But hey the girls insisted on being out on Tybee and walking across the road to the beach.
The shower was green in spots and not because that was ever the intended color scheme but the girls went next door for supplies and bleached it out.The carpet was more a mosaic of unidentifiable stains and gum(?) clumps than woven threads.The pillows where I swear 1/2" thick and no one even considered sitting on the speads.Sheets appeared to be clean and the ice bucket had a 6" crack on one side.
By now it was 10pm and we went looking for food on Tybee,but the Crab Shack was closing and the only thing left was the stew to which everyone greedily slurped up. Kara though underage was given a consolation draft beer.Some were still hungry so we went to the only other joint on the island at which the gap-toothed locals stared at us until the weeble wooble shaped waitress informed us that everyone not over 21 would have to leave .This caused Kara (a few months short of her 21st)to launch into one of her turrets syndrome cursing attacks that resulted in the waitress becoming so shocked she crept back to the bathroom and peered over the broken swinging door until Kara left the bar.Exhausted we all slunk back to the motel,waited imjpatiently for beach bum and his emaciated toothless skag to vacate the doorway while canoodling,and crashed onto our waifer thin pillows.
OK I GUESS THATS FUN...(?)
That morning the restaraunt next door was offering a breakfast special served by surprise! ,that woman from "Throw momma from a train"Or maybe it was Danny Devito's offspring with Rosie O'Donnell.I went down to River street with MJ to catch the sites and Kara and Mickey hit the liquor stores and the beach in that order.They proceeded to get drunk and accost every attractive person on the beach between 15 and 45 ,regardless of sex,social or financial status,and with or without their children in tow.Although either girl is highest end of physical 1-10 scale, so fierce was their come ons,flirts and sexual intimidation that even the boldest scurried like beach crabs from there combined powers.MJ and I returned in time for the girls to return from their triumphant reduction of everyone on the beach to cowering ninnies,beach patrol et al.
A little sobbering with food at a beachside grill restored our systems from the egregious affront of Ms .Momma from a Train.Next it was time for MJ and Mickey to pair up as they combined their powers for evil instead of for good by going to a little beach dive and bringing down the chaos on the oh so unhip locals.I exscused myself and went to see friends in town who had recently had a baby, a HUGE BABY HUEY BABY. I sat there as the mother attempted to restrain this Marlon Brando in diapers that alternately frowned,smiled ,drooled and gurgled like a mood ring mated with a friendly oyster.The phone rang with Kara's impatient rasp wishing me back as she had left the local beach dive after MJ began dirty dancing and Mickey had picked out some of the slower witted beachnecks for a game of tease and quash.
I returned to Tybee ,picked up Kara and we went to a small grill on River street and talked about nothing important and had some drinks.Finally Mickey began calling demanding to get into the hotel room and and when we returned we found her laying face down at the rooms door,mumblimg about the whorishness of MJ to wonder off with a 21 year old stud.He was going to walk her back to the hotel, oddly enogh this should have taken 3 minutes.I told the incoherent Mickey that MJ was a big girl and she would have nothing to worry about, and we all went to bed.Well,almost, about 30 minutes later Mickey shot out both her arms and nearly disclocated Kara's jaw as she was sleeping next to her."Get up "she said,"We gotta rescue MJ ,she's gonna be gang raped by the locals".Mickey then threw off the cover,and bound out the door wearing a tee-back and black tank top barely restaiming her huge cans.Shouting"SHIT!Shit!SHIT" out the door Kara ran after her equally atirred.More modestly dressed I ran next to the doorway to see them wrestling in the moonlight,Mickey howling like a bobcat and Kara pushed up against a powder blue 78 Granada that hadn't had a set of matching hubcaps since the Carter administation.As I watched Kara wrestle Mickey into submission I looked around for all the guests to be poking their unshaven(male and female )faces out the door or at least the bulky dwarf of a night manager to call out for quiet.Not a sound.Not a light came on.Nothing.Nothing out of place here....
Once Kara had put Mickey back to bed we sat up for a while contemplating what restraints would work best to keep Mickey from breaking out Godzilla style.Just then MJ returned from the beach,fully dressed but spreading sand under her clothes on every step.To this day she still insists that the walk back to the motel took 3 hours.
The next morning I'd had enough of the fun,we packed and left ,and I hope we touched the locals the same way they had touched us.BAD TOUCH!
After Action Report:
Kara carried black and blue marks all over her body for months after wrestling Mickey.Mickey insisted the highlight of the trip was her and Kara's shower together (to save time....?) after their beach foray,MJ gets teased by her 18 year old neice for still getting phone calls from her now 22 year old beach boy(she's 33).All I got was a check and a stupid t-shirt.
Spring 2005 March, conditions cloudy,phone rings from a customer .Man owns a development on a island off Savanah, needs screening 11' tall and 580' long put up on his boatyard before the weekend.The pay is good, I negotiate it high because I know the girls are gonna want to stay on the beach if we go.I begin with assembling the strike team,Kara a 5'9" brunnette with a husky low voice, the looks of a Liv Tyler and the temperament of sleep deprived badger with its head in a bag of hornets.A fast worker and even faster tongue.So sharp that I have warned her that one day her razor tongue was gonna cut out her teeth. Mickey, the long standing semi-reliable pill and alcohol addicted ex-dancer,Pamela Anderson post opt body and the focus of a redillin addicted 5 year old boy in the middle of a Shriners Circus grand finale.She has been known to pick up her 6' 4",189lb husband and use her 5'4" 135lb mass to throw him over the back of the couch , down the stairs ,and into the basement garage of their modest split level.M.J.,my ex-girlfriend before the trip,think of young "hot lips Houlihan"(Loretta Swit) Tiny, unevenly tempered between engaging exuberance and whiney pesimissim raised to just under supersonic speeds.
The deal was worked out as schedules were made, bags packed and a plan was as usual half formed because I know things will change,never stick to a plan in this business as things WILL change regardless of how well it is thought out.I make a sorta of idea in my head and then proceed trusting to luck,skill and random miracles to propel this outfit into its next job.And to crash out of it on the other side all the while exuding a Errol Flynn devil may care attitude to the general public.
The Plan:
Two trucks, Me in the Big ford, Kara and Mickey in her boyfriends Dodge Dakota,pick up MJ after she gets off work,leave at 6pm from Atlanta and go down to the Tifton plant to pickup the screen at 8 am in the morning, staying at a hotel in Tifton that night so we can be over in Savannah by 12 the next day to start work.The plan was for about 10-11 hours of work since the customer sent some vague pictures of the terrain and we assumed that there would be problems .That would mean about 55' per hour due to height of the fence.Work from 12 to 6-7pm and finish the next day.That left two days for r & r at the beach on Tybee.
HOW IT REALLY WORKED:
MJ is about as punctual as a Nigerian government official on a fact finding trip on corruptipn..Departure time from Atlanta 8pm.Arrived late in Tifton,that morning a major front pushes across to stall over South Georgia, we have 3 inches in 4 hours.Soaked when we load the fabric at the plant and then we literally have to slip and slide our trucks all the way across Ga to Savannah.I call ahead and the customer meets us at 5pm at the jobsite in the drizzle that the front has now become.He shows us the fence while we come to terms that we are sweating into our rainsuits more than they are shedding water,and then there are the gnats.Now I have always heard the tales of the South Georgia gnats and carried a few memories of them from my youth on fishing trips with my dad when he was sober enough not to drive the neon green 73 4 door Torino with the vinyl, green seatcovers into the pond that he was checking out for the states next fishing report.These gnats in Savannah however were a locust plague of bibical proportions,eyes nose,moth,hair,skin,ears everything was up up for grabs.I felt like the Texas panhandle and they were the illegals swarming Brownsville.
Our customer assumed by the lateness of the day we would be starting tomorrow as all at once the chorus went up,no it will be finihed today.He looked down the long row of fencing ,at the black silt that passes for dirt on Skidaway Island, at the drizzle falling from the sky with renewed fervor,slunk back to his truck and contemplated the girls dubiously as they began setting the ladders that sank a foot or more into the rainsoaked black muck that surrounded the fence.
"LET THE GAMES BEGIN" Then it began,gnats in every crevice,MJ crawling under the fence to secure the center seam ,me throwing ladders up and down,Mickey losing work boots, giving up and working barefoot,Kara's hoarse cries to keep going, the sun racing down to leave us in the dark with only the idiot rap hum of the gnats,mud and black silt in our mouths.By the dark hour of 8pm we had finished.Done.Perfect.The packing up. The throwing away of some clothes the girls didn't even want back.I rang up the customer (Who had left hours before)to notify him of our completion,as he asked after a stunned pause if I was kidding him,did it look good? etc..Confidently I told him if he found any problems to let us know and I would like my check on the terms we had agreed on.On Completion.
"Are We Having Fun Yet"
Traditionally I try to set up out of town jobs like mini-vacations.Set a fee for the girls, put in my markup, include hotel,fuel,food etc...As we assumed it would be off season in April we thought a hotel would be no problem and ended up at the worst motel I think that has ever operated in Georgia,You remember passing those half-closed motor lodges on ML King(any city).Vagrants and whores wondering around aimlessly outside,busted out lights on the marques offering 1959 area rates?Cracked concrete pools with green water and trash floating in the slime?Doors nailed up and spray painted walls?THE WALDORF compared to this place.But hey the girls insisted on being out on Tybee and walking across the road to the beach.
The shower was green in spots and not because that was ever the intended color scheme but the girls went next door for supplies and bleached it out.The carpet was more a mosaic of unidentifiable stains and gum(?) clumps than woven threads.The pillows where I swear 1/2" thick and no one even considered sitting on the speads.Sheets appeared to be clean and the ice bucket had a 6" crack on one side.
By now it was 10pm and we went looking for food on Tybee,but the Crab Shack was closing and the only thing left was the stew to which everyone greedily slurped up. Kara though underage was given a consolation draft beer.Some were still hungry so we went to the only other joint on the island at which the gap-toothed locals stared at us until the weeble wooble shaped waitress informed us that everyone not over 21 would have to leave .This caused Kara (a few months short of her 21st)to launch into one of her turrets syndrome cursing attacks that resulted in the waitress becoming so shocked she crept back to the bathroom and peered over the broken swinging door until Kara left the bar.Exhausted we all slunk back to the motel,waited imjpatiently for beach bum and his emaciated toothless skag to vacate the doorway while canoodling,and crashed onto our waifer thin pillows.
OK I GUESS THATS FUN...(?)
That morning the restaraunt next door was offering a breakfast special served by surprise! ,that woman from "Throw momma from a train"Or maybe it was Danny Devito's offspring with Rosie O'Donnell.I went down to River street with MJ to catch the sites and Kara and Mickey hit the liquor stores and the beach in that order.They proceeded to get drunk and accost every attractive person on the beach between 15 and 45 ,regardless of sex,social or financial status,and with or without their children in tow.Although either girl is highest end of physical 1-10 scale, so fierce was their come ons,flirts and sexual intimidation that even the boldest scurried like beach crabs from there combined powers.MJ and I returned in time for the girls to return from their triumphant reduction of everyone on the beach to cowering ninnies,beach patrol et al.
A little sobbering with food at a beachside grill restored our systems from the egregious affront of Ms .Momma from a Train.Next it was time for MJ and Mickey to pair up as they combined their powers for evil instead of for good by going to a little beach dive and bringing down the chaos on the oh so unhip locals.I exscused myself and went to see friends in town who had recently had a baby, a HUGE BABY HUEY BABY. I sat there as the mother attempted to restrain this Marlon Brando in diapers that alternately frowned,smiled ,drooled and gurgled like a mood ring mated with a friendly oyster.The phone rang with Kara's impatient rasp wishing me back as she had left the local beach dive after MJ began dirty dancing and Mickey had picked out some of the slower witted beachnecks for a game of tease and quash.
I returned to Tybee ,picked up Kara and we went to a small grill on River street and talked about nothing important and had some drinks.Finally Mickey began calling demanding to get into the hotel room and and when we returned we found her laying face down at the rooms door,mumblimg about the whorishness of MJ to wonder off with a 21 year old stud.He was going to walk her back to the hotel, oddly enogh this should have taken 3 minutes.I told the incoherent Mickey that MJ was a big girl and she would have nothing to worry about, and we all went to bed.Well,almost, about 30 minutes later Mickey shot out both her arms and nearly disclocated Kara's jaw as she was sleeping next to her."Get up "she said,"We gotta rescue MJ ,she's gonna be gang raped by the locals".Mickey then threw off the cover,and bound out the door wearing a tee-back and black tank top barely restaiming her huge cans.Shouting"SHIT!Shit!SHIT" out the door Kara ran after her equally atirred.More modestly dressed I ran next to the doorway to see them wrestling in the moonlight,Mickey howling like a bobcat and Kara pushed up against a powder blue 78 Granada that hadn't had a set of matching hubcaps since the Carter administation.As I watched Kara wrestle Mickey into submission I looked around for all the guests to be poking their unshaven(male and female )faces out the door or at least the bulky dwarf of a night manager to call out for quiet.Not a sound.Not a light came on.Nothing.Nothing out of place here....
Once Kara had put Mickey back to bed we sat up for a while contemplating what restraints would work best to keep Mickey from breaking out Godzilla style.Just then MJ returned from the beach,fully dressed but spreading sand under her clothes on every step.To this day she still insists that the walk back to the motel took 3 hours.
The next morning I'd had enough of the fun,we packed and left ,and I hope we touched the locals the same way they had touched us.BAD TOUCH!
After Action Report:
Kara carried black and blue marks all over her body for months after wrestling Mickey.Mickey insisted the highlight of the trip was her and Kara's shower together (to save time....?) after their beach foray,MJ gets teased by her 18 year old neice for still getting phone calls from her now 22 year old beach boy(she's 33).All I got was a check and a stupid t-shirt.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Sand Fish
Last Monday morning my cousin Andy died. I was not particularly close to him. As a matter of fact, the last time I saw him was at my Aunt Desi’s funeral, which was at least 5-6 years ago. He was a slight fellow, pale and hunched over a bit with freckles and reddish blonde hair. He always wore this wicked little smile like he was in on a joke that you did not know about and he talked slow, even for a southerner. I remember him mostly from my childhood. Once he convinced my brother and I that fish lived under the sandy bottom of the creek that ran behind our house. We spent all morning with sharp cane poles trying to spear the elusive “sand fish”. Andy kept us going until lunch and then finally let us in on his little joke. I liked him so much that I wasn’t even mad. Another time we went fishing with Andy and his Dad (my favorite Uncle Tony). I don’t remember much about that day except riding in the back of my Uncle’s little truck while Andy sang, “Show me the way to go home. I’m tired and I want to go to bed. I had a little drink about an hour ago and it went straight to my head.” It was the first time I had ever heard that song and I was wondering why he was singing it. I had been with him all day and he did not drink a thing. I was always such a gullible little fuck. Sometime during my teens Andy disappeared from the all-knowing radar of my mom’s family. Occasionally, I would hear gossip about him:
“Andy got caught trying to sell drugs to a GBI man and is going to jail.”
“Andy got married/divorced and married again to a Korean lady.”
“Andy’s wife had a baby that died.”
“Andy has his own painting business.”
The final bit of “Andy” info reached me Tuesday night. My mom called me on my cell phone and dished the bad news to me slow like she was offering me a piece of bitter pie. It seemed like she talked for ten minutes before she reached the horrible punch line, “Andy had been killed Monday morning in a car wreck.” It was the kind of news that surprises you but does not surprise you at the same time. He was 42 and the accident occurred 100 miles south of Tampa, Florida in a place called Arcadia. His funeral is Friday and like the rest of my family, I am looking for reasons not to go:
“I didn’t even know him. He is practically a stranger to me.”
“I haven’t seen him for years”
“No one else is going.”
“Arcadia is so far away.”
I can’t help but think that my grandmother is looking down upon the lot of us, and is ashamed.
“Andy got caught trying to sell drugs to a GBI man and is going to jail.”
“Andy got married/divorced and married again to a Korean lady.”
“Andy’s wife had a baby that died.”
“Andy has his own painting business.”
The final bit of “Andy” info reached me Tuesday night. My mom called me on my cell phone and dished the bad news to me slow like she was offering me a piece of bitter pie. It seemed like she talked for ten minutes before she reached the horrible punch line, “Andy had been killed Monday morning in a car wreck.” It was the kind of news that surprises you but does not surprise you at the same time. He was 42 and the accident occurred 100 miles south of Tampa, Florida in a place called Arcadia. His funeral is Friday and like the rest of my family, I am looking for reasons not to go:
“I didn’t even know him. He is practically a stranger to me.”
“I haven’t seen him for years”
“No one else is going.”
“Arcadia is so far away.”
I can’t help but think that my grandmother is looking down upon the lot of us, and is ashamed.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Retarded
As much as I hate to write about my career. It is on my mind tonight. Spending the first 12 years of my adult life doing manual labor has had an effect on my confidence. Not that there is anything wrong with hard work. Simple, no-brainer, stand out in the hot sun and do something that sucks. It humbles you. Puts your feet on the ground. I never really appreciated having my feet on the ground until I became a programmer. The IT business is full of assholes. More than it's alloted share perhaps. I have struggled through technical school. I have struggled through 10 years of elitist assholes trying belittle me with their superior intellects. I still struggle. Today for instance. I am working along pretty good. Making some progress, but by the end of the day I am lost and dreading the next morning. Why, you may ask? Sounds like no big deal. I will tell you why. I might have to talk to somebody and that somebody is the architect of the project...P. Now P, on a surface level can be a nice guy. He is constantly leaving exotic snack foods and trinkets on my desk. He can even be warm and funny if given a little space. However, when it comes to programming, he wears his knowledge like a chip on his shoulder. I can't figure out if he was abused or just feels that the whole word is nothing but a pain in the ass. Tomorrow I will have to sidle up to him, ask him a question about some shit he could have done in a few hours, and watch the frustration build behind his thin friendly mask. He will probably work in a few jabs like "sounds like this should be pretty straightforward and easy", and "I'll go ahead and knock this out for you." I really just fucking hate it. It takes me three days to his three hours. It is because of him, my current project is as far along as it is. I guess I should be grateful. And I am...but I just fucking hate it too. I can not compete with him and I have given up trying. I can't pump out the code in vast garbage can sized heaps. The whole situation makes me feel inadequate and not valued. I show up everyday with a smile and my big car and try to be as nice to everyone as is humanly fucking possible. I try to warm the place up a bit. Just like the sun, I am ignored most of the time, but when it is gone...things can get a little chilly. Sometimes I feel like I am fucking retarded.
Monday, September 04, 2006
In Hell the elevators play Phil Collins as Muzak.
Banality the creeping death,found today in music,movies, politics,literature,you name it.I think in the modern age it is to easy to graduate from college and foist your degree onto the New York Times and be called a crusading journalist while cranking out a flowing sewer of psuedo intellectual stink.Now any chump can get a computer and make some weird trash,take it to Robert Redford and bam you're on The Sundance Circuit.Bad mouth the president or the war and hey, you're hip lets see if you can get your own show between Al Franken and Randi Rhodes of the dying Air America Network.Nope that don't work for ya,how about the over loaded list of hacks trying to get famous on American Idol,or the local bar circuit of Atlanta.I think with the modern age not everyone has something interesting to say or contribute.
And maybe I don't either but at least I know when to shut up...........
And maybe I don't either but at least I know when to shut up...........
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