THEY WENT THIS-A-WAY AND THAT-A-WAY...

"Please Press Or Say One Number Of Your Social Security Number At A Time For Faster Assistance"

This is the actual message when you call the Social Security Administration Office for help. Myself? I prefer to mash all 9 numbers at once. ZZZZZZ!!! Saves time. I want it slower. If they can't understand me? Fuck 'em. They're stupid, anyway. There are three people in this house on SSDI, one of whom is hard of hearing and one of whom is uncomfortable with the forms, and I don't blame her; they are bearish, deliberately I am sure. The SSA wants you to work hard to get what you or your loved ones have already earned. They want you to work hard to get what you may already be too sick or broke to strive to get to eke by on. I have to call them every damned five minutes because of some badly-worded letter they've sent us. The workers don't speak English as a second language. I'm betting that Jovian isn't even their second language. They probably used facial expressions on their home planets; the grammar is that sucky. And their customer service skills are even worse. Your tax dollars are cheerfully at work!

But that's not really what this post is about. I'm trying to structure, or re-structure this blog in a somewhat coherent way, which is a novel idea for me. In doing so, I have to read for context, which is also novel. I'm one of those slash-and-burn types. I did it in music and in programming. I know it sounds horrid, but there are advantages. You learn to think on your feet, think big picture and it works well in real time. Not so good for reflection and going back to pick up threads. I'd be a lousy show-runner. So. I may repeat some stuff and I may leave stuff out because, for a long time, I kept just this one blog. Then I kept two, then three and then I did some FB and then I did Twitter and "Hi, my name is Mary and I'm a..." whoops, well... I don't know what I put when and where and I am not going back to SIFOTS, or son of SIFOTS or RUNESCAPIANDAYS or SPZ. If you start having deja vu, you're reading some of my regurgitated drivel. Feel free to skip. You'll get a hall note at the end of each post. So. I am also leaving WallPress or Wallnuts or HarveyWallbanger. It sucks. Bloggersville here does, too, but less suckage per word. At least, I have fewer kluges per word here, Walleye was one giant kluge. I need a Content Manager I guess. If I ever get some Content, maybe I'll check it out. Enough shop talk.

NEXT MONTH IS THE RNC

Would it be too much to ask the powers that be that we hurry up this December 22, 2012 thing if it's going to be the end of the world entirely, to oh, say, August 1? The idea of "Catcher" Mitt Romney being in Tampa for the RNC and that close is a bit too much to stomach. I have gotten to the point in my 56 years where the shiny has about worn off the whole idea of Best and Brightest running the U.S. of A. and  after the Bush fiasco I can say with no little enmity and loathing that I will never vote for a Republican again. But honestly? They're not the only problem. Top to bottom. The Democrats need to simplify and show unity on issues and the American people... *Sigh* We need to really educate ourselves and our children about the principles and foundations that really built this republic. It's not about sides, platforms, conservatives, or liberals. It's about the truths. 

We have so lost sight of this Everybody has an axe to grind and an agenda; something to gain. No one is in it for the greater good, unless it makes them look good. That's wrong. The only way I see to make a lasting change, is to make an honest, true one. One that's deep, bone deep. If this sounds naive, so be it. It's the only thing that works. The rest of it's just rouge on a bulldog. I been there. Not doing it anymore. But I digress.

I am an Independent, which is cool, except for the fact that you can't vote in primaries. I could be Libertarian. Anyway, Mitt (I.Q. = Catchers'?) O he of the Magic Underwear and his Horsey Wife are coming to Tampa in August, unless Cthulhu comes back for a family visit. It would be nice. He was supposed to show me his videos from Mt. Etna when he and Lois and the kids went Lava skiing. I pray something like that happens. I could go protest and get arrested, but since I have no I.D. what so ever from when the crack whore stole my purse (another lovely tale, she got no money, ha!) I may get "out-sourced" to Scotland. Oh wait! I have my Voter's registration card and 2 billing envelopes with my name on them! So I have bonafides. They can kill me, but they can't eat me. Oh wait, this is Florida; they CAN eat me!

LOAD CYCLE (apologies to John Irving)

OH GOODY!!! A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE

This is the laundromat that is directly across the street from Happy Acres, where I was originally "sheltered" when I was homeless. This view was taken from the north. Happy Acres is west from this Laundro. When I first went to Happy Acres...

Lovely, eh? I lived in the house with the Parking at Rear Sign. I couldn't climb the steps. I could barely walk... Man, the memories. *shakes head* Anyway, we had one leaky-ass washer in the back of the 2nd house and a dryer side by side. there was one land line. The guys all lived in the 2nd house and it was one giant frat/bachelor party held by ex-cons. You can imagine the ambience. The laundromat above was booming! If you had money to wash, that's where you went. All the upscale peeps were there. The rest of us made do with this horrid donated washer and dryer.

We had a "maintenance" guy named Fred. Air quotes for Fred, who really was a dear but he had been toasted since about 1963 and had some, er, interesting solutions for things... We had pergo all through our house, the girls' house, N, guys', we'll call S, for brevity; they had pergo too. Fred decided the only way to clean this stuff was with Windex, but he had this complex formula that involved I know not what. To this day, I know not what. It involved a stick, a rag, some kind of ranging, looking down the hall. Both front and back doors had to be open. I just don't know what he was channeling. I'd be fine with all that until he'd yell, "Mary! You just left a foot print on the floor!"

I look anxiously up... down. There's no foot print. I have footie socks on from the hospital. He scrubs furiously. Okay, now, he's happy. I hide. Well. One day, he decides to crank up the leaf blower but insists on leaving the washer lid up on the washer.

One of the oh, hell may as well call her what she should have been, "inmates," hollers, "Fred, are you going to wash all those goddamned leaves?"  

Fred: "Yup, 'n' dry 'em too. I got names for 'em, Deb. Y'wanna hear 'em?"

Of course, by this time, I can't for the life of me understand why on earth I've washed that stupid t-shirt 8 times and it still has pizza stains in it. The dryer is even worse. You basically just spin your ball of clothes around for an hour or two and fold them up and put them away in those nifty cardboard boxes we all got from the Metropolitan Ministry over time. Over the coming weeks, we wear our clothes, only to find them full of bedbugs and mold. Stop me if you've heard all this, or skip ahead. The best part was when the owners were too cheap to put us up in hotels and tent the houses, so we played "bedbug roulette" for months as we cyclically bombed and hopped from room to room. That really sucked. Try "freshening" up a room where 9 winos have holed up for the last year. 

Yep, we're makin' memories now, lol. To be very honest? I wouldn't trade any of this for anything in the world. It has grounded me and given me a depth I never could have gained. Trial by fire? Check.

So, back to our Laundro. It's under new management now. After a solid year of going downhill, it has been bought by someone who looks like they might give a damn. The A/C is out on it. I don't know much about the new owner yet, but I intend to find out. Their are two ladies who work there and have for years. They live here in the neighborhood and are young and raising families. The new owner's name is Robbie and he's done two things I'm impressed with. He's really cleaned up the place and opened it up. He's packed off the circus that was out front. No more winos. I have an idea germinating, but it's too soon. I'll have more blurbs from here and more memories to share. Here's your Hall pass. No running!

DARK NOON OF THE SOUL

No one will be seated during the last 3 inches of this picture

Okay, okay. I'm still the same stupid ass I was in all the other lousy blogs I pretended to blog in. 

The afternoons around here have been murderously hot, just ferocious. I'm not generally known for patience anyway and guess what? There are a whole bunch of folks hanging around Nebraska Avenue who don't work. Surprised? Neither am I. Since I moved a whole 3 houses from the shelter where I was housed, it ain't far from the 'hood. The users, abusers, crack whores and grifters are all here and a partyin'. Life is grand. Except when it ain't; mostly when I show up.

We actually are in a quiet little house one building east of Nebraska. Directly across from us is a parking lot for the Nebraska Cafeteria that is run by a Honduran family. JC and I hot foot it over there several times a week to eat their food and exchange "it's hot" comments multi-lingually with them and their customers, so we can feel multi-cultural. It's a pleasant way to spend a confusing 15 minutes, as we wait for our orders. I, of course, am right at home. Next to that little cafe is our laundromat, which for now will remain shrouded in secrecy. 

The afternoon I stepped outside to just see what was going on, which I was hoping was a whole bunch of nothing, I noticed one of the "regulars." The "regulars," are the winos, users and in at least one case a drunk Jehovah's Witness (straight with God there, big fellah?) who pester, beg, bully, sing, opportune, amuse, threaten, hit and sadden the surrounding inhabitants. Now, let me be clear about something. There are no clear lines here. Sometimes, the drunks and users are the inhabitants, I've noticed and the opposite occurs as well. It's a swell Merry-Go-Round. However, there are a few of us who don't choose to get on that ride, and one of the saddest things I've seen? The most vociferous in their condemnation of the abusers are some of the worst.

Hypocrisy is not by definition one of the seven deadly sins, but I think it should be. I believe that hypocrisy is responsible for some of the most reprehensible of thought in any spiritual or judicial canon, if I may be so lofty. Hypocrisy is responsible for pogroms, lynchings, slavery, sexism, racial, sexual orientation; you know the litany. It is lying. Lying is a sin. Sorry. It's evil.

Anyway. My particular "regular" was Guy with Fucked Up Leg And Cane With 4 Prongs, henceforth, "GWFULACW4." I step out, hoping for nothing much going on-ness, when  GWFULACW4  unfurls his hose of 2 1/2 inches IN THE FUCKING STREET IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE AND BEGINS TO WATER THE STREET AT 2:30 IN THE GODDAMNED AFTERNOON!

I'm not a little irate. I'm not a bit irritated. I'm not mildly annoyed. Understand something World At Large. I walk around with my head at RED ALERT all the time. Last month a mouse the size of a CANOE ran through my bedroom. My eyes are like a really bad fun house mirror, and the left one is dark, warped and cloudy. My brain interprets everything as BIG and has for seven years. It's DEF CON 5. It's 3 minutes to Midnight. It's Alan Parson's "Psycho Babble Rap" in my head, but I've learned to live with it. However... it can be kind of like nitro, and you know what?

It can go BOOM! LOL; it didn't this time. As GWFULACW4 was obliviously pissing away, I screamed "HEY!! YOU!!!!! QUIT PISSING IN THE ROAD"

GWFULACW4 didn't miss a drop, kept peeing. "DAMMIT!!! YOU FUCKER!!! QUIT PISSING IN THE STREET!" GWFULACW4 looked up, poked his pecker in his pants and we started brandishing our canes at one another like some lunatic fencers at Hell's Championships. "Shu'p Bitch!" "Fuck you, you asshole" Witty retorts rebounded. I was more menacing because I was soberer or could see better I guess. GWFULACW4 shuffled off, me bounding along (okay, tripping after with whackamole) "Don't you piss on that guy's car, you bastard, I'm calling the cops!" GWFULACW4 hobbled faster.

I didn't feel bad about that at all. What if a kid had seen that? Jesus. This guy badgers people and he's a bastard to boot. He's one of the ones who never sobers up, never gives it a rest and lives off the dole all the time. I have a problem with that. But I also just hate the attitude of "ah, the poor, we shall always have them with us..." Is there no answer? Do we just do the best we can with someone like that and concentrate our efforts on the ones who really matter? Then, who decides that?

Maybe I should. God knows I'm rational enough. There's a stray cat that has been coming around here. She was pregnant and we fed her up through and after the birth of her kittens. The bitc.. erm, neighbor next door, who "pretends" not to speak English bitched to our Landlord who is a very nice man and a bit of a wuss. She has gone from neighbor to Chupacabra. He asked me not to feed her and I went into a meltdown over it. Honest to God, how in the Hell can anyone do that to a defenseless animal? I cried for days. She "claims" that fleas have gotten into her house. Well, the cat, who is a beautiful tortoise-shell spent a whole 5 minutes twice a day up here on our porch eating. How in the fuck did fleas get from a stone porch, through screens into a living room in two weeks?? Lying Chupacabra!!!

I gave her the Evil Eye. When no one was around. I caught her and hissed at her and growled. I talked to her in a language she understands. No one believes her. The Landlord doesn't. JC knows I would never do anything like that. I still feed her too. The cat. Not Chupacabra. Tomorrow, I shall tell of the Laundromat and what I would enjoy doing; I am also going to be adding "Featured:" blogs that I read regularly and hope you guys do too, if you don't, you're missing out. Ciao. 




Featured: Well, in my usual user-hateful way, I refuse to try and interface with this Bloggy-blog thingy. I am not in Wordpress, because I hate that even more than Blogger, so will suffer along here until I find out how to beam my thoughts directly into all your heads. Can't wait for that! 


Featured now: Sundae Rye, @ http://sundaeryestudio.com/  good stuff there and Michael Formichelli, check out his book at http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/blood-siren-book-one-michael-formichelli/1110841805?ean=2940014425643&cm_mmc=AFFILIATES-_-Linkshare-_-je6NUbpObpQ-_-10:1

OKAY, MORE IMPORTANT NEWS, HOMELESS CHRONICLES BACK IN BUSINESS, NOW WITH LESS IRONY, MORE... WRITER'S BLOCK?

I really did hit a writer's block or brick wall with this title. I wanted something clever and ironic and witty and eye-catching, that will nab me a million views in one day. Bullshit; we all know this is not going to happen. I am re-launching this website for a purpose and a good one I hope. But, the hell with it. I want to do something good here and if I just keep thinking about it and trying to polish it, it will never get done. It's my Preciousss.... *shakes head* Let me cut right to the chase.

Anyone who’s known me for any longer than five minutes pretty much has heard me barf up the story of my life so I won’t puke it up again. Just the usual stuff, smart parents, but dysfunctional, alcoholic daddy, co-dependent ma, deeply flawed, but man, they were good people. I was basically lazy, low, low, self-esteem, slacker, blah, blah, but got somewhere, because I had loads of talent, but little drive and loads of self-destructive behavior. Cursed myself, but I own it and I am lucky to be walking and breathing. Okay. I have nothing that will kill me outright, but lots of annoying shit that I bore my poor friends to death with, topped off with a butt load of bi-polarity and that evil, lying bitch, depression. (am I right, Andi-Roo?) I got pretty fucked up over this whole thing called “life” a few months back, which I do on a fairly regular basis. I found out I was bi-polar this past March, after having stayed up most of February. Ironically, I don't remember much of March, except for St. Patrick's Day weekend. The rest of March, I was in the Hospital under the kind auspices of the Baker Act, which is a polite term in Florida for Loony Bin. Life is some serious shit.
 
I am one of the lucky ones. To wit: I have a roof over my head. I have food. Yes, I am on SSDI. Yes, it's a constant battle to get any kind of health care at all. It just forces me to be very discerning and ask lots of questions, and not necessarily about the particular health problem I may be dealing with at the time. So, enough of my organ recital.

I got my second chance; I suspect one of the reasons I am having such a bad time at this point, is I have nothing to really engage me, nothing that makes me feel alive NOW. That is a terrible thing to say. I have a good man in my life, whom I love beyond reason. I have countless friends who love me and whom I adore. I am still after 56 years of sloth, indolence, carelessness and general indifference, intensely interested by the human condition. I am curious, awed, moved, amused, bemused, exhilarated and disgusted by the way we treat one another. Everything we do has a consequence, everything we do matters and matters greatly. To quote Arthur Miller, "Attention must be paid."

When JC and I were coming home the other day on the Bus, a woman was standing out in the rain trying to sell the little newspaper that homeless people can "sell" for 1.00 to earn money since panhandling has been outlawed in Hillsborough County. This is the most asinine law. The lawmakers here resisted it for a few years, but the law was passed across the bay in Pinellas County, so it was simply a matter of time. I know all the arguments about the homeless. I've been there. I was homeless and it really sucked and I got un-homeless just as fast as I could. Truth be told? If I hadn't been so goddamned sick that I spent 2 months in the hospital and I was a shoo-in for SSDI, I'd probably still be homeless, nearly two years later. Shudder. 

Anyway. This woman is standing in the rain trying to sell her wet newspaper. Debby is borin... er, raining on her; she's wet, her little paper's wet, and I can't get out of my goddamned bus seat to get to the door to get her a damned dollar because the light changes and I trip over whackamole. I cried all the way downtown. Life can just suck. I want to help people like that. That lady needs help. She doesn't need condemning. She's not one of these people who's getting a check once a month and blowing it by the 3rd of the month. They live across the street from where I live now. I have to stop. I will tell more. Much more and not just about the homeless, but the system and their absurdities. Maybe I can find some answers and some concrete ones.

Please come back; I have more to tell. I want to help in my little patch of Nebraska Avenue. It isn't just about being funny or being insane, it's about doing what I can here with the not insubstantial tools I possess; just don't ask me to drive. I can become engaged and feel alive again.