PERFECTION CHALLENGED INTERVIEW WITH JADE KERRION

Here is Jade's Interview regarding how she began writing and then went through the process of, first self-publishing and now joining up with a publishing agency. Jade wrote her first novel for the NaNoWriMo in 2010. Her interview is fun and she knows herself well. When she states writing is more of a compunction for her and that being so, makes types of people like that easy prey to alcohol, tobacco, drugs, I can relate in a huge way. Music is like that for me and certain computer games. I quit drinking and smoking in 2010; I'd be pushing up daisies now, if I hadn't. In truth, I'd rather fix the computer problem that had the biggest batch of cooties, ever, ahead of writing. Being on Full Disability ("Retired") allows me to indulge the fun things, although lately, I've been thinking of taking on some part-time job from home. Who can't use a little extra dough? As of late, we've had a few extra expenses that we weren't counting on, and it's hard to stretch when you're on a Surprise Fixed Income. 

One of the reasons I haven't blogged much about what is going on around here, is that there really isn't much going on around here. Remember this guy?

Ray-ray Martineau who thought your 15 cents was his 15 cents. He was convicted of Grand Theft back in 6, of this year and told if he showed his scurvy face around here again (well, not like that,) he'd be violated and have to serve his full term, of 3 years and 1 day. We ran an indigogo for his victim, because ray-ray kept asking for a continuance, hoping the victim, Mr. Wallace (no relation) would drop the charges. To keep Mr. Wallace from doing so, I ran an indigogo for 500.00, and although we got less, JC and Alex and I chipped in, so Mr. Wallace would have some money. Those of you who contributed, you know who you are, *wink, wink* It being such a bitch of an economy, it is hard to raise money, but this worked. 

We, then being the high-minded souls  on Nebraska Ave started a pool to see how long it would take Ray-ray to get violated. I said 4, and chipped in 5 bucks, JC said 7 months (looking for some sort of spiritual turn around?) and shipped in 5 bucks. Alex said 6 months, which sounded about right. Then, we held our breaths.

Well, shit. He was violated on 8/23/2013 for "failure to register as an habitual criminal." They should have violated him for being an habitual psychopath.

Like I said, this guy would run around FSJ and tell the wildest stories. In 3 days, he got his bike stolen, his wallet stolen and his 3 day bus pass stolen. There are certain people that make my "spidey senses" tingle, and I am immediately not only stone-blind, but stone-deaf. You'd have a better conversation with that Umbrella stand over there.

I still think  Ray-ray's going to be going behind bars before the end of his "year" on the box. There is no way he can pass a piss test and those are random. Once, he tried to get JC to pee in a cup for him. I was on the other side of the OTHER house and I could hear JC's Wrath of God voice from where I stood. I still laugh at that. Ray-ray must have scuttled off like an armadillo when JC cut loose like that.

Speaking of Wrath of God, I was waiting for the bus at the supermarket the other night and one of the area's known predators (they have to live somewhere and are in a different class than an offender) was all hunkered up in the corner of the bus shelter. I had my backpack and 2 cloth bags, cane and sunglasses on, although it was after dark. I knew he was there.

I put down my bags and stood to the edge of the shelter. He started in about how little and vulnerable I looked. I let him yammer for a minute, and then, I jumped up, and WHIPPED around, landing on both feet (that ET med really works) pointing my cane at him and said, STOP! I know what you are. I've been here for years. Don't say one. More. Word. And he didn't.

That's the one thing about this area. You cannot show weakness. I know that every time I go out, there's bound to be weirdness on some scale, and my senses are pretty heightened. I may not see detail well, but I can hear and sense and feel the air as it is moved by objects and creatures. Rather like, "Maxwell's Devil," maybe.

ROW 80 POST 31 – YOU ARE WHAT YOU’RE LABELLED, ONCE AGAIN

This is a repost from October 28, 2011. 

I don't really know if most of the inhabitants at Happy Acres FSJ and my part of Nebraska Avenue are afflicted with some kind of labeled "challenge." But if we are tagged, were we all defective from the womb, or have we worn out certain parts of ourselves with high living? I suspect a combination of both, with a sprinkling of just plain awfulness of personality thrown in. And, if we are so afflicted with shitty personalities, should we join AA? That's for Assholes Anonymous; "Hi I'm S and I'm an asshole. It's been 13 minutes since my last assholery...blah blah" Heh. I actually counted down from 10 to 0 in my very best Dahlek (Peter Cushing Dr. Who era) voice and proclaimed S had achieved "epic and complete and total assholishness,"  after he performed the egregious act of throwing away his dinner, because H "talked behind his back." I did not exterminate him; I should have. There are people here who have no food.

Anyway, The labeling thing is beyond absurd. I've heard "mentally challenged," (stupid as a hammer) "altitudinally challenged," (shorter than 5 feet) or "socially challenged," (for above mentioned assholes) "hearing challenged," (eh?) and "spatially challenged," for fat people. No shit. So I guess I am "bi-ocularly challenged." Does the use of the word "challenge" mean that we will all some day, rise up, grapple with and conquer our "challenge"? Or are we doomed to be Sisyphus and push our rocks of "challenge" up a chasm, for all eternity? This is political-correctness run amok. To me a challenge is cutting up some vegetables without slicing off my fingers. A challenge is getting on and off the bus without doing a face plant in the gutter. A challenge is getting in and out of the grocery store unscathed without being run over by the oblivious ass hats who shop there. I finally broke down and got one of those canes for the blind, with the intention of beating the shit out of the next person who runs into me. Heh.

I wonder if there is a "challenge challenged" type? You know, the type who wanders from room to room and forgets every single thing they set out to do in that moment? And then, when the chore is remembered, the "challenge challenged" challengee dithers for the next four hours over whether or not this chore is worth the effort.

I believe that in the effort to de-stigmatize certain conditions, races, genders, and all other "othernesses," our society has succeeded in completely homogenizing the population. George Carlin talked about this at length in some of his routines. You can no longer say "crippled," "lame," "halt," "retarded," or "deaf and dumb." Now these terms are pejorative. We have the "fill in the blank-challenged," or "fill in the blank-deficient." Bullshit. I associate "deficient" with lack of vitamins. And God forbid, we should use "feeble-minded." Just for the pure music of that term, I love "feeble-minded." But then, I've been called "feeble-minded" for years. Just kidding.

And please, oh God, spare me from "blankety-blank years young" and "handi-capable. I cringe.Enough of this diatribe; I risk becoming "windbag challenged.

We are settling into our new place and it's so nice to have our own space, privacy and belongings again. I hope this continues. I have seen some people who had moved out of Happy Acres move back, because of lost jobs, illness and the usual situations of substance abuse and bad judgment. I would like to feel more secure. Even though I am on permanent Disability and have no (more) vices, things could change in an instant. I have to go back to the doctor next week for more tests. I guess I'll just savor this and quit being a worry wart. Wait. Is it possible to be "peaceful deficient?"

I do know that some of us are "hearing challenged" here. The other night, we were getting ready for bed. O said, "okay, I'm gonna have a turkey and go to sleep now." I was all like, "what?" and had this vision of her tucking into Thanksgiving dinner before going to sleep. Turns out she was going to have a cookie. Once, I asked H who her favorite rock group is. She said, "the Harrassments." I'm like, "oh? And what did they perform?" She looked at me like the Mother ship had just made a stop and let me out. "Are you kidding? You've never heard of Aerosmith?" That's as bad as the time I asked who had written the song "The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald" and D told me it was Peter Cetera and it was "The Wreck of the Ella Fitzgerald." I must have missed that one.

Mr. Pimp My Ride, aka Rehab Knife-fight minister got hauled off to the slammer for, you guessed it, brandishing his knife a few days ago. I knew this was coming. He was working up to actual people. He started out with abusing lawn chairs and worked his way up to stabbing the garbage cans.

Here's a picture of him "pimping" his "ride." That's actual tin foil in the spokes. I need to borrow some to cover the chicken I baked. He thinks this will compete with the heavy 20k Chargers, stacked on Neb Ave. Just awesome, man.  

For some stupid reason, I always hum "Baby, You Can Drive My Car," when I see this pic.

Pimp My Ride's blood bro communicates in a way that swamis and linguists would find hard to decipher. B talks like this: "mumble, murmur, Pat... Phone, beedy beedy beedy. My shoes, burble burble." I have never caught more than a word or two that was intelligible. It's as if a broadcast from some far away galaxy was being received and fading in and out. There are several people at HA who ramble on and on and not one word is understandable. Or, if the words are understandable, one has no frigging clue what is being said. "Oh yea, I told her it was all through my symptom and she said she was sending me to a duodenist for a relining." Uh, okay. Good luck with that. Hope they don't have to do too much fragmenting on the ol' bean-pate.

Then, we have the ones that insist you do something that you have never done in your life, but they swear they have seen you do it a thousand times. H has never smoked; she doesn't smoke now. D badgered her for a solid week, trying to borrow a cigaret. H told him she didn't smoke and never had. D called her a liar and said he'd seen her smoke "millions of times." This is the same cat who took a whole carton of Crystal Light and dumped 12 servings into one 20-ounce bottle of water and then bitched that he was out of "pop," after he drank the swill. Yup. So, you see he was a firm grasp of what's real. He finally stopped bugging H, so the following week, she tried to bum a cigaret from him. That really confused him. "But, I NEVER seen you smoke!" There's a neighborhood woman who roams around here bumming cigarets from EVERYONE. ALL of us, smokers or not. We've all quit smoking, we tell her. "Yup, kicked the habit, Barbie. This is my second week of not smoking," I said. Total bullshit. But if I tell her I don't smoke and haven't in quite a while, she'll hound me for a butt. However, if I've just quit, she'll leave me alone. I don't understand this logic. Maybe because it's not logic. Not even close. It's not anywhere near the realm of possibles. There's another lady who will give you some of her food stamps if you'll buy her scratch off tickets. I just quit gambling, so I don't know how that's working out for her.

Anyway, the reason I haven't posted in a while is because I just spent a few frustrating weeks fighting with the OpenCloud Security virus. I absolutely refuse to reload my O/S and all the other applications. We never did it at IBM or Verizon and I'll be damned if I'll do it now. After several frustrating days of poking around in Safe Mode, Safe Mode with Networking, Blue Screens of Death, and yadda yadda, I got rid of the bastard. The supposed "tool" that is free at various download sites doesn't work and is not free, so in the best IBM Break-Fix tradition, I killed it and preserved all my data. But what a pain in the ass. I first dealt with viruses at IBM when idiots would write "prank macros" for MS Word. Hated them then, hate them now.

November 19, 2012

End of a post that was about labeling and is going to be part of my little self-published book; I'm trying to pull together. Right now, I'm in the last stages of a marathon and I'm at the "pacing myself" stage. I slept until nearly 2 pm today. I've been feeling pretty good, but have the usual symptoms, only worse, sundowning like crazy and pain, pain, pain. EMS was here to take my vitals after a very bad chest pain with crushing feeling, during a tense phone conversation with a violinist friend about another friend, but all was well. The subject and issue at question reads this blog and I am fully aware of that. One of THOSE things. So, hanging on until March, 2013 and the "miracle" diagnosis and sinarest or requip or magic beans or juju.

But that is not what I want to confess. This is what I want to confess: during my diggings, I ran across this. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned:

This was part of that post, but I had written it over the summer of 2011, not yet knowing what was to come;

We have a new "housie" here at Happy Acres. I have never, ever in my whole life met anyone so dyspeptic, unpleasant and vituperative... ever. In my whole life. He is the wart on the  hog. He has systematically managed to piss off everyone in this place, which actually is not that hard to do. There are lots of folks here who are unbalanced mentally, usually for very significant reasons. When Mean Mr. first moved here, he came out on the porch without his shirt. There is a house rule regarding proper dress; shirt on at all times when outside. H tried to tell him nicely that he needed to go inside and put on a shirt. Mean Mr. acted like H had just called him a bad name and was going to soap his windows or something. Jerk.

My turn in the barrel came last week. There is a porch on the back of the house which the owners added. My room abuts this porch at the back. Every jack-leg, douchebag, blow hard, and/or babbling wino sits right on the other side of my bedroom, right where the head of my bed is situated. Last week, Mean Mr. etc, was on the porch, bellowing on his cell phone at about 6:30 am. Woken from a fairly sound sleep, I cranked my window open, and asked him to please be quiet, not once, but three times. I got very cranky at the old crank.

Mean Mr. completely ignored me and kept bellowing away. I had to get one of the "enforcers" to tell him to get the hell off the porch. Mean Mr. blah didn't take too kindly to that, but he left and went off somewhere else, to plague someone else's existence. 

I found out later he has Parkinson's Disease. (note: he was also 64 and was soon asked to leave Happy Acres, for "not playing well with others," or some shit, ed.) Now, I feel for anyone who has any type of physical affliction, but this does not give the sufferer a license to be an asshole.  I asked him the other day if he contracted asshole-osis at the same time he developed Parkinson's.  I have been singing "Mean Mr. Mustard Man" at the tops of my lungs every time he is within my vicinity. Heh. I'm pretty sure he hates me, but he already hates everyone else, too. I'm so going to Hell. 

I believe that we are not given more that we can handle, but I do certain believe that after all I had been through, I really had no right or reason to pass judgment or be so cruel to this man. Or maybe I did. Let’s call this one a draw. He was at FSJ because he was on parole. A parolee with a disease. A homeless person with a disease. Not unique and still hard to live with. This is where compassion gets tricky and I’m still in a quandary over it, a Quandarious, you might say. Or, irony much?

ROW 80 4th QUARTER POST 5 – (TRIP BACK IN TIME TO GESTAPO HEADQUARTERS AND) JEFF’S DEATH, PART 2, AND A CONFESSION, OF SORTS

You know how sometimes you tell yourself, you’re going to get up and do something and you do it, and once you do it, you feel better. How banal. Of course you feel better. Because before you do it, it’s like that 1,000 mile march to the scaffold. That march you might take in the cold, misty rain, to the gibbet, with the townspeople lined up on either side of you, hating you, just wanting you to die. The march gets slower and slower and slower. It seems that you’re never going to reach those stairs. In my version, March to the Scaffold from “Symphonie Fantastique” by Hector Berlioz, one of the better orchestral badass viola parts it’s ever been my pleasure to play and rock hard on, is thundering along in the background.

The reality? The Billy Barty Circus woke me up this morning; my poor neighbor who is the world’s worst handy man, but an okay mechanic and shittiest mechanic, ever, has been tinkering with his car alarm again. Since we have lived next door to them for the last year, I have been treated to blatting and stinky 2-stroke engines, 4-cylinder engines running on 1, 2, and 3 cylinders. I have listened to shrieky and whiny lawn mowers trying to be started a zillion times to no avail. I have heard the high and pointless revving of an 8-cylinder engine of a van to what purpose I know not, with no clear conclusion or fix at the end of the process, just some kind of zen exercise, or maybe it’s the vehicular version of a novena. I really don’t know fuck-all what any of it is, or is meant to accomplish. He is the male counterpart to Sra. Chupacabra; my neighbors that don’t speak English. I despise her. She puts on airs and hates animals. She knows I don’t like her and stays away from me. I hissed at her and cast a spell on her. He’s kind of a little mouse; he just squeaks around and does his little chores. I think he’s lost his job. I just have that feeling. I’ve been keeping an eye on them. JC does, too. They collect aluminum and metal. I snuck some canned goods over to them; they’re proud and I would never hurt them by offering them food, or aluminum cans to glean His brother is always over in his big, new, shiny SUV, strutting, strutting. You can see the hurt in the Chupacabras' eyes. I digress.

The “Billy Barty Circus” is  Sr. Chupacabra’s horn alarm going beep-beep-beep at 30-second intervals for oh, about 2 hours. Their car is parked right beside our bedroom and their part of the house is on the other side, so they can’t hear all this. They really, or he really doesn’t understand, about all the fumes and noise. The fumes play hell with my breathing; I have emphysema and with my PD, or not-PD (I’m gonna write a poem) my nerves are in a huge uproar over that kind of stuff. I burnt my left hand on the synovial side last night, for 2 hours, the carpal side went nuts. That’s how stupid my nerves are behaving. Anyway, anything that agitates my neural receptors makes me have just this astronomically ridiculous reaction. Digression over.

I wanted to say more about Jeff. I have to back up a bit. I became really “homeless” in 11/2010. This is when the State of Florida deemed me able to rejoin “society,” and discharged me from the Skilled Nursing Facility, where I had been ensconced and was trying mightily to learn to walk, dress myself and not hit people with my cast that was on my right hand. I was pretty much like a wild animal, not much different than the old me. Story for another day.

I was taken south on Nebraska Ave, 33602 to what I called "Happy Acres," in the earliest days of "Homeless Chronicles in Tampa" circa May, 2011, but is rightly knows as FSJ. These are 2 “boarding houses,” they provide shelter and have contracts with the State of Florida for homeless people who are lucky enough to be part of the Homeless Recovery program. Also the State of Florida Prison System and Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department has a contract for their Prison Parolees and their is charity as well; people who need an emergency night or two can bunk down. Someone is always around who will scrape you up a meal in a pinch. The two houses hold approximately 80 people.

It’s a transient society and it’s really, really, in the ‘hood. People were always coming and going; staying for a few days, or weeks and leaving. Some became fixtures. Dana was one and Holly was another. Dana and Holly were roomies and I hung out with the 3 of them. Jeff came along and he was oily-charming and would feed us potato chips. He had lost his wife and he had these times of melancholy; Jeff drank a lot, too. But at FSJ, who didn’t? It was really more a rarity if you didn’t. I didn’t, Holly and Dana, JC and Jason didn’t. In the evenings, we’d all sit outside and watch the world go by. We'd play 10,000, outside on the porch. That's a fast-moving dice game and I'm sure migrated it to the outside world along with pinochle from prison. Either that, or people get sent to prison over the fights that ensue from playing 10,000 or pinochle, Anyway, Jeff would play, but Dana would start winning and he’d get pissy mean sarcastic with everybody. JC and I would look at each other and wonder.

So, Dana and Jeff became an "item." Jeff would stop drinking and he would become uncommunicative; he might mention his wife. He and Dana would go off together and they would sit together and talk for hours, just the two of them. Dana was awaiting a hefty settlement from her husband's pension, plus her own SSDI. She is disabled. JC and I would wonder, 

“What does she see in him? I hope he’s good to her. Does he just want her money? I be he just wants her money. ” 

Blah Blah. Me, knowing the paths and byways from my days at Computer Engineering days at IBM, Verizon and the Gastonia Police Department did some snooping. Oh Holy Jesus, an arrest; a record on Jeff, way in the past. Everything, every maxim I’ve preached to myself and others went out the window. 

“He’s a bad guy. He’ll hurt her. He’ll take her money.” 

None of this, “I don’t know what goes on in other people’s hearts. It’s just a slice of life.” No, I just broke all of my own rules. I’m that fucking hypocrite I’m always braying about.

By this time, JC and I had moved to Nebraska Ave 33605 and set up our little home, which we love and we’re so happy. I love him unreasoningly. Dana comes by to tell me she and Jeff are leaving FSJ in late July. I hug her and pretend to be happy, but I’m cold, so cold. A few weeks go by. JC and I wonder if they’re okay. Jason says he saw them, and Jeff has looked unwell. They’ve been worried about Jeff’s father who has lung cancer.

Then, the night of the confused text and the wheel-o-scramble-call. Honestly? I don’t remember the rest of that evening. I know we were making dinner and we must have eaten. I have a huge problem with missing time. Thursday when I went to the neurologist, I was so out of my routine, I had trouble remembering what I had done that morning; if I’d even changed my clothes. Obviously I had. I had on a beautiful cardinal-colored blouse I had never worn before. My mind is a mess and I am not used to that.

I don’t want to be too obtrusive in Dana’s life; she needs a friend. She comes by and visits and I call her. She’s part of our little FSJ family. The thing that broke me, that made me so ashamed for my assumptions and that also humbled JC, was when she and I were talking about 3 days after he died. I asked her what would be the best way we all could remember and honor him. She told me that instead of flowers to please make a donation to the Salvation Army in his name. Done, I told her. She cracked me up when she said, “Well, we had the Memorial Service. We had Jeff cremated and had his ashes scattered over his favorite Drag Strip.” We both started to laugh and cry. The man loved him some engines. He had this old truck and he used to sit out back of FSJ in this old rattle-trap of a truck he had, drunk as a lord and rev that goddamned engine at 3 am. My bedroom was at the rear of the house, the only one. I’d have to get up and run all the way to the front to get Dana out of her bed to go get him to knock it off. Fun times, fun times.

We were laughing over that, then Dana said, “I did it. I promised Jeff that I wouldn’t let him die homeless or at FSJ. I was able to do that. I got to him before he died, too. I almost wasn’t there.” I closed my eyes. I started to cry. She didn’t know. I don’t talk about it to everyone. JC and I. JC has had a horrible, horrible life. JC’s father left his family when JC was little. JC’s step dad turned JC’s mom out to trick for money and beat JC and made him work. JC had to quit school to support his kid brothers. JC worked hard all of his life and was betrayed by his now-deceased wife. JC spent nine years in prison and did not do what he was accused of doing. He has never known love. He has never known kindness. He asks for permission to have the simplest of things. JC things he is stupid, when he is the smartest, most insightful man about people I have ever met. I want him to experience happiness and love for the first time and for the rest of his life. I will move heaven and earth for JC. JC is 65, With my last breath I will make the rest of my love’s life happy, or I will make him miserable trying. I told Dana this between sobs. She is a gallant woman and a generous one. I don’t say this because I am trying to garner reflected glory. I say this because it’s true and right. I say this too, because I understood it finally in Dana. Jeff knew it and loved her, too. She is beyond price.