#ROW80 4TH QUARTER 2013 – WEDNESDAY CHECK IN – AMUSING VISITORS & JC'S COMMENTARY

Somehow, JC and I have managed to become social butterflies without ever leaving the house. Of late, since JC took his bad fall, his classmates have naturally, been quite concerned, and were calling him to see how he was doing. Well, as time went on, and his recovery was being prolonged, they began asking if they could visit. Naturally, I said, “Of course! Invite them over! They're always welcome!” Understand that this is a class rather like group therapy for people who have committed crimes, and the classes are part of the terms of their parole. And yes, rather than making everyone read between the lines, or insult people's intelligence, JC is a felon. JC is also the only man who has ever treated me with the kindness compassion and unconditional love that we all deserve. He is my rock and so steadfast and loyal, in a world where that means nothing. I know of no finer man and I trust him with my life and I love him unreservedly. I am the luckiest woman alive.

The only reason I am not, and 90% of the population with no arrest records is this: we never got caught. Everything looks worse on paper, and I long ago discovered that people with “pasts” and records are much more trustworthy, than the so-called normal, run-of-the-mill populace.

Because of the nature of the stigma applied to people who have been imprisoned, committed for mental illness and have been homeless (I really, really need to get myself arrested to get that golden trifecta, just kidding) I have gone out of my way to let them know they are welcome here. Because what's past is past and this is now. If people are going to look down on us because of what we've been through, either through stupid choices, mistakes, or bad luck, that's THEIR problem, not mine. I will hold out my hand to anyone and try to help and comfort, until I am given good reason to doubt their sincerity and their honesty. I am no less of a person for having been homeless and then, Baker Acted for mental illness. I would go so far as to say I am stronger for it and it allows me to be that much kinder to those who have REAL problems. But I am one mean mutherfuckin' bitch, as they say here on Nebraska, if you cross me, or hurt others. But, I digress.

My life was nothing at all like it is now. In 2003, I had everything, or so I thought (well, except for the asshole of a husband, Bill Nunnally, who reads this.) Never, ever think that this cannot happen to you.

So, JC's class buddies (who I think he thought didn't care, because he says he's just an old man and no fun and blah blah blah) have been coming to visit and see JC, who is glad for their company. One young man, Aron* is a viola player and also plays guitar and bass guitar. He's been bringing over his instruments and we've been looking at ways to improve his playing. Aron's friend, *James and his girlfriend, *Camille, came along one afternoon and while Aron and I looked at his guitars that day, she and James and JC were talking about sports, or whatever. I can't remember.

Nice-looking dog; not as nice as the guitars Aron brought over and played.

JC starts talking about Mr. Cantrell's hunting dog. Back when JC lived in Texas, he and this friend used to go 'coon hunting. I think JC just went along for the entertainment value. Mr. Cantrell had 2 or 3 old hound dogs at the time and he bought this beagle, who he was just bragging all about. “She's the best; she can find 'coons here, there, everywhere.” That sort of thing. The way JC tells it is hilarious; I started thinking she was looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel. Anyway, one fine Saturday, after 3 weeks of bragging on this hunter, Mr. Cantrell and JC, load up their dogs and go 'coon huntin'. The beagle had never been out with Mr. Cantrell's dogs before.

They opened the back of the truck and the dogs took off. JC had some old mongrels that pretended to hunt; they'd go about 1/2 mile and sleep in the underbrush. Never caught a damned thing. But, Mr. Cantrell''s dogs are baying and the 2 men go haring after these dogs. They get caught up with them, and these dogs are baying at nothing. And the beagle isn't there with them, she's like 3 miles ahead, hollering. So, off they go, chasing the beagle. This happens about 4 or 5 times, and Mr. Cantrell and JC are like, “the hell with this; we're plumb wore out.” The other dogs had been long gone and were in the back of the truck asleep, when a weary Mr. Cantrell and JC returned. Off in the distance, they could hear the beagle baying.

This could be kind of a "Where's Waldo" thing. I couldn't find anything else, so this is just a random picture. I wanted to post this before 2020. So, where's Mr. Cantrell's hunter?

“She's just gonna have to find her own way home.” She never did and is either still huntin' 'coons, or been taken in by some other family, or maybe several families. When JC was done telling this story, which always makes me laugh, to James, Aron and Camille, I had had noticed that Camille was becoming increasingly restive and kept going into our bathroom. I kind of figured she was going through my stuff, but didn't really worry about it. This poor girl has mental problems and was molested by her stepfather and she's really a sad little person. She has horrendous physical problems with Type I Diabetes and people aren't patient with her. It's not a question of her being a thief or anything; she doesn't understand what is appropriate and what is not and I get that. I think she's a nice person and when I talk to her one on one, she's attentive and listens and is honestly trying to do the right thing; she's another long, long heartbreaking story.

Sad, but a sweetheart. Worth the effort, but people don't want to take the time.

So, just as they're getting ready to leave, Camille says to me, “Do you have any perfume I might, like use? I don't have any. Just a spritz.” So, I knew she'd been looking in my cabinets; I have some dollar store knock-off j-lo, that is 1/3 full. For some reason, known only to him, which he has yet been able to explain (not that he needs to; it only adds to the hilarity) JC rears up out of the blue and blurts, “Perfume? That'll make you smell like a whore!” And, ohsweetjesus that went right over her head. She just giggled and said, "I want to smell nice for my fiance, James!" JC had this look of absolute horror on his face. The kind of horror you see at the old Saturday matinees, when the kid is just about to get eaten/trampled/gouged to death by mutant ants/chinchillas/swamp monsters. JC had the look of horror on his face like that guy on the "X-Files" opening credit, whose face melts during the theme song. It was marvelous to behold. 

Well, I couldn't find the melting guy, but I found this, and this is pretty darn close to how JC looked after he blarted out his comment viz a viz perfume and whores.

He looked at me. I had nuttin' just blank. My face looked like Gort from "The Day the Earth Stood Still," lacking only the cyclops eye, that radiated death, because? My mind was a total blank; fried circuits everywhere. I didn't think “Gee, does JC think I smell like a whore?” or “Gee, how would JC know what whores smell like?” I rebooted my brain and thought some completely unrelated bullshit thought about a job I was doing, “Damn, I sure hope I got that system loaded before that old skinflint leaves town. I want my money” I opened my mouth and said, “Camille, wait right here.” I got the 2/3 empty j-lo bottle and gave it to her. She was delighted.

I was looking kinda like this, except for the laser beam coming out of my one eye. Right about then, my CPU did a memory dump and I'm lucky I didn't display a blue screen of death or one of those hexadecimal errors. Boolean logic is positively emotional compared to me.

It got funnier that night when JC said, “By the look on your face, I thought you were gonna say, “y'all are fixin' to have to leave now. Ima gonna beat the shit out of him for calling me a whore. Unless acourse, that is, you'd like to stay around and watch.” I said, “you weren't calling me a whore.” He said, “my other wives would have jumped right on that shit and I'd hear about it for the rest of my life.” I said, “I can do that; why ruin your fun?” We both went off in a gale of laughter again, at 4:30 am. The poor man next door got up and went to work, muttering something about “Goddamned retirees...”

*Aron, James, and Camille are all aliases, I would never use any of our friend's names without permission.

#ROW80 – Wednesday Check In – A Sort of a Word Count? Why Does the U.S. Health System Suck SO Bad?

Well, this is a first for me, in a while. An actual check in, where I actually put some actual words down for my actual edit. And excruciating it was. However, I am rather pleased by the result. Never having edited my own work, I thought I would be harder on myself. This means that I will loathe these edits later on, wondering what on God's Earth I was thinking. But, baby steps and all that happy crappy.


So, I've managed to edit about 700 words. Now, when we talk about “edit,” are we talking about leaving words in the paragraph, or taking them out? Does that count, or should I be subtracting those, because if that is the case, I've really managed to edit about -1459 words, and I don't think that's so good. And what about this “changing” thing. “Words?” or entire “Paragraphs?” If it's just words, you have a sum total of more or less. “Paragraphs” are stupid for counting, because we're not really editing them. Or are we? See? Can you tell I've never done this before? I'm totally scoobying this? Help? This shit is really hard. I think I'll stick with words, because I had more of those after I gouged out great chunks of drivel about the pinochle game with the ex-felons. . . Oh wait, I didn't. That's in the next chapter. Is that a teaser? Ha ha, color me Oops!

I look nothing like this, with the exception of the eyes. My left eye is crazier...

Anyway, I have found that dealing with the Health Care System in the United States, is everything way wrong with the U.S. in a microcosm. No body knows how to do their job. Meaningless CYA letters are mailed to and fro, unasked for in most cases and the letters themselves are written by that room full of monkeys that type Shakespeare for a hobby. Then, the Supplemental Insurance Companies run the letters through the HIBACHI AUTO TRANSLATOR that has been in use for decades by horrible Asian Spy Martial-Arts rip-off movies like so:

http://www.cracked.com/blog/the-most-baffling-subtitles-in-foreign-action-movie-history/

Holy shit! Is this a movie about kickboxing riot cops versus Cthulhu? Because if it is, then I think we should all, as a species, chip in together and get Indonesia a nice giant box of chocolates or something as a thank you. But if it's not, then I call dibs on that shit right now and you all are witnesses. 

Read more: http://www.cracked.com/blog/the-most-baffling-subtitles-in-foreign-action-movie-history/#ixzz2bGJPftqg *

Today, I found out it takes 15 departments to dispatch drivers to pick up one person after a doctor appointment. After having carefully followed the rules since March 1, when I received this Blight on the Planet called Supplemental Insurance/Medicare, it was made very clear to me to NEVER deviate from the process. I am so hard-wired I make Boolean logic look wild and crazy! I do process and I do it hard. I am all about process. I grew up in chaos and loathe it.


That being the case, today, after my shrink appointment, which went a big long (we're discussing psycho-therapy, or PsychoBabble Rap) I quickly nipped over to the Chinese joint and ordered JC and me some Chinese food. I got back to my doc's office, called for my ride to pick me up, which is THE PROCESS. THEY DON'T COME UNTIL YOU CALL! The lady at my Supplemental insurance said, okay, we'll have them dispatched. THAT IS THE PROCESS. THEY DON'T COME UNTIL YOU CALL! Except for today. Offices closed. Lights are coming on; my food is growing cold. I'm bewildered. I called my Supplemental Suckage group and got put on hold with their after-hours group.


I finally get an agent from Neptune; the customer service was as bad as you would expect, but not earth-shakingly bad, nor profoundly bad, as what happens to poor Buck in “Numb3rs, Season 5, Episode 11, “Arrow in Time,” which I love to talk about endlessly because this scene, approximately 8 minutes from the show's end, is played out in a church, with FBI agent Don, calmly explaining to a furious, heart broken, grieving and frightened 19-year old that he has to do 250 years in prison. All of this is played with the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt's piece “Requiem to Benjamin Britten,” for Strings and Bells. The music itself, is nothing more than a cascading scale of notes of several octaves, but pure and simple; clean, yet I found it sinister. I've played the piece and it's one of the few times I've heard music on a Television show that was not an original composition, set as “mood music.” It's chilling, tragic, unbelievably dark, and the last note is as of Hell itself. It is one of the most powerful things I've heard and seen together. The show's composer made an excellent call on that. The start is when Charlie and his father talk about Maxwell's Demon, at 7:40 from the end of the show.

I embedded the code from You Tube, so that hopefully Ms. Alberta Ross can see and hear this; I finally found it on You Tube. But it's a powerful statement and his Buck's end is final and tragic. The music, again, from Arvo Part, an Estonian composer who wrote mainly choral and canonical works wrote this for Bells and Strings. It is simple in construction, but so powerful. 

Well, nothing that dire happened today, but my food was cold and that was 2 3/4 digressions. By the time I got home, I was no longer in high dudgeon and just worn out. Neurological problems just tire you and the drugs don't help. Actually, with this new medicine for my tremors, Primidone, I cannot seem to muster up more than a medium-tall dudgeon. When I start counting my dudgeons in inches, then we're going to have to do something else. I haven't had any sightings of the dead, or sprouted any extra appendages yet, nor have I levitated. One can hope. At least I'm starting to actually edit, produce words, sentences, paragraphs with some coherence. 

I guess I didn't answer the question about why the health care system here is so horrid. It just is and will get worse, I fear. On to more important things, like Lion Drome.

*My thanks to Mr. Robert Brockway over at Cracked.com. He has put up with me and my antics patiently and is a prince, as well as an awesome, awesome writer. Check him out. I laughed all over again reading this article. My 2nd favorite article of his is this one: http://www.cracked.com/blog/15-old-photographs-that-prove-world-used-to-be-insane/ 
2 words: Executive Lion: "Wonder if I ate my briefcase?"

#ROW80 - WEDNESDAY CHECK IN – POST 9 – EXPLANATION REQUIRED (AND LONG, LONG OVERDUE)

First, a short explanation, before the longer one, and a warning. This is being directed at my 3^rd ex-husband, Bill Nunnally, and it is vengeful. The reason it is so, is that I found out recently that he is currently the Head Poobah at Gulf Coast Jewish Family Services, out of Lakeland or Sarasota, but is now the Chief Quality/Performance Officer for an outfit called Heartland for Children, headed by Terri Saunders. A little background here; my mother worked for them and had her B.S. In psychology. Part of me can't help but think that one of the reasons he is there, is because she worked there. I take it as a slap in the face, although I walked out the door in January, 2005, never to return. I had recently been released from the hospital with congestive heart failure and the atmosphere was so corrosive in the house, I was afraid of having a heart attack and dying. I truly believe to this day, that Bill wanted that to happen, and was doing his level best to make it so.

After Bill (henceforth “Crapweasel”) and I were married, he very arbitrarily decided to give up a 70k job a year at IBM and get his B.S. In psychology. No discussion with how it would impinge our standard of living; he just did it for himself, as he did most things. I would have preferred he not do that, but that was his unilateral decision, as were many major decisions in that marriage. After graduation, he worked at a number of menial jobs for shitty pay, like he was going to save the world, and that would make up the difference. My assumption is that he is about as good as saving the world as he is at marriage. I was number 4. Shame on me. Over my ever-screaming instincts, I felt I may be able to reason with him. I wasn't and over time, I was scared of him. But I was afraid of my mom too and all of that old baggage came home to roost in spades.

He ended up at HKI, which is one of the more corrupt social welfare organizations. This is a for-profit that handles children's services for Hillsborough County. When I was homeless, I saw first hand how bad the place was from what had once been the purview of the state. By that time, Bill “Crapweasel” Nunnally and I had long been divorced. I saw children see-sawing back and forth between horrible foster parents and even worse birth parents, while incompetent social workers, who were having affairs with the parents and mis-managing the cases dragged out these cases. The kids were a mess, pulling out their hair compulsively, biting their fingernails, being dragged around and used as bargaining chips.

Our marital problems started before I started showing signs of Parkinson's Disease, but at the time, I had no earthly idea what was going on. First, I lost my vision and lost it rapidly. What I didn't know then, but would shortly find out is that I had congestive heart failure, probably because of my Young Onset Parkinson's Disease. He started screaming and yelling at me; mostly about how I was lazy and about my “many illnesses.” The one exchange that stands out? Bill “Crapweasel” yells, “We need money, and all you do is sit there and look at that goddamned book!” I was trying to look at the larger pictures in a Time Magazine, since it was really all I could see. On the one hand I was so frightened and alienated and also bored, I needed to take my mind off of this whole mess. So, he's yelling at a blind woman. I couldn't drive and had been fired from Chase Manhattan. I sued them and won with the ADA act, but that came later, after I fled from my home. And who in the hell is going to hire a newly-blind woman, who can't drive? What would that job description look like? Christ!

The cane is for beating the shit out of people who step on me. Picture taken when it was 55 degrees Fahrenheit and I thought I'd died and gone to Michigan.

Every day was a complete and utter hell. His old room mate from before we were married had moved back in with us, as he had lost his job; Bill felt sorry for him and he was treated better than I was. I ended up in the hospital with congestive heart failure. 2 weeks later, I drove home, vision only in one eye, hopelessly scared of what I would find. I found my mom's cat so sick, he wouldn't or couldn't eat. I had to take him to the Vet. The Vet was so kind, but he told me, “look, I can run tests on him, but it will be over 500.00.” I didn't have that kind of money. I had about 100.00 and Bill “Crapweasel” was giving me no money. I had no job, no prospects of one and the idiots at Unemployment cut me off when I was hospitalized because I wasn't out looking for work. Seriously, who is going to hire someone with one eye and a bad heart? I was coming up on my 50^th birthday. Karma is a bitch they say. His granddaughter was born on my 50^th birthday, so in that way, he will always be reminded of that time. I hope he remembers it with shame, but how can you shame a person who has no honor, compassion or empathy?

You would think that the person who, as a child had a capricious step-mother, named Virginia, who alternately tried to mother and then pushed away young Bill, after he was abandoned by his birth mother, or was she run off by his father, also named Bill, the son feeling the fists of his father, slept in the auxiliary room beside the water heater, would have more empathy. Many were the nights I slept in my truck in the Publix parking lot, because I could not bear the thought of sleeping in that house. The tension was so great and my heart, not yet healed, would go into arrhythmia. 

Gulf Coast Jewish Family Service's Mission Statement. Items circled in red were absent in the male partner of Bill Nunnally's 4th marriage.

An online 53-minute co-parenting workshop, part of Florida ACCESS and the "system." I love this, because this is either the most clueless, or the most ironic slide I've ever seen. Bill was also only the 2nd person EVER to bully me. The first was my mother, but she got over it. He never did.

I told the Vet all of this about the money and my situation, and he said, “spend all the time you want with him. Normally euthanasia is 100.00. I'll do it for nothing.” I said my goodbyes for an endless amount of time and then held him, as the Vet put him down. I cried all the way home. The room mate buried him, (an aside, I got a package from the room mate a while back, with his phone number, saying “Call me some time. “We'll get together.” Yeah. As if.) but then when Crapweasel got home from work that night, he told Crap what had happened. Crap wheeled around and said “You murdered Dwayne!?” very melodramatically, as if I had just killed a room of small children. Oh, goody. More mental cruelty. I can see it for the melodrama and shameless manipulation that it was now, but then? It just was too, too sad.

I just looked at him and went back into my computer office where I was sleeping. It really takes a certain kind of special hypocrisy to voice this. This is the man, who, when his own Great Dane was dying under the front porch, tried to make me help him drag him out to the back 40, so he didn't have to hear his screams.

The truth is, Bill Nunnally is a weak man. He cannot face weakness in others or flaws because he himself is so utterly weak in character and flawed. He likes to think he is a survivor, yet he has to use others to do so. When he returned to school, I started paying half the bills again, when prior to his unilateral decision to return to school, he was earning far more than I was at the time, so he picked up the larger share. Without me, he would not have been able to go back and finish his B.S. He exhibits delusion, self-aggrandizement and self-righteousness here, along with the most stunning hypocrisy and amoral behavior I've witnessed in many a year.

And, of course, what pseudo-lecture would be complete without a pseudo-psychiatrist? Dr. Phil has platitudes to spare. Having lived through the cauldron of psychosis and Baker Act, coming out the other side, relatively whole and knowing myself a whole lot better and owning up to my own faults, addictions and failures, but recognizing my strengths, I see all of this for the money-making shams that they are.

While I was in the hospital, Bill “Crapweasel” Nunnally got a girlfriend, because his wife was “broken.” He kept bitching about my “incipient weirdness.” Well, it takes guts to live with someone who has Young Onset Parkinson's Disease. JC's seen my dementia, tremors, been with me many times to the hospital and been with me through my Baker Act. Yup, been there through my committal. He's there with my legal blindness. He's also there with my triumphs, writing awards and laughter and good times. Unconditional love is just that. I wonder what Bill “Crapweasel” Nunnally's bosses at Gulf Coast Jewish Family Services would make of his being unsupportive and unfaithful to an ailing wife. I'd love to be a fly on that wall.

YOPD is not a choice and after thinking back, I am convinced my mother had it. There are no more completely "good" days. But through force of will, and the realization that life is truly to be savored and experienced, by damn I'm experiencing and loving it. I am still the same fuck-up I was, only more so, but I'm smarter and tougher and I got that from my PD. I also developed an insight and a very complex set of tools to help me navigate this new life. Couldn't ask for a better trade off. Hell, I should have left you years earlier.

After being hospitalized for 2 months and homeless for 11 months, I received full disability; no 2 year waiting period. 5 months; record time. Tremors, bipolar disorder I, pain and all the other ills that come with it are just part of it. What I experienced 12 years ago is nothing compared to what I deal with now, but I am tough and clear-minded. I also don't let go of things, until I am goddamned good and ready and this baggage is going out the door, here and now. If I hadn't found out that Bill Nunnally was now working at a place that my mother loved, I wouldn't have written this post. But, I feel her memory somewhat defiled. I deal with negativity in my own way. This is my burden to lay down.

Bill? When you thought I was depressed after the death of my mother? That wasn't it. I just realized that the one person who loved me for me was gone, because I knew you didn't. That is also one big, fat giant turn-off and I really didn't want to have sex with someone who didn't love me anymore, if you ever did. Creepy-crawly time, but then part of me always knew you didn't. You saw me as a commodity and an object. You will never give yourself over to any woman, because women are beneath you. Actually, you have it backwards. You are beneath me. Asking for money all the time. What kind of man are you? You can't even be truthful to yourself. I know I'm an alcoholic; I told you that. I stopped that shit.

So, here's the kicker, Bill gets a girlfriend while I'm in the hospital, fighting for my life. I stole his phone bill. Yup; I sure did and called the tapioca-headed bitch and basically told her that if she married Bill “Crapweasel” Nunnally, he would do to her what he was doing to me. He came home that night, full of self-righteous indignation and high dudgeon. “Where's my phone bill.” I had my blind eye towards him; I liked that part about being blind. “I don't have it.” He had the temerity to say, “You're a liar.” I almost, almost, almost said “At least, I'm not a philanderer.” Damn, I so wish I had. Unlike you, I was faithful throughout the marriage.

I realize there are faults on both sides, but when one goes out to deliberately kill a marriage, there is truly something wrong. The mental cruelty practiced was at a level I had not witnessed since my parents' marriage. You told me at one point, that you were hoping I would “just pack my shit and leave.” Eventually, I did before you could finish me off by letting my own ill-health engulf me. I don't normally talk of this and I will not again, but I think for once, someone needs to stand up and say, “you know what? Bill Nunnally, you're a flaming asshole and all of your talk of helping children and saving and doing this and that is pure bullshit. You can't even take care of a family properly. Who in the hell are you to try and teach others?” Family to you are those vapid daughters your crazy ex raised. Their idea of a rich life for them is Cheer and trips to Disney World. Oh, and yes, those who can't do, teach. Unfortunately, that maxim went out ages ago. The most skillful of teachers are those of us that can do and do it quite well.

taken 02/2013

Yeah, Bill you asshole, I have 2 beautiful clear eyes; I finally got that 2nd surgery, it's just that my brain doesn't see one image. It's called Parkinson's Disease. I'll probably outlive you; I'm happy. Because you're not my problem anymore. This post is strictly because of your WTF move to Gulf Coast Jewish Family Services, and because it's your Birthday! A slur to my mother's memory if there ever was one, you giant bag of dicks.

What I got from the divorce settlement about covered what I put monetarily into the marriage, but the scars run deep. It's okay; scar tissue is tough. You did however, keep my mother's iron skillet, which had been her mother's 200.00 into a good violin, 200.00 into a good Australian Shepherd and a mix-master his daughters got me for mother's day. And you never, ever attempted to pay me back for the 5k for my IRA, which you promised you would, but then, what did I expect? A man's word is his honor and you have none. Today, May 22, 2013 is your Birthday. I hope you enjoy this present from me!

P.S. Before you start hollering slander or libel or any of that nonsense, think of this; I'm legally blind, have young onset Parkinson's Disease, am Bipolar and on full disability. I'm pretty sure a lawyer would take that up in a heartbeat and it will not hold up in a court of law, and do you want that kind of press? I gave in on the divorce. If you want to have a fight over who said what? Bring it on. I will not back down, because it is the truth and you know it.

P.P.S. I debated with myself for quite a while before deciding to do this. This is from my gut. I have found as I've aged that my gut instinct is reliable and not to be ignored. I could have set up false accounts and yada yada yada. I certainly have the computer know-how and the black art to leave no traces, but I had rather bring this into the open. Lest Bill think I am kidding about slander and libel, let me just say that there are things I know that I am sure he would rather not have brought out into a courtroom. Behavior witnessed at the house on Annie Street, that I did not participate in. Let me leave it at that and you leave it and me alone. I'm done.

===================================================================

Update: This is dated 06/21/2013 - Per Gulf Coast Jewish Family Services, "Mr. Nunnally no longer works for them and left the Agency last year to pursue another venture." So, I did fail to notice that the date of the lecture was from 2012, which indeed it was. But, this also brings up another point. His entire life has been spent in "re-inventing" himself. I don't know about most people, but I had a goal and mind  and achieved that. When I was confronted with husband #2, who didn't want another violist, I was forced to do something else, but I continued to play the viola. It was mere happenstance that I also loved working with computers. I don't feel a need to "invent" myself as a snake sheds it's skin. I may have lost my way, but I don't bully other people or resort to passive-aggressive behavior to get my way. So, wherever Crapweasel is and what he is doing, he clearly is not working at GCJFC anymore. There was a parting of the ways and is now no longer an issue. I don't wish him well. I suspect his karma is catching up to him and his restless ghosts are even more so. Good riddance, and I do hope  your continued existence here on this mortal coil is hell, indeed. You've earned it.

July 11, 2013 - Postscript - After several attempts to send messages to Bill's daughters, Katie and Kyle and his son-in-law, John Holley, who posed what was probably the stupidest and most obvious request ("Call him, you have his number. Well, no I don't; we've been divorced 8 years) with no response, I am ceasing my rather quixotic journey here. Rather than force someone who behaves in such a craven and cowardly manner and with no decency or honesty, whatsoever, I will finally let it rest. My mother would certainly understand and tell me to move on. I had gotten him out of my head years ago. This time, he's gone for good.

#ROW80 POST10 -WEDNESDAY Check In

The following is a re-post from my homeless days and will be part of my Indie book. Critiques, comments and questions are welcome. I don't have to ask for kindness; I've received that in boatloads, row mates.

ID FUN, AND CAN YOU BEAT A DEAD HORSE OVER AND OVER?

Here in Florida, one is supposed to have a valid ID at all times. For those of us who fled the ol' homestead in a hurry, with nothing but the clothes on our backs (which TGH promptly lost; another story, later) we can get a "referral" from Homeless Recovery of Hillsborough County to "The Shop," also known as "MHC," or Mental Health Clinic. With a referral and your smiling face, you too, can receive onw god-awful picture ID that bears no resemblance to anyone, or anything living, on this planet, or maybe even in this Solar System. We have to carry these IDs with us at all times, in the event that the Tampa Police Department decides to do a bit of sprucing up on Nebraska Avenue and starts hauling in folks for not having any type of ID. I am a proud owner of one of these things. We occasionally. . . okay, we frequently, find ourselves with little or nothing to do, no appointments to keep and no passers-by to pester, so we have to entertain ourselves.

One of the more amusing ways to pass the time is to show each other our Unity (MHC) IDs. This works best when a new batch of homeless folk have moved in and we can unveil these nightmares to our new house-mates. The people who take these pictures must have to go to a special school to learn photography to create these monstrosities. Some of these people end up working for the HARTline bus system, aka BUS WORLD and the truly gifted go work at the DMV, churning out little 3" X 5" cards of Lovecraftian horror for the State of Florida. O.M.G! These things bear visages from some kind of 4th or 8th dimension, a lá "Colour Out of Space." We glimpse things not meant to be seen by man. They can not be unseen. I am truly doomed. As Ray Milland, who, after yanking his own ocular orbs from their sockets screeched, “I can still see!”

I, too am cursed. The fact that my left eye is still occluded completely is no protection from the actinic horribleness of these things. I can only gasp "Gaaahhh!" and pass on the offending document to the next victim with a bare scorching of retinas. Enough. What follows are actual pictures. Please be warned; you do not want to view these at work; you will get fired. Do not let the kids or pets see these pictures; the pictures may emit lethal fumes. Do not view around houseplants; the plants may combust spontaneously.

Actual Pictures, erm, depictions. Likenesses. Photographs would melt the innernet.

 

So, as you can see, it's hard to pick the worst ID ever.

Another way to pass the time here, is to beat senseless some idea or better yet, some incident that is current gossip. It doesn't matter if you have witnessed it, or just heard about it, fifty-seventh hand, or not. It's kind of like that game we probably all played as children, "Telegraph." One individual makes up some saying and passes it off to the next person. Reiterate the babble enough times, until the original saying or incident is not even remotely close to what was originally said or done and doesn't even have any passing resemblance to reality. Not that it ever did to start with. This is like Prisneyland, only with girls.

It usually starts with an incident, although it doesn't have to. Two guys had an altercation out in the back yard a few weeks back. The guy playing “diplomat,” who’s pretty mild, but a good-sized man, is trying to keep the two knife-wielding combatants at arm’s length and he's not succeeding. Just as the two, brothers by the way, Bennie and Mike fly at one another, their savagely whirling knives, tiny old Joseph, who, drunk as a Lord, as per usual, sitting 3 feed away on the cement back stairs, falls over on his head; splat!

Todd is now trying to break up a knife fight, while dodging flying knives; Joseph is lying on the ground bleeding. About a foot from this, Donn and Will are nonchalantly washing out a refrigerator that had been in their room and had some of the famous FSJ bedbugs living in it. They’re hosing it out, oblivious. The fight is getting desperate. The hosing goes on.  

This is about the forty-fifth time that day, that Joseph had fallen somewhere around the property. Barbara, also oblivious to it all, is sitting next to Joseph, and, apropos of nothing, also as is her wont, she asks Todd, “What are we all doing for the Fourth of July?” in her grating, foghorn voice, that carries to Siberia. Barbara is 4’ 9” and weighs somewhere around 350 lbs. She hasn’t had a bath since 1982 and she smokes like a fiend. 

I actually saw this happen, and thought nothing about any of it. My brain is too busy to ponder these scenarios and I don't ascribe any cosmic meaning to any of it. I am just trying to figure out if this is some kind of a pattern. Are humans really this random and bizarre? Do I belong to this? WTF? Huh? Buh? Dur? I might get depressed, or something. Anyway, this is what the curmudgeons on the front porch were discussing the next day:

Curmudgeon 1: I always knew they were up to no-good. I bet they were going to steal and sell that refrigerator.

Curmudgeon 2: Yeah, and Barbara got up and helped Joseph get up, but he fell off the porch, and then hit Morris with his cane.

Curmudgeon 3: Didn't Joseph fall off the porch earlier? Oh no; that's right he got caught pissing off the porch earlier.

Curmudgeon 1: I wasn't talking about Joseph pissing off the porch, but maybe he pissed in the refrigerator, and that's why Donn and Will were rinsing it out.

Curmudgeon 4: No, Joseph didn't piss on the porch; he got caught peeing on that tree in the back, with Bill and Walt.

(Repeat 87 times)

They all stare at the floor and nod sagely. They look wise beyond time; they are the seers of Nebraska Avenue. All they lack is a cracker barrel. But, no knives for whittling; someone might get stabbed. After the knife fight, the Tampa Police came and did a sweep, or looked under beds, or did a lights out. The world's problems solved, the incident correctly or incorrectly made indelible (for the next two minutes, or until the next rumor, verbal exchange or donnybrook occurs.) Ten minutes of this drives me inside to play Club Penguin. I can only stand so much wisdom.

#ROW80 1ST QTR POST 8 – WEDNESDAY CHECK IN, OR WHEN IS A POST NOT A POST?

I’m just leaving it at that. I always try to come up with some really snazzy title to fit the topic, or so I tell myself. I do so enjoy quality, however I enjoy laziness more, and if a great title doesn’t hit in a fit of lightning? (a fit of metaphor? ugh) then, I go with generic.

Thanks and kudos to Amy Kennedy. Until yesterday, in my confuse-a-what style, I was unaware that she was one of our ROW80 sponsors, this go round; for that she deserves a huge WOT? and her favorite brand of treat many times over, along with Alberta Ross, who is snow-bound in Hell somewhere. We must save her! Treats for her, as well as my thanks.  I must also inform Amy that I flunked Primary Numbers Class along with Ancient Times; I haven’t been around since 2^nd Quarter 2012 Row80, but 3^rd Quarter.

Anyway, I’ve stated this before. I have enough written material from my life and times to publish an individual e-book, or indie? Whatever the terminology may be. I haven’t been word-wrangling for very long (gee, how could anyone tell?) and everyone has been amazingly wonderful. I thought writers would be rather like (looks around and breaks into a whisper) “professional musicians.” They can be terrible to one another and breaking into different geographical markets is almost impossible, unless you’re really determined. Anyway, I’m “retired,” by disability and need to have something to do to stay out of jail.

So, I landed here! Andi-Roo at the TheWorld4Realz suggested this to me. I was writing but was totally unfocused (not that I’m really any more so, now, but I’m a better writer) and wasn’t sure where, or what to do, from where I was then. She and I have a solid connection and have understood one another from our beginning exchanges and she suggested that I hop over to this “Round of Words in 80 Days.” I did and here we are!

I’m happy to be here and thanks to all you! I’ve driven several people to distraction: Kait Nolan and Sonia G. Medeiros, to name two. Since I don’t see well at all, I miss lots of details. Like James Thurber, I just put my own “legally blind” (or bland) interpretation on it. Per James, it “only enriches the confusion.” Be warned, I love confusion and find it hilarious and if I get to be too big a pain in the ass, tell me to knock it off!

I do know that I am probably not a fiction writer, nor do I believe that I have a novel in me anywhere. Maybe I just haven’t figured out those processes yet. I wrote a stunning 1673 words in NaNoWriMo, which turned into my NaNoWriLe and now, the website is nagging me, no, they’re playing to my sense of shame, like I abandoned some baby animal or some kind of step-headed bald child. Oops, I just started thinking about the post I’m doing tomorrow for P.A.N.D.A, with my "Parkinson's Disease or non-Parkinson's Disease, THAT is the question" *eye roll.* 

Now, with extra confuse-a-what. Thursday will be like Wacky Wednesday, only Bicycle. And more Lincoln-Tigers. 

That’s http://www.parkingsonpanda.org. So, I’ma going to be busy, tomorrow but back here on Friday, right @YumaBev?

#ROW80 POST 12 WEDNESDAY CHECK IN – 1984, THE YEAR THE DETROIT TIGERS LAST WON THE WORLD’S SERIES

Something has been out of kilter this week. Hell, it has been for the last several weeks. Me. Like a boxer in a 15-round heavyweight title fight, I’ve been struggling from the 12^th round on. I’m fighting to keep my form and stay on my feet. For a couple of rounds, I’ve had trouble going back on the offensive. Defensive fighting sucks and I hate fighting peek-a-boo style; think Pee-Wee Whittaker. Gah. I’ve had enough of this; it sucks. This quick jab, cover, duck and dodge doesn’t cut it with me. I think I’ve found a way to re-assert my ring generalship and go back to offense, but damn if I didn’t go down and almost take a full 10-count.   

In case you couldn’t tell, I’ve been around boxing and boxers somewhat. I liken it to music, oddly enough. I relate most things to either music or math. Applying analogies from the familiar to something new are how I learn; we all do and the pronation (rotation in the wrist, elbow and shoulder) in boxing is what I recognized first in the similarity to music. It is one of the hardest things to learn, for bowing in string playing; and the most powerful tool you can develop in boxing. If you’re a natural puncher, so much the better. The second most familiar analogy I picked up on was the rhythmic style of each boxer (1, 2, 3 or 1 .. 2, 3, wait for it ... 4) and the third, and actually probably the one that sucks the most to train, endurance. I've run into many a musician at boxing matches. It goes like this:

Me: "Conductor So-and-so. What a shock! What are you doing here?"

Conductor So-and-so: "Me? I could say the same thing about you. What are you doing here?"

Me: (Cheesy grin) "I like boxing." No shit. I thought you liked knitting. So does Conductor So-and-so. Lots of musicians and other types you wouldn't associate with blood sports do. Conductor So-and-so and I hate each other a little less after that. It's practically in the contract that all section musicians detest their conductors. Joke. He's an awesome conductor. I wouldn't want to conduct a symphony full of me. I digress.

Right now, the Detroit Tigers are ahead of the New York Yankees 3-0 in the AL Playoffs. The San Francisco Giants have come from behind to win their series and they’re one step closer to the World Series. This got me reminiscing… back during the summer of 1984, I was pretty much just working, practicing and hanging out in Ann Arbor. The Detroit Tigers came out of the gate with a roar.  This was THE year, OUR year and everyone knew it. The Tigers had ended the previous season on a high note. The 1983 season had started typically shitty for the Tigers, 0-43 or something horrible.

In 1983 Sparky Anderson had had 88 fits in the dugout and Dave Rozema, Kirk Gibson and Jack Morris had been bailed out of jails and sewn up in hospitals more times than anyone cared to count. I was watching “Magnum P.I.” and when I wasn’t drooling over Tom Selleck and his ‘stache, I was out playing baseball. Ann Arbor is baseball city and I played the shit out of baseball. Yeah, I’ve heard all that. “Ooh, your hands! You’re a musician!”

I’d stand out there in Center Field with my shades and my Detroit Tigers hat with an orange “D,” not this and glove and attitude, all 5’4” and say “Fuck you, I can catch,” lose the ball in the sun, get hit in the face and break my nose. That happened twice. Once during a game. I’m tough. So, I had a coach one season who noticed that I was little and thought I was going to be part of the Whitaker-Trammell baseball city (you can look it up) wannabes and put me as short-stop, which I was pretty good at.

Anyway, Daddy is still out in California, bugging me about how he’s going to Spring Training at the Cactus League and following Nolan Ryan around and all of this cray-cray (see A-R theWorld4Realz here) and he’s calling me every other day to needle me, because the Tigers just signed 2 hotdogs from the SF Giants named, Enos Cabell and Larry Herndon. I’m already hating what I’m seeing. If I remember rightly, and God forbid I should Google this and louse up a funny story, these 2 were just horrifying. I was all like, “What in the Hell was Tom Monaghan (the owner) thinking? These guys suck!” Daddy’s like, “Ha ha, they just count their money. And Enos? He hits at everything! That bastard has never seen a pitch he doesn’t like. It could be 50 feet on the outside. Enos is going to go down swinging away at it!” Daddy goes on, “Larry will have a pocket full of gloves and stand out in Center Field and count his money, he won’t catch a thing. Hee hee. Ho ho.” Great. Thanks. I'm laughing, because, he's laughing. It's our way of bonding. 

He loved the Giants. He loved stupid English more. He used to get all kinds of hysterical over misprints in the newspaper. "Ha ha ha ha, The GAINTS. Ho ho ho, Tee hee hee." Far less than whatever warranted his delight, was whatever he was laughing at, if that makes any sense. Alas, I have inherited that in spades. The fact that I have "PD or, non-PD" just makes it so much worse. Emotional roller-coaster, they say? Nay, I say. Everything is perilously hilarious, to the point where I damn near lose consciousness, or cry me a river and die. Thanks. I laugh far more than I cry, but Jesus wept... or not.

Anyway, back to our tale of the "2 hotdogs from the SF Giants." It all comes to pass. I’m just livid. Spring training of 1984 is just horrid. This was supposed to be OUR year. God. I’m up in Ann Arbor watching this shit-fest on lazy afternoons drinking beer, staring at an empty Joker Marchant Stadium in Lakeland, Florida. Al Kaline and George Kell are trying there damnedest to put lipstick on this bulldog. I’m thinking they need to take it out and shoot it.

One afternoon in late March, I’m watching one of these games. Poor George; he’s fumbling around. He was no announcer. He certainly knew baseball and I learned tons about the game from him, he spit out this gem, “We’ll be right back. Be sure to tune in for the Andro-Media Strain this Saturday.”  M’kay. The umpires suck. They must have driven over to the School of the Blind and picked up a bunch of students from over there. After about the 12^th blown call, a strike that was right up the middle the ump said was an inside ball, one of the 2 guys in the stands right behind the catcher, Lance Parrish hollered “Catcher, give the umpire your glasses.” The cameras were so close, you could see Lance grin. I loved the easiness of those spring training games. The slow somnolence of the rhythms of the innings. Nothing was hurried, no haste. It’s one of the things I love about life in the south.

Spring training is for a reason; a strange alchemy occurred during the spring training season of 1984 in the Detroit Tigers organization. The addition of Enos Cabell and Larry Herndon from the San Francisco Giants, among several other players from other organizations proved to be the key. But the addition of those 2 were the pivotal tipping point. Here’s why I say that.

One afternoon, late July, I was sitting on my couch, watching a rare day televised game. I had been back and forth, talking to my father ever since the season had started. The Giants were doing what the Giants had always done, which is, I can’t remember. Not much. The Tigers tore out of the gate, and I don’t think they were ever out of 1^st place the entire season. They went 35-5 which was unprecedented. That’s still not why I say what I said. Here’s why I say that.

There’s a knock on my door, as I’m watching this game in late July. I have the front door open, just the screen door is closed. It’s my father. He’s flown in from Los Gatos to take me to a game. I’ve been to bunches of games that summer; “game-parties” have sprung up like sudden late-summer thunderstorms do in Michigan. I’m gleeful. I haven’t seen him in quite a while and I’ve missed him. He looks older, worn and tired. I don’t care. We are both kids again. Caught up in the excitement of fun, riffing off each other and baseball.

Off we go and climb up into the bleachers, like the true animals we really are. This is the summer of the “Wave.” My father was not one for any of that. He just thinks it’s all beyond silly. We’re right down front. I guess so he can pour his beer on people. When the “Wave” comes around, he gives a half-assed “arms up” still clutching his beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, or it’s perched in the corner of his mouth. He’s been teasing me all fucking season about Enos Cabell and Larry Herndon.

Enos swings and strikes out. But damn; the Tigers are in first place in the AL East and it is historically the toughest league in all of baseball. Sparky knows how to manage a baseball team. He will go on to become the first to win Manager of the year in both the National and American Leagues. He won the World Series when he coached the Cincinnati Reds in 1970. Herndon drops a fly ball, that should have been an easy out. My father, the deathless heckler shouts, “Quit counting your money and catch!” Herndon, grinning, turns and executes a theatrical bow. I guess he’s used to hearing it.

My father is smiling in his urn that is underneath the flight path of SFO Airport

My check in goals are below, not much getting done. I hope to be able to explain why on Sunday. I was trying to link to something, but rather than fidget around for the next 2 hours and get frustrato, insert here, while less elegant, but much more expedient, will have to do for now. My Content Manager is out on va-cay right now. Asshole.