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 – JC'S OBSERVATIONS

I live with a man. Okay, now that you’ve all recovered, picked your jaws up off the floor, told the cat, and went “well! I never!” I have to say this: I love this man whole-heartedly, completely without reason and would die for him, Truthfully. He has had a terrible life; living among a population of truly dysfunctional people and having had a pretty toxic childhood myself, this says much. His childhood and personal life have been absolute hell. JC is from west Texas and has a wonderful drawl and a colorful way of speech. He’s not the type to go out of his way to tell knee-slappers, or shaggy-dog stories, but in a non-calculated way, he places his comments perfectly, leaving me breathless with laughter. He can tell stories so prosaically and honestly, the depth of realization of the tragedy doesn't really impact until later. I mourn for hours at times.

Mama is good balm for the soul and she loves the affection. She wouldn't be here if it weren't for JC.

He never finished grade school; according to him, he can barely read. He learned to read by reading the Bible, which he knows Chapter and Verse. JC is almost Old Testament in the depth and breadth of his knowledge. He is righteous, but not judgmental and steadfast. At times, I feel he is too generous, but he must do what he feels is right. He is good and wants to help people who hurt and really need it and he is protective, but prudent. He has moral limits he will not cross. He thinks he is not “smart, but has common sense, because he doesn’t read well.” He is one of the smartest men I have ever met. He has been with me through everything; my having to be Baker Acted, my many trips to the hospital and has listened to me whine about all the weirdness from my PD-essential tremor symptoms. His is a courage found rarely and I cherish it.

 Our poor grocery store; an endless series of delights and japeries for me. I keep being warned that I will end up on You Tube for one of my idiocies, by the store employees, who are terrific in personality and customer service skills. Jim, of the Pink Pumpkin saga has taken his awesome to the front, to help with bagging, and managing the cashiers. It suits him; along with awesome, he is unflappable and unbelievably kind and generous, as everyone there is. I consider it my 2nd home. It was the first store I went to with a food voucher, no ID when I was place in the homeless shelter by Homeless Recovery.The Manager, understanding immediately, my situation, honored that voucher, so I could eat that weekend. It was the day after Thanksgiving, 2010 and all the official agencies were closed. Josh Hamilton is still there. They are my friends; no. They are family. Which means I pick on them at every chance I get. I was totally unaware that chickens had paws. I guess I slept through Biology or Chicken Anatomy at school that day, whatever. 

JC holding the chicken paws. The best part of this was getting him to smile. He has a beautiful smile. It was 10 am on a Saturday morning and we were waiting to have some prescriptions filled. It's dead quiet in the store, except for me holleriing, "SMILE, SMILE, SMILE, HA HA. COME ON. DON'T BE SUCH A WOODEN INDIAN! LOOK AT ME! HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT THE LATEST FORM OF URBAN VIOLENCE? DRIVE-BY VIOLA SOLOS! BLAH BLAH BLAH" No one else is in the store and it's pretty quiet, all anyone can hear is my cheerful blathering, trying to get this man to smile. Behind me, I can hear the Pharmacy department cracking up. Finally, he smiles and I quick, take a picture. Otherwise, this picture would have had all the charm of death row.

I am liberal. I am so liberal, I am an anarchist. I read and understood at a post-Graduate English level at the age of 15. I am righteous and mercurial. I want to help. He and I work so well together and watch the folks here and decide who might need a hand up. Plus, we have a bunch of fun.

This day started as many others do, with the hopes, speculations and trepidations of a Bus Ride. Ah yes, First, the inevitable 1 minute equals 7 years. This means that JC must leave the house around August 9, 1872. I hope he set the alarm early enough. So, off he goes. I sleep on and miss Garfield’s assassination and the turn of the Century, the 20^th.

JC comes in around 10:30 on August 9, on 2012; he must have taken the wormhole home, and plops down. I’m doing something different. Pounding madly on the keyboard as if possessed, typing drivel or doing my latest form of side-splitting cyber vandalism; it’s all pretty much the same thing.

“What do you make of this?” JC asks… and he proceeds to tell me about the ride home. Some cat got on the bus and pointed at JC’s shoes. Just plain lace-ups, kind of like running shoes, only black. The dude mentioned “shoes” and looked at JC. JC looked around the bus; the riders looked at him. JC looked at the dude. The dude looked back at the shoes and mumbled “shoes” again. JC shrugged and said, “Okay.” The guy proceeded to get down on the floor and pick each one up and one, by one, rub his face all over the bottoms. “What in hell? Do I have shit on them?” JC asked, but no one answered. Guy gets up and sits down.

EW M G! It wasn't this creepy, but since it happened to JC, it's happened to several other men on the HARTline bus. I'm pretty open-minded, but this is a bit much, particularly since this jerk wasn't even asking for consent; he was just helping himself. I would love to have seen it, just for a laugh. But, yikes!

Of course, JC can’t wait to get home and tell me about this squirrel. We sort of have a running competition about who runs into the biggest loon on the bus. So far, JC’s got me beat. No one’s asked to smell my purse or underarms yet. If someone asks to smell my panties, it’ll be the last thing that person ever asks in existence, or non-.

We proceed to go sit on the front porch and watch the stupid world of Nebraska Avenue go by. Here comes Jo-Jo (either “Jo-Jo, the Ho” or “Jo-Jo The Dog-Faced Girl, if I’m feeling particularly ugly that day.) She is being led by one of the newer denizens of the homeless shelter. The homeless shelter is an amalgam or payors, felons and people sent there from the state. Jo-Ho gets an SSDI check. She had a stroke, most likely due to her excessive drinking which has not abated since. Anyway, she is being “led” by a newbie, a woman. Usually it’s a man. Jo-Jo has all the grace and charm of a 58-year old cheerleader who pissed herself 40 years ago after being dragged face-down through a gravel-pit. She has the voice, face and outfit to prove it.

“Look, Jo-Jo has a new “helper” JD says to me nonchalantly. I kind of glance over that way. I get a dim impression, my eyes being kind enough to allow seeing 2 little blobs; one wavering, the other helping the other on the sidewalk to the liquor store.

JC continues on, “You know for someone so feeble and ill, there is certainly nothing wrong with the hinge in her elbow…” This is all said placidly, with the nonchalance of “nice day out. Do you want eggs?”

We are both together in a tiny apartment now, and his healths is not good, so I'm never going to be that wife who writes to Ann Landers as I once saw in the paper. Her husband had died, and she was so sorry for bitching about his snoring, not picking up after himself, and on and on. I felt so terribly bad for the woman, because even though she had not loved her husband, she had not told him, nor showed him, even in the smallest of ways. Due to the fact that we would lose our SSDI, we live in “sin.” I'm sure Rick Scott, GOP family values guy, being the asshole Republican Satan Governor of the State of Florida is just hopping mad over this. Fuck him, although he probably has some indescribable man-ware and can do himself. Anyway, as JC well knows, it is my mission to make him experience happiness, or miserable trying.

Our fair Governor, Rick Scott. Florida GOP, friend to Satanists everywhere. I believe that this is the finest Paint job I have ever achieved, and it took a whole 2 seconds, with no do-overs. Revel in the stupidity.

When we lived at the Homeless shelter, JC had all sorts of sayings. Mr. Pimp My Ride was always talking about how he “worked for a living,” and wasn't a lazy slacker like JC and I were. Well, this idiot was working under the table and getting paid daily and it couldn't have been much of a job, because Mr. PMR was not quite as bright as a sack of hammers. I'm fairly sure he was illiterate, and he spent most of his time drinking and smoking crack. He babbled something at JC and I when were in the kitchen and wanted us to look at something, I told him that due to my cataract in my left eye, I was unable to see it. Mike, aka Mr. Pimp pipes up, “Ooh, I've had about 37 o' dem.” Then he, apropos of nothing, starts talking about “cyclostopy” and wondered to JC, “is that the one where they take the balls off, too?” JC was washing the dishes, didn't turn a hair, he said, “No, that's the one where they sew up your mouth and stop the bullshit.” I had to leave the kitchen.

They say one picture tells a thousand words. This one pretty much writes the whole novel. Who in the name of all that is holy or unholy wraps tinfoil around his spokes? The only time this is acceptable is one is 11 or maybe 12 years of age. He used to get him some bungee cords and tie his boom box to his handlebars. Stylin' man. I don't want to give the impression that he was just a fool; he was mean and dangerous and his weapon of choice was a knife. He was rather impaired about what or who should be stabbed. He stabbed cars, trash cans, but seldom people. I guess his folks didn't read "Why Little Johnny Can't Stab." His brother lived there, also. They both had a younger brother who was a regular guy and would occasionally have to bail one of them out of jail and I remember him saying in an exasperated tone, "Why in the Hell can't you and Benny just get it together?" Never gonna happen; people like that will never even try to get out of that life.

The following week, Mike tried to sell us a DVD. It was like “Big Butts” are something. JC just looked at him and said “What the hell is wrong with you?” Mike launches into this story about how he'd originally bought the thing, and then lent it to someone else. It was then stolen from that person and sold to another person in the house. Mike found out about it, and bought it back from that person, and then wanted to sell it to JC “to earn a profit.” As if. After hearing this, JC, nodded his head and said “I think you're an Astronaut.” Mike says, “How you figure?” JC said, “All that space between your eyes.” I ran down the hall, cackling like a hyena.

JC tried to get me back and make me laugh. He forgets that I've spent a lifetime on stages holding in the ha-ha. Besides, I was pissed because the bed was it's usual mess. As if. I'm about as domestic as a panther.

I always laugh, when he starts recounting these stories, because of the “demonstration.” I look over to see the frantic motion of right elbow going up and down 90 degrees from chair arm to mouth. That's his Jo-Jo imitation. The motion says it all. “Nothing wrong with her smoking elbow either.” Motion repeated on left side. I fall out of chair. How many ways do I love this man? This is just one of them.

#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 POST 6 – DESIGNED BY VERSACE?

Okay, another Wednesday check in missed. I promise to get back into the groove. We've been blabbering a lot over here about personal freedoms and Civil Rights and of course, I jump in with my Constitutional and Bill of Rights hooey, as I understand it. And, pray tell, what on this here blue-eyed world does Versace have to do with all of that. Why, not a damned thing, but this has been on my mind, because I know people who have had their freedoms and rights curtailed because of past mistakes. I don't think it's fair, but there sure is one hell of a lot of judging going on by people who probably need to take a good, stiff look in their own mirrors. Right. Maybe if I get to Be World King or Poobah. I'd make a bunch of shit change. First thing I'd do is fire Rick Scott and send him to Devil's Island. Dreyfus went there, so it's plenty good enough for Rick Scott and the French can keep him.

Neener, neener and ha ha ha, Rick Scott. You couldn't deport me after all, ya jackleg. 

Anyway, I went to my doctor who is wonderful. She has some unpronounceable last name, so she's Dr. K to everyone, even herself I think. Everything looks pretty good. The usual. “You have anemia, low potassium.” She said to me. I hear that every time I have blood drawn. “Okay, I'll keep taking my B-12 injections and double up on the Niacin and Potassium. I weigh 104 pounds. After being 79 lbs and fighting back to this weight, I've been here for a year. Great news. No cholesterol problem or anything like that. Yay! Time for 12 dozen deviled eggs!

What was unexpected was this: the presence of antigens in my blood was off the charts. I have to go to an allergist. Well, shit. Then, Dr. K, being the awesome doctor she is, said, “You do know that Parkinson's Disease is an autoimmune disease.” Nope. I did not. I know it's a neuromuscular and psychological disease, but the autoimmune thing threw me. I've never been allergic to anything. So, oh boy! A new doctor to go to! Someone else to annoy! The next day I went to the Dermatologist and had a bunch of cancers zizzed off. The one on my lower right lip looks splendid. Kinda a Popeye thing. I look like I've been dipping snuff.

I think I broke the camera when I took the lip pic; here's a picture of our stove that I took in the dark. At around 1 am-ish. For no particular reason.

Part of my lip fell off into my lap onto my keyboard the other day and I was all, AAAHHHHH!!! I have leprosy!!!! AHHHHHHH! JC was napping on the couch. He thought we were having an air raid. Geeze. The Dermatologist was funny and cool. The good doctor reminded me of some beachcomber that got lost and ended up in a medical suite. Colorful shirt, Loose dockers and very laid back. He came in and we talked; he noticed my braces on my arms. I had carpal tunnel in both wrists, but my right hand was broken, the little finger and the 3^rd finger knuckles were crushed. I spent 12 weeks in a cast.

So, as I'm peeling off the hardware, he starts looking at my hands and upper arms, then he notices my right hand and knuckles. He said, “How did this happen?” I kind of blushed, and then said “In a fight, doctor.” He looked at m, and grinned. “I'm guessing by the condition of you hand and the fact that you're standing before that the other guy is no longer among the living?” I looked at him and laughed. “Well, in a manner of speaking. That whole payback thing...”

So, he took care of all the little barnacles and the bigger ones that are in fact, basal cell carcinomas, the most benign form of cancer (if you can say that and not sound totally silly.) But, you can't ignore them, either. I had one on my left bicep and I ignored it for years. When I finally had it removed, the damned thing was deep, nearly to the bone. I have a scar that was cleverly sculpted like my bicep. Lesson? Don't ever wait. I was still playing and I put black medical tape around my bare arm, as I wore a velvet spaghetti strap gown until it healed all the way and it took months. Stylish!

I thought of this Versace thing because no one's Parkinson's Disease is like anyone else's Parkinson's Disease. I keep hearing about all sorts of different symptoms and some of them I have and some I don't. Likewise, I have symptoms that no one else seems to have. We all share some sort of generalized stuff, but then we put our own “spin” on things. I suffer mostly in my upper body, which includes my head, especially my brain. I can still walk and do a sort-of run pretty well.

Race-walkers; so competitive. Once you get over how ridiculous it looks, you get drawn in by the race to the finish line. They always take it down to the wire; I guess it's the nature of the sport. Fun!

Of course, we already know we can kiss the eyesight goodbye. It's 20/20 in both of them, but not at the same time; it's like a really crappy kaleidoscope. If I am able to focus, then my brain refuses to see 1 of anything. It sees 2. Go figure. I'm so used to this, if by some miracle it could be fixed, I'd walk into everything in my path. As of now, I have no “path,” I just walk kind of sideways, but at least there is forward motion. It's rather more like a controlled fall. The only time I came close to losing it was when the neurology intern took away my cane and made me walk up and down their hall. I should have gotten whackamole back and beat her about the head and shoulders! What a jerk!

Not "millions," you moron. I said "billions." It's "billions of lives are at stake! No wonder you can't talk!

Now, talking is getting to be a riot. My voice is getting weak and hoarse and I get tongue-tied and stutter at times. JC doesn't hear very well, so I get to make all the phone calls. Last night, we decided on pizza; Dominos. Oh goody! I not only get to call them, there's the added pressure (put on me, by myself) of making sure the order is right. So, I'm excited. When I experiencee any type of extreme emotion (C'mon, it's ONLY pizza, for God's sake. You're not Jack Bauer and millions of lives are not at stake!) I start getting tremors... everywhere, pretty much. So, after I've successfully leapt the hurdle of ordering, I now have to provide the dreaded debit card number. I open my mouth and say, “lBlurk grik orutu lljljll no?” JC hollers from across the room, “Good God, why are you so tongue-tied?” (He's still getting used to this.) I can't help it. I just burst into laughter. Laughter is good for PD, or Parkies. It's like crack. We produce endorphins when we laugh. The guy on the phone is all, huh?

Getting JC to smile for a picture is impossible. You have to sneakphotograph to get this! He's talking to an old friend and all they do, is laugh. Works for me. JC, savior of cats and love of my life!

I explained to him what was up with me and said, “you gotta admit, it's funny.” So, he started to laugh, too. I was able then to give him the card number and we chatted for a few minutes. He's recently lost his job in the construction industry, where he's worked for over 20 years. I said, “Oh, I am so very sorry. I hope you land something soon.” He said, “Lady, you're amazin'. I wish you well. It'll be okay.” I said, “I know; it is already. Take care.”

So, this whole thing is like Florida and Michigan weather; if you don't like your current symptom, wait 5 minutes, it will change. Some of them are just flat-out annoying and ridiculous. My favorite was the 3-day festival of underside-tongue-tip-twitching. And that was all that was going on. It drove me bonkers. I mean, WTF? I've heard of similar stories from other people. Another top 10 in the hit parade is the Pseudo Bulbar Affective Disorder. Just the name is enough to give you tics. What it is, is this: you cry at nothing, and you laugh at everything inappropriate, or in questionable taste. Huh? I would just call that a matter of taste. Guess what? There's a pill for it. Like there is for Asperger, which I've had all my life. I call that “doesn't play well with others.” My teachers called it that, as well. So, doctors, you can keep your pills. The side effects are bad; “sightings of the dead, levitation, horn and cloven hoof sprouting.” I'll pass.

One other thing that happens and has since I had my psychotic break is dementia (and who doesn't love a little dementia? I have friends who say they can't tell the difference) caused by my precipitous drops in sugar. It will go from 150 to 47 in less than 30 minutes. At first, I didn't recognize the signs and it would hit really hard. I couldn't recognize things, I felt like I was seeing God, that I was dying and every neuron in my body would fire at once. As soon as I drank some orange juice, it would stop. I am not diabetic and this is very common. The lack of Levo-dopa (the chemical that helps to regulate our autonomic functions) that my brain no longer produces causes this and a whole host of other really neat-o, keen and fun stuff. Like heart rate, (about 120 beats a minute) and a bunch of other junk I can't remember now.

So, I have all this great stuff: Parkinson's Disease, which in fact caused my Bipolar I disorder, Asperger and somehow this Pseudo Bulbar Affective Disorder latched on, most definitely with the PD, because I didn't cry a lot. My mom wouldn't allow it, and it's a habit I carried into adulthood. I've always laughed, so, I guess I just picked up the other half, but I didn't truly start all of this until after my psychotic break which was caused by my PD to begin with. Round and round. Very chic, designed just for me; and if I don't like it, I wait. Generally, my health is good, even with bits and pieces falling off. I fell last night for the first time in over 2 years. I caught myself and landed on my right knee and it hurts like a BITCH! But, I don't feel that crisis of confidence when I was falling all the time. I'm strong now and just have a sore knee to go with my lip leprosy.

A little note here about Sunday's Check in. I am privileged to know a wonderful gentleman, by the name of Terry Carroll. He has published a truly awesome and charming book called “Among the Fourth Graders.” He has been generous and kind enough to send me my very own, hardback and signed copy (SQUEE!) and 3 paperback copies. I am going to be quoting some excerpts and reviews (it's flat out marvelous) and I'd like to interview him, I would love you all to stay tuned and we'll have a book give-away!

 

ROW 80 POST 27 – DO NOT ENTER

I had to try and think of several catchy titles for this post. Titles are very important and I stress over the creation of them, much as I stress over every other goddamned piece of minutiae in my life. This is why I have a head full of bats, moth balls and cinders.

Anyway, JC was telling one of his epic stories yesterday. When JC tells a story, it is awesome. Truly; it’s like listening to God. He can make you cry, but more often he makes me laugh and he really had me howling yesterday about one of his wives who got all puffed up at him during a tent revival. He was on the other side of the tent. She thought JC “was a-lookin’ at the choirmistress,” which would have been a neat trick, since the choirmistress was not in his line of sight. He saw his wife “swell up, like a puffer toad, and start cussin’,” although he couldn’t hear her. Ten years with the woman and he knew what was fixin’ to happen. In his words, “I grahbbed mah Bahble, went straht out the back o’ that tent, got in mah truck, and drove 165 miles without stoppin’.”

YEEHAAA!  Ah'm outta heah!

His accent is pure west Texas and pretty, but his expressions are all pure JC. When we lived over at Happy Acres, he asked the particularly asinine Mr. Pimp My Ride, who festooned his bicycle with tin foil, thinking it put him in competition with the true bad asses who drove the hopped up Camaros and Chargers, before the FBI got them, with custom paint jobs, rims and 20k sound systems, if he was an Astronaut. “What yo mean, Cracker?” JC and I were standing in the House's hall, when this took place. When Mr. PMR said that, I looked at my feet. JC just said, “Cause a' ahll that spay-ace bah-tween your eyes.” He really emphasizes the drawl, when he's being particularly snarky. Now, I'm looking at the ceiling.

I hustled the two of us on out of there before Mr. PMR realized he’d been made fun of, but that was the thing. He was easy meat. He never got it. There were about 4 or 5 of us who got away with all kinds of shit like that. But that’s not what this is all about and I’ve really digressed. While JC was telling the hilarious story of his late wife who pulled the puffed up toad act at church, my mind hit on and then filed away for today’s #Row80 the topic of ta-da “The Evolution Of The Carriage Return.”

I’m sure there’s been tons of horribly boring, or not so boring articles written on this fascinating evolution. Back in the day, when we all learned to type, I learned to type in some old sourpuss’s class in my sophomore year in high school. I sat next to Steve Tersigni and Kevin Phillips, who always somehow managed to be in my classes and make them fun. Our teacher made us type to horrible songs like “Turkey in the Straw” and that’s all I remember. Except the god-awful racket of all of the keys hitting the carriages and the sound of all of us hitting the carriage returns. It sounded like siege engines at war.

I typed 35 words a minute from the age of 15 and never went near another typewriter if I could help it. The only other thing that sounded remotely that horrible was the sound in my 1^st year Music Theory Class at SJSU with Dr. Brent Heisinger, where we all had “ear training,” or some shit. There were 25 music majors, non-piano majors, in a room full of out-of-tune pianos and we were supposed to play “chords.” What we played was a bunch of noise. Dr. Heisinger, being the wonderful, hip, cheerful guy, would holler, “almost! Once again!”

Somewhat Akin to Eternal Rooms of Monkeys Typing Shakespeare... 

Once again, what?! It sucked. Even if we all played the same thing it sucked. The pianos hadn’t been tuned since the Punic Wars. Well, my ear got trained, or maybe it already was. I digress. So, after wandering around in the music biz and then marrying the chucklehead who believed the piccolo fairy was going to come and turn me into piccoloist and that didn’t happen, it was back to school and computer science for moi.

An amaze-balls thing happened in the 20 years since I’d been around a typewriter. Number one, there weren’t any. Number two, there were these cool things called keyboards now and they didn’t clack as much and you could work up a pretty good head of steam on them. My typing speed improved. I was still a bit confused by some of the names on the keys, but that stuff sorts itself out.

Off I went to work at IBM, and further sortage occurred. IBM IT Support in 1995 was a warehouse of the weird, old, halt and lame. We had some older systems, that hadn’t worked out, and lots of applications that only few clients used, as well as all of the big, mainstream stuff. If the client wanted to pay for it, we would supported it. Some of us became eclectic masters of the bizarre, others stayed with the mainstream. And until the telephony system was put in place, you never knew what you were going to get on the other end of the phone when it rang.

These are actual calls, not verbatim, but real nonetheless. 

"Hey! My fat ass-wife sat on my printer and mashed a bunch of buttons; now it won't work." After a few hours noodling with this and brainstorming with other engineers, solution? Mash a bunch of buttons. This was back in the day of Printer Hell, when no one had any printer that resembled any other printer.

“Hello? My screen wants me to press the ‘ANY’ key. I don’t have one of those.” Simple enough. “Press your space bar, the letter “A” It doesn’t matter.”

“Hi! This here XYWrite is telling me to press the NEXT button. I ain’t seeing that.”

Again, analogous to, “Enter,” and simple to fix.

But along with the weird WORD 6.0 for MAC O/S (which no longer exists) which was probably the worst program ever, the AmiPro, Word Pro, Lotus 123, Word Perfect, (now owned by Corel) there was one product that we. Never. Figured. Out. If we ever did, and were able to execute the damned thing, it probably would have blown up the entire Universe. We spent months on it. Not a bunch of engineers all out. It was this one call, one guy. I didn’t even get the call.

But we spent weeks trying to get an answer for this guy. He was trying to install something. Some kind of Word processing program. It was probably so old it was used back in the days when you had to turn on the computer and install the brain before you could use it. That was some rockin’ shit back then. 1984, I remember kind of seeing those at the University of Michigan along with the Halloween screens. High tech, cutting edge.

This poor schlemiel is stumped because he can’t find the “Go” key. Sounds kind of like “Enter,” only “Enter” isn’t working. We actually had the manual for that software package. It, by God said to press the “Go” key, only there’s no fucking GO key. We start calling other offices, we’re trying to get a hold of the manufacturer, which is no longer in business; they’ve been eaten up by MicroShit. We. Never. Solved. It. So, I put that one in the Unsolved case.