ROW 80 POST 38 – THE RAT WHISPERER – A LOVE LETTER

Being homeless broadens one’s horizons. Yeah, no shit. That makes it sound like a candidate from MissManner’s School of Perfection chipped her nail polish and ended up on the wrong side of the tracks. Well, if you want to look at it like that, be my guest, but you will have missed out on all the stupidity, catastrophe, fun, yes fun, and peril that put my dumb ass in this predicament, in the first place.

I would also like to climb further out on this metaphorical limb and perhaps break the branch altogether and say, that life is one hell of a lot more entertaining post-homeless, than pre-. Along with all of the attendant annoyances, Food Stamps, and the idiots of the FDC, Medicaid and the non-existent elves of “medically needy," and “costshare,” plus, all the redundant nightmares of the state and federal bureaucracy, we get what has to be the King of all Bad Governors, Ever.

Am I Sparkly Enough?

We have the ever evanescent presence of Florida Governor Rick Scott of the Sparkly Pluto Party, who along with his mendacious, shit-witted, and mostly stupidly-named minions of the state government who have never met a state or federal program they couldn’t fleece. Turns out one HUNTING DEUTSCH, Rick Scott’s “Job Czar,” whatever that is supposed to be and do, resigned after being paid unemployment benefits?!?!?

 On second thought, I am rather dim-mish here. Truthiness, y'all...

I KNOW!!!! What       The     Fuck???? How come Rick Scott is still alive? How come Hunting Fucking Deutsch just gets to resign? Seriously? Does this Scott have a reason to inhabit air molecules? And how come all of this malfeasance is just explained away, like, no biggie. No big deal. Imagine for a minute if you or I did something vaguely, oh, I don’t know… criminal? Maybe, steal a loaf of bread, because we’re hungry? That shit happens here all the time. I’ve seen people get arrested at my grocery store. I don’t know that they’re prosecuted, but they take them away.

We’d end up like our pal Quandarious Hammond… Really. And here is Hunting Deutsch, just waltzing off to the, I guess, the Black Forest, with a freaking Nazi-sounding name like that. No German-Bund hate mail please. And just why is it, that the GOP always has people with the stupidest names imaginable? That one guy, Crpsx Grpn, or something. I can’t find him on Google, anyway, you know who I mean, honestly. Another toad. Well, I’m too busy or lazy to look for him and my eyes are still trying to get over Hunting Deutsch for God’s sake!

Geeze, I wasn’t even going there, but I remembered that and that’s all it took. I was going to talk about “The Rat Whisperer.” Our kitty-cat, so proudly displayed here on my blog, was a gift that showed up late one night, when JC was sitting outside. He doesn’t always sleep all through the night and he doesn’t like to be inside all the time. It’s quiet here at night; blessedly quiet. During the day, it’s all boom boxes and Latino music and hurly-burly. We love it, but it do get raucous, so night time is a good time to sit out and reflect.

JC has had troubled times; as have we all. I dealt with mine by doing the go crazy-on-the-installmentplan. When the ARM bubble payment was due, man was that a bitch! But, it came right, I think. It's been almost a year, since that part and JC has been by my side for 2 years now. For him, with all of his goodness and purity, he was let down and hurt badly. No one should ever have their trust used and broken the way he did and as long as I’m alive, that will never, ever happen.

JC’d had a little dog once, and when he had to go, he had to leave her behind. I’ve heard lots about that little dog and how he loved her so. When we were all over at the homeless shelter, of course, we couldn’t have dogs. Cats would show up, and they would get fed, with whatever scraps, were around. One of the guys there still cares for the strays. I remember him hollering, “Who’s feeding these cats spaghetti! Cats don’t eat spaghetti!”  Meanwhile, the cats and possums were wolfing down spaghetti, donuts, cheerios and ramen noodles. Basically, anything anyone put on the ground, by the kitchen. 

Being in our homeless shelter was nothing so much as like being in high school; a very dangerous high school at times, but high school. You had cliques. I guess once a nerd, always a nerd, because that’s where I ended up; with the nerds. JC, H, D and a few others. Out on the outskirts, not doing drugs, or drinking, just kind of hanging out between doctor’s appointments, physical rehab, trips to SSA, parole offices, grocery stores, part-time jobs, or vocational rehab classes. Man, we lived there. Live-in school of hard knocks.

So, being nerds, we were also kinda, but not really, easy prey; we sat where we could watch ALL of the goings-on, keeping our backs to the wall, so to speak. We sat in the back in a row in porch chairs along what had been an old hotel on a cement easement. Underneath the easement, there was a family of rats. There were about 2 or 3 generations of rats living under there. They came and went, and JC started feeding them. The rats brought their kids and grandparents along to feast on the plenty.

We had been sitting out there for months and people were bringing out their sandwiches and crackers and here’s JC collecting all of this and feeding these rats and making pets out of them.  They would hear his voice and come out and wait for him to bring them “treats.” The owner came by one day. “Hey! Who’s been feeding these damned rats? If I find out, that person’s going to be kicked out of here!” This from the guy who is renting to burglars and dopers. So, we had to cool it on feeding the rats. 

When Buttercup, Butterball, Butterscotch or Mama came to us, she was very, very shy. I think she may have been abused. There is damage to the right cornea of her eye. It took JC a long time to get her to the point where she would let him pet her. She is still leery of people she doesn't know; I’m grateful for that, because she still is not keen on being a totally indoor kind of cat.

She’s really a charmer and so funny; it's been years since I've had a cat. The most fun though, is watching the interaction between Mama and "The Rat Whisper." She loves him to pieces and follows him around. She looks up into his face, when he talks to her. He gives her directions with his hand and he uses American Sign Language. I may not know what he's saying, but she does. Lately, she’s been after his shoes. She gets her claw caught in his shoelace and the shoe “follows” her and then she takes off! It’s hilarious the way she zooms out of the room. JC is used to dogs and he said once, “Do you think she likes us?”

I said, “She likes me, but she adores you.” It’s the truth. And I love him, unreservedly and forever; the way it should be.

ROW 80 POST 37 – ONLY ON NEBRASKA

I go to our supermarket pretty regularly; several times a week, in fact. It’s probably one of the few places I can go and feel… I know not what I feel. I don’t drive, because I’m legally blind. Oh, I suppose I could drive and I did for a while, when I was just blind in my left eye. It made for some interesting guess work, as regards distance between objects, moving and stationary. Depth perception was nil anyway. I no longer had that annoying 2-of-everything thing going on, but still, when I had about 83 near-misses in 10 days, I decided it would be better for everyone if I just surrendered my license and went quietly. Surgery on the left eye did nothing except, surprise! That annoying 2-of-everything is now back, only sometimes the 2 things are real far apart, sometimes they’re almost 1 thing. It’s psychedelic, without the pestiferous and lurid colors, odors, sounds and… oh, wait. I have this other thing going on, that provides all of that. Never mind.

Anyway, yesterday, which was Wednesday (another missed check in! Damn!) I went on my weekly jaunt to the store. As we have no vehicle, I go after JC returns home from his class, that way we only use 1 bus pass and save an extra 4 bucks. It’s easier for me to go as well, because he has bad knees. Our little operation works quite well. The pass-off of the ceremonial bus pass, farewell kiss and off I go, back-pack and whack-a-mole, dark glasses and ‘tude.

The attitude has mellowed somewhat. I only get overtly hostile if someone runs directly over the top of me now. I employed the 3-foot rule for a long time. I still have the option to detonate if my person or property are manhandled, which believe it or not, has happened in the grocery store, but we have a saying there, “Only on Nebraska.”

It’s an apt saying and timeless, apparently. I’ve been shopping there, since I was dumped unceremoniously down the street in a homeless shelter over 2 years ago with my food stamps. It was zany then and seems to have gotten worse, so it’s just my style. I forget about how random and crazy this place truly is until times like yesterday.

Some observations and highlights, if you don’t mind. First off, Management either heard my endless bitching about “Sleigh Ride” by Thelonius Monk, or I just missed that part of the endless tape, that’s filtered through bad speakers and is just a crackly static anyway.

I swear I DID recognize the woman who came up to me hollering “Girl! You look so fantastic! What choo been doin’ since you got out?” I totally scoobied that one and said, “Oh, you know, a little of this, a bit of that. And you?” She rattled on about “our old gang.” We reminisced about stuff I do not remember. Had some laughs and promised to keep in touch. Hug, hug and off she went. I’m really not sure what we got “out” of. I’ll ponder that awhile.

I never cared for Scooby and the Gang. I can't believe I know what "Scoobied" even means. Too much "Buffy" and "Angel"

So, as I was a-pondering, I’m bent over, looking for some soup and of course, the soup I wanted was on the bottom shelf. Dude comes up and says, “D’you know where the Velveeta is?” I straighten up and say, “Well, logic would dictate that it be with dairy products, but that is not the case, so it’s probably with the air filters.” Ha ha. He goes off and I continue wrestling with my soup. Dude comes back. “You were right!” Shit, blargle. “My name’s Tom.” “Hi. Tom. My name’s Mary.” Dutifully shake hands. He says, “Are you from around here?” I say, “Actually, I’m on loan from another planet.” He gets the hint and leaves. Aargh. I so hate that.

Well, shit. Now, I feel like I need to skedaddle. I don’t do well when I think people are on the prowl. I get real defensive and from there, I get jumpy and all offensive quickly. Crap. I go and get my pastrami; I’m about through anyway. Now, here’s where it starts getting really weird.

The saying “Only on Nebraska,” started about 2 years ago, when I was trying to pay for a prescription at the pharmacy. Between the cash registers at the counter, there is a perfectly round hole cut through the top and people were throwing their trash down the hole. The pharmacy clerks put a medicine bottle to prevent this. That didn’t stop people, customers from removing the bottle and stuffing their garbage in the hole, so the clerks wrote “DO NOT REMOVE” on the white plastic lid, which I found (and still do) absolutely hilarious. At the time, I said something like, “This is just unbelievable,” or some other amorphous thing expressing my incredulity. I had a lot to learn about this neighborhood. The pharmacy clerk, who lives around here, said “Only on Nebraska,” and it stuck.

Anyway, I paid for my groceries and went to the customer service counter. I needed to get 2 rolls of quarters so we can do laundry. What happened next was something out of a Marx Brothers movie. I have no idea which Brother I would have been, probably Gummo or Zeppo, although maybe we were more like the East Side Kids; really low-rent.

There was a woman in a Fedex getup doing Lottery or Money Order stuff being helped. To the right of her was this troglodyte of uncertain sex in Bermudas, striped tee and baseball cap with a bag containing a sub and a bag of wings. I was behind these 2 with wallet, a twenty, bottle of water, cart of crap and whack-a-mole.

There was some fussing and fidgeting going on. Now, remember I cannot really see all of this and when things get weird, I get weirder. Fedex lady finished her business and stepped away. When she did so, something fell to the floor in front of me. I looked down. What in the name of all that is unholy mackerel Moses on a bicycle is that a finger? I look closer. It’s a root! Gah, it’s a moldy finger-root!

I scream out “Sqhiieeeee…. She dropped something…. Wha is this….?” I’m in full panic mode. I’m not sure if this is a finger, a spore, some hellish curse. Just make this go away! Dear God, if that fucker moves, I’m outta here. I will levitate, melt, sprout wings; I am not going near that mutant bastard whatever it is!

Well, in my fugue state, I walked to my right, laid down my 20.00 bill and my bottle of water, saw the bag with the sub and the wings and thinking it was mine, since I had gotten JC some, and had an identical bag, picked it up; the troll had disappeared. Meanwhile, the customer service clerk had come around and looked down, said “it’s a chicken bone; disgusting,” gotten a paper towel and whisked it away to never-never land.

Troglodyte comes back and hollers, “Where’s my sub?” just about the time I holler “Where’s my money?” so we have a nifty little ballet there for a few moments, until we get that sorted out. Cashier lady sees me huffing and puffing like an ox on ‘roids and the troll is about to cry and says “Ladies (?) take a deep breath.” We do and life rights itself.

I have too many groceries to take home on the bus, so I go out front and call a cab, then call JC to tell him I’m on my way home. As he and I are talking, a traveling dog-fight goes by, in the form of a kid on a bike with monkey-handlebars. He’s got a boom-box duct-taped to the handlebars, speakers facing out. Rasta hair, flapping in the wind. Dude’s cranking it, both with pedals and volume, full blast. Of course, all I can hear is static, with a bit of bass and shouting. At least the kid is respectful. He nods at me as he zooms past. I nod back and burst out laughing, once he’s gone. Only on Nebraska.
 

ROW 80 POST 36 – HAVE A GUMBY CHRISTMAS AND SUNDAY CHECK-IN

That there pageanty thing I played viola for, that I was telling you all about with my various stand partners who had various colorful pasts/conditions/neuroses and whatevers, in my last post, could not hold candles to the goings-on on the stage of the Christmas Pageant at the Nativity Church. This is the place where art and sense and any shreds of sanity left went and died. The Creche was laid out in lurid colors and raucous smells, of the pine and incense and maybe myrrh varieties, with spaceships and whooshing sounds. The 3 Wise men were Wookies and Baby Jesus was R2D2. Okay, I made up that last part, but you get the idea. The damned thing was gaudy as hell on a bicycle.

Courtesy of www.ckelleyread.blogspot.com

This actually looks like some shit they would do on Runescape, but it would have totally worked at a Nativity Pageant.

Frosty the Snowman went on a diet and they never did have enough black felt for his eye-holes. When we played that song, it looked like “Frosty the Serial-Killer” cavorting on stage, which always gave me a frisson of fear; that blank look, knife-slash for a mouth. Then, my better sense would go, “yeah, a Nativity gig,” and I’d hear my best bud, Spenser, laughing his ass off behind me on principal cello. It was THAT kind of gig, and it paid very well, too. Plus, it was right here in Tampa. No 8-hour frantic road trip to the next Jesus Job.

When we got to Elvis’ “Blue Christmas” 2 helpful elves would scamper out onto stage and slap mutton-chops with Velcro on Frosty’s face. We’d take bets on whether they’d get near mutton-chop acreage and not Frosty’s forehead. They never missed. I guess that would have been another song. Once applied, we had “Abraham Lincoln Serial-Killer Snowman.” Eek! But in all the years, I could never understand why Fros-tay wasn’t fat. Guess he couldn’t cut down all those boss moves we all do here in Tampa.

Of course, we had several tree-related songs. Which brings me to something I’m very thankful for indeed. This church, as huge as it is, has a normal auditorium, with a stage and apron down in front. Consequently, the orchestra sits on the floor, directly in front of the audience. On this stage, there are always poinsettias in pots that line the front, not an opera-type set up, with a movable pit, so the orchestra is in firing-range of objects being flung from the stage.

During one of the innumerable tree-related songs that Nativity seems to love and that go on and on and on, people come out in these giant trees. One person per tree and the trees look like giant Gumby trees; children cavort around between these trees and create more mayhem. There are four of them and they come out and sway and leap around to the music we play and they knock the poinsettias off into the orchestra. One year a flung poinsettia hit a violinist in the head. I can’t stand her. She’s such a bitch, but she’s got a nice violin. I sat by the audience, so I have a nice view of all this derangement. Once one of the trees fell down during all of this swaying and dancing and Spenser had to catch Wolf when I started to slip out of my chair laughing. It’s THAT kind of gig.

Imagine this as Christmas trees. Or not.

Whatever it was, when the Church itself stopped presenting the pageants, I was sad. That was one of the year’s highlights. In a world filled with gigs and insanity, New York Gilbert and Sullivan, (NYGASP) Opera Tampa, Styx, Alan Parsons Project, Manhattan Transfer, Johnny Mathis, Bernadette Peters, Steve and Eydie, Frank Sinatra Jr., Bobby Vinton, Anne Murray, Southwest Florida Symphony, Birmingham Symphony, and so many others I’m forgetting; oh, but who could forget the "Channeling Elvis Tour," where we played with the Jordanaires and Elvis on a HUGE-ASS SCREEN! (his followers a book in themselves,) it says something when people, musicians say to one another, “when’s the Nativity gig?” It was always something ridiculous and you were guaranteed at least one gut-buster a night, and no one died, cared or got hurt over it. You can’t ask for much more purity in life than that, methinks.

Well, check in Sunday, and it’s been awhile. It’s a new month. I totally crashed on NaNoWriMo. I started at the beginning and about November 20, 2012, I figured where I should have started which was pretty much towards the end. So, instead of scrapping and being frozen, revamp. But the other revelatory action that has paid off in spades; it is possible to not go 110 mph all the time and be happy with that. If I post 2 or 3 times a week, that’s okay for now.

Thanksgiving night I had one of those episodes that most closely resembles one of my psychotic breaks. This was after 2 days of tearing around like a bat out of hell. My body feels it and my mind rebels. My brain just simply refuses to go any faster after a sprint like that. What I did before, is not happening now. The good thing is that I have my paperwork for Medicare and so now, I have a new agency to fuck with, not just the State of Florida.