Goal

Today I finished solely editing a 400+ page scientific book aimed not at sales to captive school districts by educational publishers (as in my old days of group-edited textbooks), but rather to the general public.

I recognize that this news differs considerably from my usual posts here. Wouldn't it be amazing if all I had to share here were professional triumphs rather than my irritation with various shitty people in both my public and private life?

Finishing this book gives me some idea of what actual professionals experience on an ongoing basis.

When you're young, the emotional bullshit is kind of interesting: At least someone's interacting with you. As you get older, though, and start to establish yourself in other ways... You start to gravitate toward things that might satisfy you intellectually (i.e., what you were interested in before you started thinking that who paid attention to you sexually was the most important thing in your life.).

Joan Crawford on the set of "Route 66"

Joan Crawford on the set of "Route 66," 1963.

The Hundred Dresses (and Hundred Shirts?)

One of the books that I ordered from Scholastic as a kid was "The Hundred Dresses." I liked it because it was well-written and emotionally evocative, although I didn't at the time relate to the now-stated concept of a "Polish immigrant girl who is mocked by others in her class for being different."

From Wikipedia:

The book centers on Wanda Petronski, poor and friendless Polish-American girl. Her teacher, outwardly kind, puts her in the worst seat in the classroom and she does not say anything when her schoolmates tease her. One day, after Wanda's classmates laugh at her funny last name and the faded blue dress she wears to school every day, Wanda claims to own one hundred dresses, all lined up in her closet at her worn-down house. This outrageous and obvious lie becomes a game, as the girls in her class corner her every day before school, demanding that she describe all of her dresses for them. She is mocked, and her father, Mr. Petronski, decides that she must leave that school.
The teacher holds a drawing contest in which the girls are to draw dresses of their own design. Wanda enters and submits one hundred beautiful designs. Her classmates are in awe of her talent and realize that these were her hundred dresses. Unfortunately, she has already moved away and does not realize she won the contest.

------------------

Reading the above description reminds me of what I remembered most about the book --- I could see and feel (and even smell) that "faded blue dress" that the main character wore. It smelled like and was faded by the sun, was often warm off the line when she put it on. And I saw and felt the colors of the character's drawings of dresses, and had my favorites among them... And, strangely at the time for an 8-year-old, I felt a sense of loss when the character disappeared.

This entry was initially going to be only about: Look at all the shirts I have now in 2015! When I was in New York City back in 2008 et al, all I had for the summer were maybe 3 black shirts and 3 white shirts to my name! I've got a bunch of summery shirts now, with shoes to match. (I also, back in NYC, had a couple of pairs of black loafers and one clay-colored pair of loafers to my name for summer.)

The city itself was so intellectually and aesthetically glamorous for me that I didn't always feel bereft, clothes-wise, because I was too busy soaking everything in and worrying about finding work. I would, though, occasionally bemoan my loss of something pretty and light to wear on a summer's day. (Winter up north, I'd spent money on: 3 new coats and 2 pairs of weather-proof boots once I'd arrived. Plus numerous scarves and hats sold by street vendors for about $10 each. I never felt out of place in New York in the winter.)

"The planets are now shaking you like a fruit tree"

Your horoscope for July 18, 2015
	What do you have to lose? The planets are now shaking you like a fruit tree in the hopes of ridding you of your old objectives to make way for new growth. You feel doubt where once there was only certainty. When you consider the worst that can happen, it may help you realize that what you are clinging to so dearly really is not all that important to you. It's time to let go and begin anew. -------------------------------------------------- No shit! :)  I think a perfect example of the above is my meeting with Sandra a couple of weeks ago. Sandra, of the "7 years of wanting Sandra" Sandra. I will not say anything more in particular other than one thought that ran through my head during that time: "She's not listening to any thing that I say." The whole two days were like that. I finally just shut up and kind of sat there, interacting more with her sassy dog. What I was clinging to "so dearly" really is "not all that important" to me. I do want companionship, but not just physicality -- there has to be some intellectual interaction!

Ivan's Childhood

I caught this 1962 film by Andrei Tarkovsky by accident on TCM on Sunday night.

I thought the "Masha" bits were unnecessary. I thought some of the male posing and close-ups of shirtlessness and lips were a bit forced and, yes, gay, although the actual depiction of male comradery was not either.

Both the boy and the story broke my heart.

I can't remember the last time that anything moved me.

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

p.s. I have a suspicion that the below 1982 U2 album cover was based specifically on the above photo shown at the end of the Tarkovsky movie--only heavily sanitized, arted up. When I was 17 and bought the album, I thought the cover was profound. Looking at it now in comparison to the revelation of Ivan's final prison picture, I'm almost sickened by the saccharinity.

 

 

How could I forget this from my Saturday bus adventures??

I was at a bus stop on Burnet on Saturday after getting take-out to take home. The one guy next to me at the stop was 275+ pounds and had a plastic tray of wings that he was busy scarfing down amid car fumes and the 100-degree heat. I was fascinated by his slurping in public and couldn't stop looking at him despite trying not to. After 10 minutes or so of my looking/not looking, the tragic happened: He accidentally knocked over the remainder of the tray of wings onto the pavement! I was worried for him --- he'd obviously been looking forward to those wings... what was he going to do now? Go back into the supermarket behind us for another tray? Just give it up? Never fear. He had some take-out napkins with him. He scooped the fallen wings up off the ground with the tray, swiped at them with his napkins, and then dug into them again.

[photo below from the Internet, not the actual guy]

Riff-Raff-ist

Riding the bus in Austin is relatively pleasant the first round, if you've looked up the schedule ahead of time and the bus arrives as it should. It's only afterwards, if you have more stuff to do, that the whole process gets ridiculous.

My "first round" today got me to the post office nicely (to return a crappy eBay sweater). The trouble started when I then wanted to move on to shopping at Target to stock up on face wash, body wash, delicate-cycle wash, pre-brush mouthwash (which I mention because I actually do like these specific cheap Target brands that I can't buy as cheaply at the supermarket up the street). Waiting after at the upper-middle-class Hyde Park bus stop was genteel enough (only me and a hipster couple with matching skinniness and straw sun-hats). Catching the next bus further north, though, was a bit stupid: an actual drug deal going down, though the guys were low-key about it.

Once I got to the Target to get my beloved cleansing products, I was not particularly in any sort of mood, other than a mood to get my cleansing products. Once in the store, though, I found myself in "agitated" mode because of two different clusters of loud assholes. (One group was black, one was Hispanic --- is it racist to point this out? Yes? OK, let's just say they're assholes, then. Loud, obnoxious assholes acting out in a shopping center for no particular reason.) What were they doing that was so obnoxious? Oh, let's just say that various products don't particularly need to be referred to as "motherfucking" and "goddamn" over and over again at the top of one's lungs.

After my lovely Target experience, I went on to wait at the bus-stop that would carry me home... The bus I needed had apparently just passed, so I was stuck there for 40 minutes with a host of fuck-ups all clustering together in the 6 x 6 piece of shade in the Texas July and screaming amongst themselves. After the first minute or so, I decamped to a nearby bush to have a smoke and stay away from these assholes. The super-stars of the bunch were a one-legless white vet, a black drug dealer, and a simpleton Colombian that the white and black guy mocked for not making more drug money before emigrating to the United States.

Once I finally made it home to deposit my Target finds (I'd left the house at 10:30; it was now 3pm, which is INSANE for 2 errands), I headed out again to get my favorite dinner from McAllister's Deli: At this bus-stop was a big ol' bearded white guy (looking like a larger Si from "Duck Dynasty") asking me for quarters (Me: "No, sorry, I save all of mine for laundry"), then bitching about "the Obama Bus" --- Austin has a regular bus that costs a dollar to ride, and then the Rapid, which costs $1.50. This guy didn't approve of the Rapid, which, according to him, cost "3 times" the amount of the regular bus. I didn't say to him, "Thank God for the Rapid, which is less crowded and less populated by assholes such as yourself." I'm extremely glad that the extra 50 cents keeps the riff-raff away. Oh wait -- is that "riff-raff"-ist?

I need a car. I wasted 4 hours today putting up with a whole bunch of shitty people that I never should have had to be around at all. (I'll never be rich enough to live in a gated community, and I don't have kids that I've sent to a private school -- but I certainly understand the impetus for wanting such. You kinda get more Republican once you've had actual experience with what's out there.)

THE BABYS: JESUS ARE YOU THERE

1980 single from the "Union Jacks" album. I was 15 and thought it was all very profound.

 

Contact

My mother called me at my office a couple of days ago re driver's license info for me that had come to her house. (She had the number from a business card I'd given her last year when I was in the throes of excitement about my new job after years of schlepping around as a temp, and thus passing out my new business cards to everyone I knew.)

When I answered the phone, she was, surprisingly to me, surprised to hear me answer -- she'd felt almost sure that I wouldn't be there. Why?

She thought I had probably quit by now! HUH??

My mother hadn't called me in 6 months, and in the first minute on the phone I had to -- HAD TO -- correct her about something that apparently only she and one asshole from my online Joan Crawford world hadn't known:

That when I moved to New York City in 2007 and had a hard time finding a job, and then had a hard time finding a job when I got home to Austin in 2010...

(1) The market did indeed crash in 2008. (2) Almost every editor I know was hard up for work during this time period.

I didn't expect the stupid dick from online to know anything about me, but I did indeed expect my own mother to be a little bit more aware.

In short, yes, I was there at that number. Why wouldn't I have been?

Despite the weird insinuations on her part, I was happy to hear from her. Such is blood.
It's only afterward, though, that you start thinking: REALLY? (And then: See what I mean? My whole life has been full of this stupid shit. I remove myself from it, then question why I isolate myself.)

P.S. I Love You



Was just thinking about Ginny, whom I was madly in love with when I was senior in high school and she was a junior. But, aside from our high school connection, I was madly in love with her because I wanted to be YOUNG also in the future with her. I wanted to be in college and see bands and write poetry and get a first apartment, and have my first sex, etc.

She dumped me once I went off to college.

At nearly 50, I don't miss her so much as I used to. At nearly 50, I've done everything on my own (to a much lesser extent, quality-wise) than I once dreamed about doing with her.

All of my actual history with her was from February 1983 through August 1983 (and a few singular incidents after through '85, when she ran off to Austin, where I was at college). I was in love with her through 1988, when I called her parents' home in Georgia to find out she'd died ("We thought we'd told all the Azle people.").
 

 

Song Sung Blue

I had a small transistor radio when I was 9 (maybe 4" x 2"). I remember walking around the neighborhood with it pressed to my ear, and this the very first song that I heard.

 

 

July 4, 2015

Spent my 4th o' July shopping for groceries then watching "Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" re-runs while putting together the side-table seen here. It was a GOOD 4th of July because I had no expectations.

 

Media suggest that the 4th should be spent in the company of family and/or friends having cook-outs and watching fireworks... I would have liked that. I've had such before in earlier years, but in recent years... there's nothing. My mom's not exactly motherly, and my bro's not exactly brotherly. I'm on my own. Which I've finally psychologically accepted by now.

 

I'm glad I got the side-table done! (My so-called "family" can go fuck themselves.)

 

 

My Belly Is Now a Problem

I just noticed a couple of weeks ago that my weight had suddenly ballooned up to 170 lbs. By "suddenly," I mean that back in only May of this year, I was hovering, as I had been for the past 7 years or so, between 155 and 160, with a completely reasonable goal of getting down to below 150 before my upcoming 50th birthday in August. (I'm 5'8". When I graduated high school, I was a too-skinny 118. I consider my "picture/fighting weight" to be 137. I consider 150 or below to be "reasonable" for me.)

Around June of this year, though, some weird ballooning seems to have taken place. I haven't gone through menopause yet (though, at nearly-50, I'm surely about to). I haven't been drinking more or eating more. The pre-/post-stress of my move in late January has subsided. Perhaps I've just reached that fabled middle-aged plateau where you're just all-of-a-sudden dumpy?

I have a scale, and a couple of weeks ago I noticed the big jump in weight. And so took some minor steps that I thought would correct the problem: At my work cafeteria, when before I'd order some fries or a slice of pizza with my salad, I started just getting a bigger salad and deleting the fries or pizza. Mid-afternoon snacks at work I almost completely deleted. Eating fast food, I almost completely deleted. Eating around midnight after hours on the computer and just before bed, I almost completely deleted.

In my past experience with my body, changes in diet usually have taken about 2 weeks to kick in before showing results in weight. This time, though, I was puzzled that my weight had stayed the same even after my efforts. Fuck. It might be just like losing my 20/20 vision around 2010.

With weight, though, unlike vision, you do have a bit of control. In my latter high school years, I used to do 50 sit-ups a night, just for the hell of it. (After watching my mother's mild at-home exercise regimen.) But when I was 18, 50 sit-ups didn't feel like anything. I had daily PE at school, I was young and limber, I didn't yet smoke, I had milk and orange juice for breakfast...

Now, though, I can do about 15 sit-ups when I try... and I don't usually want to try. In the morning, I just want to get up and get to work; in the evening, I just want to either drink beer while I'm on the computer or else lie on the couch and watch TV before I go to sleep. Where/how does exercise, other than the 2 miles I walk per day on the way to/from work, fit in? And why isn't that 2 miles of walking enough, dammit?

Post 18 years old, I've never had to exercise or diet. As I said above, 155-160 felt "kind of heavy" but not crazily so. 170, though, has crossed into the realm of a problem I haven't yet been used to dealing with. Because I don't want to be a "fat office lady" and I don't want to be denied every single bit of clothing that I find attractive and I don't want to walk around like the schlub that I feel like right now, I do indeed have to do SOMETHING. I can't eat much less, and I don't want to drink much less... I guess exercising above and beyond walking is what's called for.

June 26, 2015

When I first saw the above shot of the United States White House, I thought it was something that had been Photoshopped. But it was real and true. I've had goosebumps for the past 2 days every time I've thought about the Supreme Court decision acknowledging the right of gay people to marry.

As Bravo host Andy Cohen (born in 1968, me in 1965) tweeted along with the above picture: "I wish I could tell my scared teenaged self that this day would come!!! I never would've believed it!!!"

 

I'm about to turn 50, and my whole sexual life has pretty much been one of shame and/or denial. My first love in high school, I would have taken to prom had "such things" been permitted in 1983. Because I was not allowed to express such feelings back then, I repressed them. Said feelings first got channeled into movie stars (like Joan Crawford).

When I finally got brave enough to go out to gay bars in an effort to actually realize my sexuality, my first lover turned out to be an ex-con and dominatrix. Really. And that kind of harsh introduction to sex for a virgin was not necessary in the least. It was what was available to me at the time (1989), but it was a shitty introduction.

In the early '80s, gay kids didn't get much of a choice. There was complete denial while in high school. And then the predators once we first made it to a big city. Most of us missed the innocence of prom.

Thank god for this Supreme Court decision. May today's gay teens grow up feeling confident in who they love. May they be able to be sweet together as young people. May they avoid the predators and sociopaths who have warped me.
 

Which lives matter?

 

Which lives matter? Below are two statues on the University of Texas at Austin campus: Of Jefferson Davis and Martin Luther King, Jr.

Jefferson Davis was the President of the Confederate States of America. Martin Luther King, Jr., was a United States civil rights leader.

Neither have much to do with Texas... Oh, wait. Texas was once part of the Confederacy.

It's apparently OK to deface one of these statues. What if, on the other hand, someone had spray-painted the MLK statue?

When I saw the "Black Lives Matter" graffiti, I immediately wished someone had spray-painted an accompanying addendum: "If black lives matter so much, why do your own young black men keep shooting each other? Let's see the stats last year of black men killed by black men versus black men killed by 'Evil White Folk.'"

 

 

 

Rebel Yell

I'm amazed and disturbed not only by today's decision by eBay and Amazon to stop selling images of the Confederate flag, but also by most of the media's editorial comment following. A prime example: "Yes, You're a Racist -- And a Traitor," which appeared today on the Huffington Post website (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/john-e-price/yes-youre-a-racist----and-a-traitor_b_7640654.html).

The first "argument" the author of the article made:

"In America today, the most prominent, prevalent and pernicious of these revisionist movements is the Lost Cause narrative: the idea that the Civil War was a romantic struggle for freedom against an oppressive government trying to enforce cultural change. There are scores of books on this topic, and you should check those out at your local library. But probably the most famous popular culture Lost Cause text is Gone With The Wind (both book and movie).

I hate Gone With the Wind. I hate everything about it. I hate its portrayal of the Civil War. I hate its portrayal of Southern aristocrats. I hate its popularity. I hate that it's become an i
conic movie. I hate that it was ever made in the first place."

The writer (I'm guessing he's a 19-year-old intern) goes on to dismiss facts such as that the Civil War might have been, from the agrarian Southern States' point of view, more about economics and states' rights than about any "hatred" of the race they'd enslaved for corrupt economic purposes. Ken Burns' Civil War epic on PBS included a quote from a Confederate private captured by the Union; when his interrogators asked him why in the world he was fighting --- he was poor, only the rich owned slaves --- he responded: "Because y'all are down here."

This particular ignorant writer also dismisses the fact that the original 13 colonies of the United States very much included Southern states -- Georgia, North and South Carolina, and Virginia, which would all secede from the United States (i.e., the Federal government) at the outset of the Civil War. Not because they were "traitors" but because they felt their rights to govern themselves were being usurped -- a principle very dear to the founders of our country and Constitution, who had all-too-recently just argued over and fought for the same points with England. In their minds, who was traitorous?

Right or wrong, there was a principle involved. One that Southern states originally fought for in the founding of our country, and continued to fight for in the Civil War. For this principle to be dismissed as simplistic "racism" is ludicrous. For eBay, Amazon, and Walmart to cave into this moment's trend is equally ludicrous -- and frightening in its historical ignorance.

I understand and honor the battle fought by residents of the Southern states. And I refuse to be called either a "Racist" or a "Traitor" by those ignorant of United States history and of the history of the Confederate flag.

I'm Losing You (Alternate Version) (John Lennon)

 

 

Here in some stranger's room
Late in the afternoon
What am I doing here at all?
Ain't no doubt about it
I'm losing you

Somehow the wires have crossed
Communication's lost
Can't even get you on the telephone
Just got to shout about it
I'm losing you

Here in the valley of indecision
I don't know what to do
I feel you slipping away
I feel you slipping away
I'm losing you

You say you're not getting enough
But I remind you of all that bad, bad stuff
So what the hell am I supposed to do?
Just put a band-aid on it
And stop the bleeding now
Stop the bleeding now

I know I hurt you then
But hell, that was way back when
Well, do you still have to carry that cross? (drop it)
Don't want to hear about it
I'm losing you
I'm losing you
 

The Monkees - I'm a Believer (1966)

"When I needed sunshine I got rain..."

 

My New Work Glass

Happiness Is... Disposable Income

I understand the concept of a mate and children bringing one moments of pure happiness and appreciation for love and unity, et al. (But then I've also been witness to the other 75% of "a mate and children.")

 

For purposes here, sans the aforementioned "mate and children," what brought me great happiness tonight was winning the below on eBay after paying a stupidly large amount of money for... a beer glass. With Joan! With THAT particular "Torch Song" picture!! With the utterly stupid-funny "Mommie Beerest" written on it!!!

 

It's probably a good thing that I don't have a kid, because if I did, I'd have to admit, honestly: "Honey, finding this glass online brings me much more pleasure than your bringing home 4th place in the soccer tournament."

  

 

Kris Jenner: Queen of Fucking Everything

 

People give Kris Jenner a hard time, but I think she's really hot. And she has that "hard femme" Joan Crawford-y thing going on:

 

 

Look at the eyes of the boys behind her.

 

 

 

I like 'em a little rough.

 

Maybe not quite this rough.
 

Enough to turn Bruce into a lesbian.

 

She cleans up real nice.



Scorpio eyes.

 

 

Queen of Fucking Everything.

Poor Kris.

Goals Upon Approaching 50

With only 2 months to spare:

Lose 10 pounds.
Get teeth whitened.
Get hair permed and colored.

Now, lest someone reading here think, "Oh my, how shallow..." Well, I've already, at nearly 50, done the Big Stuff that I had any personal control over. I've:

Gotten my Master's degree.
Lived in both San Francisco and New York (the only two places I ever had any serious desire to try out, though I did once have a minor fantasy about living in Germany--in my aunt's house after she died).
Written two screenplays (on my own time, of course).
Written 600+ poems (only 7 published in small national mags).
Published a local lit 'zine with a group of friends (3 issues of "Trash Soup" in Austin in the early '90s).
Written to and gotten responses from 2 of my most meaningful authors: Ted Hughes and Mary Gaitskill (whom I met in person after exchanging letters and tapes).
Created from scratch a website for Joan Crawford (currently over 1,000 unique views a day; 3.1 million visitors since 2004).

What I most decidedly have NOT "accomplished" by 50:

A love of my life with whom I've traveled the world.
A publishing job in New York City.
A poem in the "New Yorker" or a book of poems.
An Oscar-winning screenplay (or even a screenplay optioned!).

But note what I mentioned in the intro: "that I had any control over."

I certainly can't control who falls in love with me and wants to travel. Or who hires me. Or who chooses to publish my work. I've TRIED in all of these areas, which is all anyone can possibly do. Sans a benefactor or mentor (which I have never actively sought, preferring/hoping instead that it would happen organically), I think I have done pretty well on my own.

And so, approaching 50, what I wish for is... Make those teeth and hair appointments, girl! And quit eating fries at lunch! (RE the latter: I've never dieted before in my life. Ever. But I'm up to 162 pounds at 5'8", and I feel noticeably sluggish. I need to be at least under 150 so I can MOVE properly. I hate schlumpfing around and wearing saggy clothes.)

When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse...

I also wrote the below poem  in 1985 when I was 19, 10 days before the "Ginny poem" below. I think inspired by the glamorization of self-destruction in "The Wall," which I'd just seen. What "The Wall" meant to me was... "Your pain means something." It showed many of us that we were not alone in our various reactions to whatever psychological terror we'd experienced. We could kill ourselves in reaction, or we could codify it into art, which is what the protagonist of the movie (and, I suppose, the soundtrack's primary composer Roger Waters) apparently did. I also chose the "codify" route.

 

Vodka shots off walls cataclysmic

in finality and you take the razor-bath literally

with Gauloises and truth in static overdose run

amuck among brazen angels, the stab of infidelity

struck in bruised reflection and the telephone rings

(darling Pat), banal effortless you laugh

praying in time to head-pound echo and

(flash) sound is one-two blue

chasm widening ever-deep into flesh-fractured

doubt and unflattering in stone you choose your

weapon -- steel or acid (not self-contained) -- and wait

for spatial gates and lords of flies, the come-hither

stench of fluid wrist confessions.

 

 

The Back Seat Of My Car - Paul McCartney (1971)

 

 

 

 

Runaway
(I wrote the below poem for Ginny in 1985, when I was 19, a year-and-a-half after she'd stolen money from her parents to take a bus to Austin, where I was a freshman in a college dorm, unable to take her in permanently. Afterwards, her parents banned me from seeing her. She ran off to Austin a couple of times more, usually accompanied by a new "best friend." She died in 1988.)

 

 

I was the bad one

and you, Mr. Suitcase-god-and-baggage

the ever-so addled, standing

hatless in Austin rain,

wondering how five dollars worth of tokens

could have bought so much goddamn trouble.

 

Yes, she's here.

With excuses and a 6am taxi.

The stain on her shoulder where the fat man slept

and a whole lifetime of indecision still

unaccounted for.

 

And you stand --

sane Baptist eyes figuring (rightly)

that she is yours.

With me too stupid

to see the lure of the religion, sex, and TV

that will be hers for the asking.

 

And home she goes (did you ever doubt?)

Stoneage guilt riding low

and your hand on her arm.

She is SAFE, by god, so safe...

With so much to offer,

we should have all married

men like you.

Facebook Friend

At my work bus-stop in the afternoon, I often run into an aging Austin hippie (I'm almost 50, he's about 60) who has a job about on my level, who's been in Austin about as long as I have (30 + years). He's always chock full of news about what bands/events he just saw or is about to see. Which is fine. Except he then always asks ME, expectantly, about what I just did or am about to do. He's been asking me this for 6 months now. Six months ago, I was full of opinions about my new apartment and new neighborhood, etc. (He's on some sort of self-appointed Austin neighborhood council, so that satisfied him for a while.) Now, though, I've been in my new apartment/'hood for 4 months and so have nothing new to share. When he asks, as he did this Friday, what I'm going to do for the weekend, my answer is usually: "Work on my Joan Crawford website and organize my apartment. And maybe go to a consignment shop. And the grocery store. And maybe do laundry. And maybe go into work for a few hours to catch up."

Today at the bus-stop, he was happily telling me about bands that he'd gone to see the night before with his 20-something daughter. I forget the club he said he went to, but at it, he knew as many people as his daughter did, he was proud to tell me. He also enjoyed the 2-mile full-moon walk home afterward with his daughter, where they shared "theories of the world."

That's cool! Hey, I just shared on this blog my excitement over my recent hour-long conversation with a co-worker about how civilization is going to end, so I understand how wonderful it is to communicate. I truly miss that. But this guy, though, isn't just a "laid-back" kinda guy. He's an aggressively laid-back kinda guy. With a person genuinely interested in communicating, I could have responded to his pleasant "walking home with his daughter and talking" story with my own heart-felt good feelings about the hour-long conversation I just had with my co-worker about life--the first such conversation I'd had in years. I, though, got the definite impression that he wouldn't have been interested in my meager story, which didn't involve a club or "bonding-with-the-younger-generation" or a full moon.

I feel that I disappoint this fellow. I'm amused by this because I feel that he's also searching for surface reasons to be disappointed in me: I've been in Austin as long as he has and know as much about the town...I used to love going out to see bands, and now I just don't feel like hanging out with 20-year-olds any more... The very last thing in the world that I might now want to do, for instance, is hang out at SXSW, which I once did in the '90s and don't need to ever do again, especially now that it's populated by big generic acts and big prices, which was not at all the point of the festival to begin with.

This guy means relatively well. But he's stuck in his "Austin schtick": "I go see bands and events. And what do YOU do?" To me, the more subtly interesting mindset would be to actually listen to what those around you have to say...and to have something that you're interested in other than trying to prove you're still "youthful."

At the end of today's going-nowhere-bus-stop conversation that continued on the bus, he asked me if he could "Friend" me on Facebook! Jesus. Sure. Whatever. WHY? (When I approved his request later tonight, I saw that he had 900+ Friends. I have 32. OK, 32 is anti-socially low (but honest). 900+ is a number reserved for kids who import their entire graduating class. Oh well. He's implied that I'm not as well read as he is: Now that he's on my Facebook page, let him wallow in what I really like. Maybe that's what he wanted all along. I hope it'll either guide his future attempts at conversation or else shut him the fuck up.)

Good Conversation

I'm single, and I have a job with an isolated office. I say "hello" to my boss once a day when I come in, and she and I might chat briefly another time or two during the day; and once a day or so a co-worker might stop by to either say "hi" or very briefly discuss a small editing job. In short, in all venues of my life, I hardly talk to anyone at all.

Today, a co-worker in charge of the company website stopped by my office to let me know that I might have to "write something." I was puzzled. Though I write, I don't "write" at this company. (Just "compile" and "edit.") Turned out the subject was an obituary for a long-time employee. Yeah, yeah, I'd already gotten the e-mails a month ago and already compiled various public obits to be written up for inclusion in next year's annual report. So?

There was no other "So." The co-worker just wanted to stop by and chat. He came by at 2:00pm and by the time he left, it was 3:45! One good, non-guilty thing for me was: He's been at the company for over 20 years, makes over $100,000 a year (I checked), and any time he wants to chat, I can chat, without my own boss getting mad at me.

A more interesting thing for me was: Our conversation started out with the specific demise of a co-worker and nearly 2 hours later ended with... the demise of civilization as we know it. And how I don't know anything about even light-bulbs. (He, on the other hand, claims to know how to construct one, but of course couldn't do so without the materials that wouldn't be available post-apocalypse.)

There were about 300 steps in between the IT guy dying and our civilization dying. It didn't strike me until the end of the 2 hours just what an interesting little arc we'd just transversed! :)

It wasn't a sexual thing, 99% of it. What was so exotic to me was feeling such intellectual stimulation for the first time in YEARS! As a teen, on my own, and then through college and up through the mid-90s, I was constantly stimulated intellectually. Post-2000, though, has been pretty much of a wasteland.

The time today gave me a hint of what I've been missing. I miss talking to someone for hours.

Joan Crawford, 1968, in a circus picture

(By "circus picture," I mean specifically, "Berserk." And non-specifically, I mean that she didn't have to do a lick of acting to pick up her paycheck in this cheesy latter-day film of hers; she was being paid for her name only. Yet, despite the less-than-MGM surroundings... she ACTED in it.)

Good Vibes

Buried in the earlier juvenile post about "What I Did Over Memorial Day Weekend," I mentioned feeling good about going to my new post office to return something to an eBay seller that was sent to me by mistake. The seller had sent me the wrong item, but didn't ask for the original item back after correcting the error. I knew I should indeed send it back, but was put off by my new neighborhood --- my new post office only open 9-5 (my work hours), and the bus to the post office closest to work (for lunch-hour visits) only running every 40 minutes, which would make me an hour late after lunch... Anyway... it took me a month or so, but I figured out how to mail the item back. Glad I did. Below is the mail that I received from the seller yesterday:

"Thank you so much for returning the little Zodiac Bowl that was sent to you by mistake. I really didn’t expect to see it and it was not necessary for you to send it back. I was, however, delighted that you returned it. It’s kind of a cutie and even though nobody had bought it, I decided to make it special since it came from a special buyer. It’s going on my desktop for paperclips and such and I shall think of you when I use it....

Thanks again for sending me back the little bowl, you have restored my faith in buyers."

Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree (1973)

 

I'm comin' home, I've done my time

Now I've got to know what is and isn't mine

 

Neutral Milk Hotel - In The Aeroplane Over The Sea

What a beautiful face I have found in this place
That is circling all 'round the sun
What a beautiful dream that could flash on the screen
In a blink of an eye and be gone from me
Soft and sweet
Let me hold it close and keep it here with me

And one day we will die and our ashes will fly
From the aeroplane over the sea
But for now we are young let us lay in the sun
And count every beautiful thing we can see
Love to be in the arms of all
I'm keepin' here with me

What a curious life we have found here tonight
There is music that sounds from the street
There are lights in the clouds, Anna's ghost all around
Hear her voice as it's rolling and ringing through me
Soft and sweet
How the notes all bend and reach above the trees

Now how I remember you
How I would push my fingers through
Your mouth to make those muscles move
That made your voice so smooth and sweet
But now we keep where we don't know
All secrets sleep in winter clothes
With one you loved so long ago
Now we don't even know his name

What a beautiful face I have found in this place
That is circling all 'round the sun
And when we meet on a cloud I'll be laughing out loud
I'll be laughing with everyone I see
Can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all
 

 

Live and Let Die (1973)

When you were young and your heart was an open book...

 

Fetish

The fetish is You moved on, the wishing for what's not now, though you once had your chance, or at least worshipped from afar.

The sickness in pressing this upon others, insisting that it, long since lost to you in particular, must still be true for The Universe.

Despite my yelling (to myself here) at my neighbor...

...over the weekend, I actually had a VERY productive 4 days off.

Thursday night: Cleaned the toilet and sink and bathroom floor. Which I'd been waiting to do before I'd allow myself to put down the new rug and toilet-seat cover I'd bought over a month ago.

Friday: Went to the post office for the first time since moving to my new place in February so I could return an incorrect item that someone on eBay sent me. Figuring out my new post office was another thing I'd been putting off this whole time; the one online info said was closest to my new apt was only open 9-5 M-F, and I didn't want to take time off work. Plus, according to my bus schedule, it would have taken over a half hour to get there. Instead, found a different one -- not in my ZIP code, but only 10 minutes by bus from my apt. And in a wealthy Old Austin neighborhood, meaning... counters fully staffed, very short wait. (Unlike, say, the nightmare of a PO in my old Eastside neighborhood that was always a writhing, chaotic mess, from customers to staff.) This little excursion also made me feel good because the eBay person I was returning the item to had made the error and hadn't asked for the item back...but it felt good to do the right thing!

Afterwards, having nothing else to do, I decided to ride the bus to the end of the line just to see where it went. NOT FUN. UGLY places. Didn't learn about anything interesting. 2 hours wasted.

Once the bus swung back to my area, went and tried out a Dairy Queen I'd been seeing on my way to work. Had a Country Basket for the first time in probably 10 years. (That used to be my favorite meal back in my hometown.) The times, though, they have a-changed: A 4-piece steak-finger basket with fries, toast, and gravy plus a small Coke is now... $8.64! And it wasn't even that good. So I won't ever be eating that again! (For $5.99, maybe. But not $8.64!)

On the way home from the DQ, did my grocery shopping for 2 weeks.

Saturday: As I posted earlier, went and checked out a consignment store that I'd been curious about. Not only did I find some bargains, I also found a place to take a couple of lamps I'd bought on eBay but don't need, to sell on consignment. Afterwards, went to Walmart to buy some DIRT and a clay pot (my front porch area needs plants), then had a GOOD meal at McAllister's on the way home. (For under $8, a really DELICIOUS half-French Dip sandwich and DELICIOUS, big Italian salad. I WILL be eating that again!)

Sunday: Wasted hangover day, lying on couch and watching TV. :( :(

Monday: Got up bright-n-early, did 3 loads of my regular clothes, plus my winter comforter and other blanket so I could pack them away and put on my new summer sheets/bedspread that I'd bought months ago. (Despite my excitement at the new bedding, I don't really like how it looks --- the "winter bedding" is wine-colored and rich, the new stuff too beige; the room doesn't really pop like it used to. : (  Even so, gonna keep the new stuff there for the season; maybe I'll get to like it better. Next spring, maybe I'll buy a similar wine-colored spread, just thinner.)

Noon-ish, after 3-1/2 hours of laundry-doin', went and had a pedicure for the first time since November or so. After moving to my new 'hood in February, I just had no idea about where to go and so kept putting it off, in the meantime feeling shabby since all my toenail polish was peeling off. There are two places within walking distance, so I picked one. It was fine. Asian ladies, like at the old Eastside 'hood. Better chairs. Slightly more expensive, but also longer calf and foot massage.

When I was finished and walking home, it was starting to sprinkle. An hour or so later, all sky-ish hell broke loose for the next 4 hours! Massive flooding all over town, including the creek I walk across to get to the bus-stop, which completely overflowed the bridge. After the rain slowed, I went to take a look at the raging creek---completely forgetting my camera! I'm so mad at myself --- I could have had a REAL event to show here, instead of just recounting my boring moods.

Oh well. No crick-crossin's here. Instead: Here's how I finished up my Monday evening: Finally hanging my Guatemalan festival masks that had been sitting around, along with my bath mats and comforters, et al., all waiting for me to clean stuff up before decorating!

Paul McCartney & Wings "Jet" 1976

To the constantly, obnoxiously loud, yelling black man who lives below me: Here's some loud White-Girl Payback Shit blasted at 1 a.m. via my stereo, now YouTubed just for you, you constantly aggrieved, yelling-at-your-wife/yelling-at-the-world obnoxious "muthafucka." (How's YOUR potential complaint gonna work out, I wonder: "I heard Paul McCartney at 1 a.m." No one in 2015 is gonna BELIEVE that, you fucking idiot.)

p.s. In 2015, your kid most likely didn't get into college because he was stupid, not because he was black. As you were yelling outside my window last week to some unknown phone recipient, do you REALLY think there's a "conspiracy" to keep your kid out of college? Really? There aren't government grants for minorities? Your kid must be REALLY stupid to not have gotten ANYTHING.

Fuck you and your loud-ass voice that I have to listen to all week long. I have a Master's degree and I work as an Editor, but you make me feel as if I live in Section 8 housing. In that regard: Wish I had a man in my life who would go downstairs and punch you in your loud face.

In the meantime, enjoy Paul at 1 a.m., and we can take it up with the landlady tomorrow re which has been worse.
 

Paul McCartney - Tomorrow (1971)

Honey, pray for sunny skies

So I can speak to rainbows in your eyes 

 

$19.63

Since I first came to Austin in the mid-'80s, I've been fascinated by girls who dressed via vintage shopping. I thought they looked good, but I never knew how to achieve the look myself. I saw ads for such places in the weekly alternative paper, and I went to those shops every now and then, but never found anything that excited me enough to make shopping in such places a habit.

In my new location in North Austin, there are multitudes of vintage clothing and furniture shops around me, and I've only now started exploring them. Most, on first look, have carried things that were extravagantly overpriced. There's a retro furniture shop right next door, for instance, that places various items in the parking lot that I see every day when coming home from work --- the smallest and flimsiest of plastic mid-century end tables, they mark up to $175. No. Clothing shops in the area have been the same.

Aside from "retro" shops, which you might expect to mark up, I've also been annoyed by Goodwill and Savers shops -- which you would NOT expect to mark up, though they do. Both of these chains in my area feature dingy, overpriced items.

Long story short: Finally found a good place to buy stuff. Run by a local Episcopal church. I bought the 4 items pictured below for a total of $19.63.

Ms. Clean

In the olden days (i.e., last year), I used to have exactly 3 cleaning products in my home: Ajax, Drano, and a window cleaner.

With a bigger place and more money come... specialization!

Mad Men Series Finale Commercial - Times of Your Life

  

I'd Like to Buy the World a Coke Commercial - 1971

The best ending in the history of a television series. I couldn't stop alternately crying and laughing for 20 minutes afterward. Two hours later, I'm still both smiling and teary (as I watch the episode for the third time in a row).

 

I was so nervous about Don Draper the whole episode. I wept during his early phone-call to Betty, then calmed down until his later phone-call to Peggy ("Please, Peggy, don't let him hang up without telling you exactly where he is! Go and get him!"), which is when I started crying again (especially when Don was enlightened by and then hugging Leonard, his fellow seminar-goer) until the ending and after.

 

Wow. Way to rise (yet again) from the ashes, and be true to yourself, Don Draper! :) 

  

 

 

Addendum: Wednesday, May 19. From the NYTimes artsbeat.com blog re the finale:

RDB, Piedmont, CA

 

I don't view Don's return to NY to make the historic Hilltop ad as a cynical ending, but as a sign of self-acceptance. I've always believed the story of Don Draper is the story of talent, and what an artist must do to feed it. Don's personal story is so full of pain and heartbreak. It is his talent that sustains him, and gives purpose to his marginalized, peripatetic existence. By living at a distance from others (even those he loves), he is able to extract an essential truth and transform it into an idea and an advertisement that moves people (and product!) Without his talent, he would be another sad guy in a cubicle. His epiphany at Esalen is that he is NOT the sad guy across the circle, that people DO notice him and look for him (as Peggy says, "come home, Don!"). I think he finally learned and accepted that he should love only from a distance, so that he is free to embrace his gift without causing such pain to others. I imagine this is a struggle for many creative people and those who love them. Jon Hamm's gift is bringing empathy to Don's struggle, in spite of all the pain it caused everyone around him. Bravo, Jon. I can't wait to see what you do next!

The Beatles Tomorrow Never Knows (Mad Men Season 5 Episode 8)

 

 

Julie London Fly Me to the Moon (Mad Men Season 1, Episode 11)

 

 

George Jones Cup of Loneliness (Mad Men Season 2, Episode 12)

Fadeout music as Don Draper walks into the ocean, a la Norman Maine in "A Star Is Born."
 

 

Peggy Olson walks into McCann Erickson

  

Mother's Day

My mother and I haven't spoken since January 1. The not-speaking for months is almost usual. Even when our "relationship" has been on a "normal" track (for us), and since my mother moved to Austin in 2010, we'd see each other/speak about 10 or 11 times a year. In chronological order: Easter, Mother's Day, Nephew 1 b'day, Mom's b'day, Nephew 2 b'day, my b'day, my brother's b'day, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Plus maybe one or so other odd events that turned up, maybe a nephew play or soccer game or something.

Since the beginning of 2015, though, we are really Not Speaking. AT ALL. So far, Easter and Mother's Day have gone by. I'm curious about what's going to happen for my older nephew's upcoming 13th birthday in a couple of weeks, though. I've always gotten him a gift, we've always gone out as a family to his restaurant of choice, come back to someone's home for cake, etc. Either my brother's going to call me to come over separately, or he's not going to call me at all. That'll be a shame. Easter dinner, Mother's Day, I don't miss too much, but the birthdays and Thanksgiving and Christmas will be odd and sad.

At first. Then I'll get used to it. And then, honestly, it won't be such a big deal. I've gotten used to lots of stuff. At first you think how horrible something's going to be, and it is. For a while. Then after a while, the horrible feeling fades into... "Eh. I can live with this."

Not to go on about it, but in the case of me and my mother not speaking: If we were only speaking 10 times a year, on holidays, to begin with, then not speaking at all isn't actually THAT life-changing. Psychologically, there's the unsettling feeling: "Wow. I'm one of those weirdos who doesn't speak to her parents." But in actuality, there are many not-particularly-weird people out there who don't speak to one or both of their parents for whatever unresolved-family-dynamic reason. It isn't like my mother and I were emotionally close and, thus, the falling out is tragic in some way. I don't think I've felt emotionally close to her since 1976 or so, when I was 11.

Yet I've still enjoyed the rituals and pleasantries of the holidays and birthdays since then. My mother and I didn't love each other, but we maintained the dutifulness of the relationship. That was something, at least. Not love, but nonetheless a deeper tie than simply an act or façade. Four-and-a-half months into the Nothingness does feel odd and empty, but, as I mentioned above, I've felt "odd and empty" plenty of times before. "I ain't skeered."

A sidenote:  On Mother's Day Sunday, on my way to work to put in some extra hours, I stopped at a sandwich shop. There was a 30-ish tattooed chick behind the counter who, though it was 5 minutes after their 11am opening time, had me wait because they weren't open yet. When I was finally allowed to place my order, she said bright-n-shinily, "So, are you a Mommie?" Oh, Jesus, I thought. Not only have I not had any kids, but I don't even have a lunch-date with my own mother to go to today. And now I'm supposed to explain all of my life choices (or rather, how-things-just-turned-out) to a sandwich chick!

Me, out loud: "Nope."
Sandwich chick: [silent for a few seconds, then reaches for an empty cup and slaps it on the counter in front of me] "Here. On the house." And then she actually says, "For all of us who've chosen not to bring life into this world."

Oh, Jesus. Really? She was about 30 years old. Her current public stance of "not choosing to bring life into this world" was just silly to me. She most likely will meet a fellow-tatted kid on the street within the next year and they'll go at it like rabbits and have a kid or two out of accident and wedlock (or else out of marriage via some vegan guru or something).

Of course, I didn't say any of that. Just said thanks and took the cup and helped myself to some Mountain Dew out of the fountain. And felt, against my will, a bit of solidarity with both the universe and the young woman kindly trying to make me feel like I was a part of it.

Intellectually Challenged

My dad didn't care anything for me, OR do anything to help his child advance in the world! A right-winger, he once said he'd pay for his child NOT to attend college.

Pay for your child NOT to attend college --- What's the point of that? You want your child to work at a WalMart or at a state job?

Woops! I have a state job now!

What was your thought-process there, Dad? What exactly were you THINKING? Probably, you weren't thinking at all, just mouthing the back-burner "insider" idiocy you'd been hearing pre-Internet, thinking you were getting the "inside scoop on reality."

In fact, what you gave ME was utter fearfulness: No one loved me. No one was going to listen to me. Whatever I picked for a 12-year-old birthday dinner, for instance, was utterly stupid. (What did I have to choose from at 12? I'd seen nothing else but fast-food places.)

I knew innately that I was smart, but when I entered the University of Texas as a freshman, I was petrified. I'd never had an intellectual conversation (except with myself). It took me years before I could argue intellectually with any professor.

An engineer, a priest, and a doctor on the golf course...

Ahead of them is a group playing so slowly and inexpertly that in frustration the three ask the greenkeeper for an explanation.

"That's a group of blind firefighters," they are told. "They lost their sight saving our clubhouse last year, so we let them play for free."

The priest says, "I will say a prayer for them tonight."

The doctor says, "Let me ask my ophthalmologist if anything can be done for them."

The engineer says, "Why can't they play at night?"


From a story in the 5/4/15 New Yorker (partially about exploding Pintos of the '70s -- my first car!). I think the engineer is 100% right! Well, not 100% RIGHT, but that thought process would be MY thought process, in that case, at least. Everybody always makes me feel like I'm so "mean," but if you look at it another way, I'm just...LOGICAL! :)

A Little Bit Grateful Right Now!

#1:  My job right now is the best job I've ever had. Intellectually challenging, and pays every bill, with plenty left over every month.

From 1998 to 2007 (pre-NYC), I worked for a publishing company, which is what I initially wanted to work for... It was mind-numbingly dull work. It paid the bills, but I was going nuts from the boredom. No wonder I wildly broke loose.

#2:  I'm not, out of desperation, engaged to a schlub who's moved me out to the country, and I'm not, equally desperately, trying to find a sugar-daddy before my lease is up in July.

Those are really sad things to be "thankful" for! :) But two intelligent, beautiful women I've been in love with in the past decade are in exactly those #2 positions today. I find them, and their situations, EXTREMELY depressing. (The dream I had Sunday about the first woman was actually a positive dream in and of itself -- a feeling of closeness with someone. But then I had to go and look up online what she was actually doing...yuck; stirred up old feelings of hanging around and hanging around those stupid karaoke bars then being upset when she ran off to Houston to get married to the first guy, saying "I told you so" to myself when she came back to Austin a mere few months later, then being depressed/annoyed again when I saw the next schlub she was with. A bunch of dumbness that I'm LONG SINCE no longer an emotional part of. In the future, I'll try to just leave a pleasant dream at that!)

Dumb Person

Sunday night, I had a dream about a woman I was in love with back in '05 or so. In real life, she hosted karaoke at the gay clubs that I went to back then.

On one night at a club when I was particularly "on," I went home with her. We listened to Loretta Lynn on the way home in her car -- exactly what I wanted to hear.

Her apartment was generic, in a generic part of town, except for framed photos of herself that she'd posted around the house, which I'd found weird but sexy. Her cats' litter-boxes were overflowing, to the point where I had to say something. She, at 40-something, then told me about the 19-year-old that had recently been living with her who had once, in a fit of ADD pique, thrown one of her cats against the wall.

I listened to her, as she reconstructed her nails, talk about how she felt she was the reincarnation of the Black Dahlia, then later went upstairs and laid down with her on a mattress on the floor with used condoms scattered around it. We didn't do anything. In the morning, I woke up first, and looked at her for a few minutes before she, too, woke up. Then we took turns in the bathroom getting our faces together, making jokes about my soon-to-be "walk of shame."

I attended her karaoke nights for a couple of more weeks. That June, she ran off to Houston to get married to a guy she'd met at her high-school reunion. Temporarily broke my heart. They got divorced a year later.

She quickly moved back to Austin with a guy she'd met at a furniture store in Houston.

In the dream I had last night, she and I were lounging around a bed, and she was telling me about an acting gig that she had coming up, where she was supposed to portray a "lesbian lover." I helpfully told her that I could help her with that! We were lounging around, touching each other, kinda lovers but not really lovers.

End of dream. I hadn't thought of this woman in 10 years, but when I woke up today, I sure did think of her again! Went to the Internet (Twitter, Facebook) to see what she had been doing... She's been engaged to the Houston/Furniture-Store-Guy since 2012, and they recently bought a crappy little home 20 miles outside of Austin. Here's what The Guy recently posted on Facebook -- Houston Texans logos get 99% of his sporadic posts, but he did feel the urge for the below:

"Watering M and my OWN yard! It is a fantastic feeling!"

Thank god for some smart-ass who responded: "How often does M need to be watered?" (No reply.)

M, though distraught when I knew her, was glamorous and interesting and intelligent. And, according to her own Facebook page, she continues to host karaoke at gay clubs in Austin. While living at the below.

 

 

My intellectual problem... It's basically a trailer. With a sprinkler. With your guy super-proud of this (and not seeing anything to move beyond). That's what you ended up with: In a crappy place with puddles and a dumb person!

Edie Brickell & New Bohemians - He Said

This has nothing to do with me. I think it's about Sandra.

 

 

 

 

Just before the lights went out
We sat up and talked about
All the things that we would be
I just wanted him to be with me

But he had a mind of his own
And he did not mind being alone
Left me there in our little world
Left me there like a little girl

He said don't get hung up
Hang ups will get you down
He said don't look back
Look up and then look around

That time I was feeling high
Like I never had to try
To kick myself up out of bed
Kick these worries out of my head

He said it's better this way, yeah
One day you'll understand
He said I'm leavin' today and
He let go of my hand

I know that I'll never see him again
I feel the same way that I saw him then
I know that when I get back on my feet
I will walk away from misery

What do you say when it's all been said
How do you feel when it's all been felt
Where do you go when it's all gone
And you don't care enough to carry on

Well, I say close your eyes
Look down deep inside
Someone is there for you
Someone who cares for you

Well, I know it's easier to say than do
Easier to look away than see it through
I know it's easier to think than feel
Easier to make it up than make it real

Oh it's hard to love
Oh it's hard not to love

Oh it's hard to love
Oh it's hard not to love

Oh now take me there don't leave me here

Back on a Plebe Bus

In September of 2014, Austin initiated a parallel "Rapid" bus system, with fewer stops and a 50-cents-higher fare than the regular buses. The higher fare doing a good job of weeding out the crazies that I'd before encountered on the regular city buses. On the Rapid, there were almost always just students and professionals.

My employer paid for all bus transport. Whatever Austin decided, I got to travel on for free. In late 2014, I still lived on the East Side of town, had to travel 20 mins to reach the new "Rapid," then another 10-20 minutes of standing around at the bus-stop, then 20 minutes to get to work.

By February 1, 2015, I'd intentionally moved north so I could walk straight to the "Rapid" and get straight to work, avoiding the changing of buses that added nearly an hour to my commute.

Today, a Saturday, I wanted to go back to my old hood, where a Marshall's was, so I could buy a specific type of face lotion that they always carried. And also get some shorts at the Old Navy at the same location. No Rapid, just a regular bus...

It was fucking ridiculous. On the way to Marshall's, a black toothless woman got on halfway there and proceeded to call out to every other person on the bus at the top of her lungs. If they answered, great, if they didn't, great. She, regardless, yelled out what was going on.

On the way back from Marshall's, a balding white homeless guy got on the bus and sat near me and, for some reason, immediately tried to engage me in Saturday's Mayweather/Pacquiao fight... Thinking that he was going to intimidate me, since I was a middle-aged white woman? He started by going on about how Mayweather was going to win the fight.

Me: I hope not. Mayweather's an asshole. I'm for Pacquiao.
Bus-guy, nonsensically (since I'd already mentioned Pacquiao): He's fighting some guy from the Philippines. There's a fight tonight.
Me: Yeah, Pacquiao. I hope Pacquiao kicks his ass. Mayweather's an asshole.
Bus-guy: He's fighting some guy from the Philippines.
Me: Yeah, PACQUIAO.
Bus-guy: Do you even know anything about boxing?
Me: I know about THIS match. I can't stand Mayweather. I hope Pacquiao wins.
Bus-guy: It's on ESPN.
Me: No, it's not. It's pay-per-view only.
Bus-guy: Not it's not. It's on ESPN.
Me: You've got to PAY for this thing! It's NOT on ESPN.

After this, the crazy-ass went on and on and on, commenting on every single landmark we passed along the bus route. After I'd expressed a distinct opinion on Pacquiao, he'd left me alone, but soon meandered into what restaurants he'd been to, etc., and asked me about my opinion on one restaurant and owner:

Me: I have never been there. I don't give a shit about either this place or the owner.

Now, he really left me alone, and instead rambled out loud to the bus passengers in general.

I don't feel any guilt about being this hard, after listening to this asshole go on and on and on for miles. I've sometimes felt that maybe homeless people are simply neurotic because they don't ever have anyone rational to talk to. However, in the last few years that I've been around homeless people taking buses, I've learned that they're usually loud and fucked up and asshole-ish, incapable of carrying on a normal conversation, though they're obviously seeking to do so. I've also learned that they often seek to bully young people and white middle-aged women, like me.

Yeah, well... I will always get back in your face, idiot. I can't stand idiocy being spewed on me.