Last day.
I'm on hiatus from New York for a few weeks, at the least, a month at the most.
Everything here is done, I've only to lug out the rubbish, take my shower and hail the gypsy cab (booya, anon).
I'm following another blog, reading about someone dealing with an ill father, which brings back the times sitting with my dad... I know his pain. Having met, it's harder than a simple read of an unknown. I'll keep an eye there, to see how it goes, and prayers will be said.
I keep an eye on my void, and wonder how long just now is... and sometimes, I wonder if I'm more comfortable with things the way they are... if the void opens, I face failure. I'm not too sure I can deal with that. I failed once, simply struck dumb, and now, I sit outside a locked door, waiting.
WeatherGuy is camping for a week, a last minute hurried phone call our only conversation. There will be more, a simple hiatus, he reminded me.
Friends here, one sending me furiously typed emails I'm responding to as I type this, most of them making me laugh.
I've a wedding to attend, no dress purchased yet, a new member of the family I'll be holding soon... my Investment will be there, the Slumlord and MissH.
Good times ahead.
See you soon, New York. Make sure you move as fast as you can while I'm gone. If you didn't, I'd worry.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Today's Blather
1. I was reading a journal today, and the writer said she tracks posts. Why? I never bother, because well, A) I don't know how and B) it's just too big brotherish.
I don't want to know how many people read me or what their ISP is or where they are from. I've had a few nasty comments, and a few nasty emails. For some reason, people usually email me their snarky remarks.
I appreciate that, you 47 readers!
But, to trace anyone who logs on here? *shudder* To be honest, it makes me wonder.. who traces me? I tend to log in, and sometimes sit on a site for hours... I don't close out windows. I take the terrier out, take a nap.... I am unemployed right now... whatever. Am I being...watched?
2. I did a farewell walk around the 'hood.
I've had my fair share of smack talk about the Bronx. I need to be careful and aim that talk at my particular area... there are some amazing places in the Bronx I've found. Parks and churches and neighborhoods that are leafy, green, the architecture is crisp. It's my neighborhood that drives me to staying inside, and walking home with a straight back and a firm stride.
Generational dependence on the area's big employer, the Government, has driven many to stay as they are. When you are handed money with each child, you keep having children. I live in a building that is 85% subsidised. It's nasty, the tiles are broken, the garbage piles up in a rotting mass. I listen to fights in the courtyards and have spent more than one evening with a child next to me, sitting on the stairs, waiting for a parent to unlock the door after being out until midnight or later. Kids become what they see. I've heard arguments stop when I walk past.... and start up again when I move on. They don't do that for anyone else. I live in my Little Apartment in the Projects, and I stand out like a sore thumb. Middle class in every way.
I have so many good things I'll take from here, the pizza place and the kids in the building... the young couple moved away. Queens, I heard. There's a group of men who play dominos down the street, their table set up in the shade of the building, they call out, "Mamii... how are you?" when I walk by. We all nod very politely.
I'll not miss the .99 Store that LIES.
"That is $1.49."
"Your sign says everything is .99"
"Yes, well, that is $1.49."
I hate that.
I won't miss the loud cars at 3A. I won't miss the piles of trash, or the crack house across the street or the heavy heat of the flat at midnight.
I'll miss the roses in the garden two houses over.
3. The 4 train. I took it up here for the last time today, and.. and... I had a seat from downtown all the way home.
'nuff said.
4. House is cleaned, clothes packed, I had cookies from Jack's .99 store downtown for my birthday.
5. Had the interview, where I was one of 10 narrowed down from over 100. Fingers crossed.
6. Read the ending of Harry Potter. Shame on you, JK Rowling. I skimmed the last half, then read the ending. Twaddle, it was... twaddle.
Tomorrow, I move suitcases, computer bag and a dog to Penn Station, then on the train to Newark... then to Utah. I leave here at 1P and arrive in my old home at 4A.
August should be great fun.
I don't want to know how many people read me or what their ISP is or where they are from. I've had a few nasty comments, and a few nasty emails. For some reason, people usually email me their snarky remarks.
I appreciate that, you 47 readers!
But, to trace anyone who logs on here? *shudder* To be honest, it makes me wonder.. who traces me? I tend to log in, and sometimes sit on a site for hours... I don't close out windows. I take the terrier out, take a nap.... I am unemployed right now... whatever. Am I being...watched?
2. I did a farewell walk around the 'hood.
I've had my fair share of smack talk about the Bronx. I need to be careful and aim that talk at my particular area... there are some amazing places in the Bronx I've found. Parks and churches and neighborhoods that are leafy, green, the architecture is crisp. It's my neighborhood that drives me to staying inside, and walking home with a straight back and a firm stride.
Generational dependence on the area's big employer, the Government, has driven many to stay as they are. When you are handed money with each child, you keep having children. I live in a building that is 85% subsidised. It's nasty, the tiles are broken, the garbage piles up in a rotting mass. I listen to fights in the courtyards and have spent more than one evening with a child next to me, sitting on the stairs, waiting for a parent to unlock the door after being out until midnight or later. Kids become what they see. I've heard arguments stop when I walk past.... and start up again when I move on. They don't do that for anyone else. I live in my Little Apartment in the Projects, and I stand out like a sore thumb. Middle class in every way.
I have so many good things I'll take from here, the pizza place and the kids in the building... the young couple moved away. Queens, I heard. There's a group of men who play dominos down the street, their table set up in the shade of the building, they call out, "Mamii... how are you?" when I walk by. We all nod very politely.
I'll not miss the .99 Store that LIES.
"That is $1.49."
"Your sign says everything is .99"
"Yes, well, that is $1.49."
I hate that.
I won't miss the loud cars at 3A. I won't miss the piles of trash, or the crack house across the street or the heavy heat of the flat at midnight.
I'll miss the roses in the garden two houses over.
3. The 4 train. I took it up here for the last time today, and.. and... I had a seat from downtown all the way home.
'nuff said.
4. House is cleaned, clothes packed, I had cookies from Jack's .99 store downtown for my birthday.
5. Had the interview, where I was one of 10 narrowed down from over 100. Fingers crossed.
6. Read the ending of Harry Potter. Shame on you, JK Rowling. I skimmed the last half, then read the ending. Twaddle, it was... twaddle.
Tomorrow, I move suitcases, computer bag and a dog to Penn Station, then on the train to Newark... then to Utah. I leave here at 1P and arrive in my old home at 4A.
August should be great fun.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
When Life Isn't Beautiful
I don't agree that anything and everything is fair ground for comedy.
The comment was made elsewhere, and it was there that I said my piece on that particular subject.
I came to the realisation, I need to address it on my own journal.. if I'm going to be a righteous twat, I need to bring it to my own playground.
Anything and everything isn't fair grounds for comedy, plain and simple statement belief, in my plain and simple thought.
You don't go after children, in any fashion. You don't bring up the Holocaust. You don't use genocide in any fashion as a basis for comedy. Certain events... leave them alone.. the sheer smack to the spirit is enough. You can discuss them, plays are done, and done well.. films. Comedy? I guess I can't find anything amusing in those subjects, nothing droll, nothing in the slightest to make me, well, even smile with a twinge of amusement.
Sure, I'll laugh like crazy with Mel Brooks and his poking a sharp stick in the face of Hitler. He's right, you have to laugh at the man, or he wins. Chris Rock did an entire riff on the two boys who shot up Columbine, where a boy I knew was shot. No one had touched the idea of Columbine.
Chris touched on the people. Not the event, the people who he said, "...were crazy. They weren't outcasts, they were crazy." It let us all start to accept what had happened.
The Holocaust was a word to me....and when I was young, I saw a woman in Denver, where I was living at the time, near Sloans Lake. It was there, on her wrist... just, there. Dark against her white skin. She reached for something, I looked.. and, my breath was taken away. Our eyes met, she smiled, soft.. small. My breath was taken away. I went home, didn't even put my groceries away, sitting on my sofa, crying. I never saw the event the same way again.
R questioned how people say it never happened.
"Well, then, where did my relatives go?"
I shook my head. I wonder that , too. How do you explain the disappearance of six million? And, how to you trivialise it by asking for limericks? When that happens, you open the door for it to happen again.
Oh, wait.. Darfur.
Molest a child? I'll have no problem laughing at what is done to you. I won't laugh if someone makes a joke over what you did. In fact, I'll more than likely use words to cut you up myself, if I can restrain myself from slapping you, or washing your mouth out with Lava.
You don't hurt children, in any way, shape or form.
And, you don't use any of those events as a basis for comedy.
Some things are held as sacred. Hiroshima. The Holocaust. Darfur, along with the other horrific acts being perpetrated as we speak in Africa. 9/11. Harming children.
No, I'm sorry....well, actually, I'm not sorry.
Not everything and anything is fair game.
When that happens, we've truly lost our souls.
And, in this righteous twat's mind, when that happens, we might as well eat, drink and fuck ourselves silly, the only important things in life... settling in for the big black thereafter.
I'm not ready for that. I still have hope we'll sort something out.
That, that small hope, that is what makes life beautiful.
The comment was made elsewhere, and it was there that I said my piece on that particular subject.
I came to the realisation, I need to address it on my own journal.. if I'm going to be a righteous twat, I need to bring it to my own playground.
Anything and everything isn't fair grounds for comedy, plain and simple statement belief, in my plain and simple thought.
You don't go after children, in any fashion. You don't bring up the Holocaust. You don't use genocide in any fashion as a basis for comedy. Certain events... leave them alone.. the sheer smack to the spirit is enough. You can discuss them, plays are done, and done well.. films. Comedy? I guess I can't find anything amusing in those subjects, nothing droll, nothing in the slightest to make me, well, even smile with a twinge of amusement.
Sure, I'll laugh like crazy with Mel Brooks and his poking a sharp stick in the face of Hitler. He's right, you have to laugh at the man, or he wins. Chris Rock did an entire riff on the two boys who shot up Columbine, where a boy I knew was shot. No one had touched the idea of Columbine.
Chris touched on the people. Not the event, the people who he said, "...were crazy. They weren't outcasts, they were crazy." It let us all start to accept what had happened.
The Holocaust was a word to me....and when I was young, I saw a woman in Denver, where I was living at the time, near Sloans Lake. It was there, on her wrist... just, there. Dark against her white skin. She reached for something, I looked.. and, my breath was taken away. Our eyes met, she smiled, soft.. small. My breath was taken away. I went home, didn't even put my groceries away, sitting on my sofa, crying. I never saw the event the same way again.
R questioned how people say it never happened.
"Well, then, where did my relatives go?"
I shook my head. I wonder that , too. How do you explain the disappearance of six million? And, how to you trivialise it by asking for limericks? When that happens, you open the door for it to happen again.
Oh, wait.. Darfur.
Molest a child? I'll have no problem laughing at what is done to you. I won't laugh if someone makes a joke over what you did. In fact, I'll more than likely use words to cut you up myself, if I can restrain myself from slapping you, or washing your mouth out with Lava.
You don't hurt children, in any way, shape or form.
And, you don't use any of those events as a basis for comedy.
Some things are held as sacred. Hiroshima. The Holocaust. Darfur, along with the other horrific acts being perpetrated as we speak in Africa. 9/11. Harming children.
No, I'm sorry....well, actually, I'm not sorry.
Not everything and anything is fair game.
When that happens, we've truly lost our souls.
And, in this righteous twat's mind, when that happens, we might as well eat, drink and fuck ourselves silly, the only important things in life... settling in for the big black thereafter.
I'm not ready for that. I still have hope we'll sort something out.
That, that small hope, that is what makes life beautiful.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
My Name is Quin. Quin DuBois,
Sadly, I don't look like Vivian Leigh, however, I felt like her character thanks to the kindness of strangers.
I was even semi-caressed by a swarthy man in a white shirt today.... that's later down the page, scroll ahead if you feel the need.
Life has been, well, harsh.ish lately.
I've listened hard, to see what the universe was saying aside from, "Please enjoy this while we connect your call" and Pachelbel's Canon plays on my nerve while I sit on hold.
Things moved... slowly.
'Just now' was the Universe's modus operandi. I sweltered, worried, filled out forms, packed, re-packed, moaned and bemoaned my fate.
Things....changed. R wrote, "Hey, I'll come pick you up, take your stuff from the Bronx to Brooklyn."
Whoa. We'd never met. And she's driving from 90 minutes away, to take my stuff that far? This is on top of handing over miles she never uses to top off my Delta miles. R, thanks. Just.. thanks.
GW sends emails, making me laugh. Miss Sof and Loo remind me, your time is coming. K says, "Hiatus, keep saying, hiatus." WeatherGuy talks as if September is no big time away, the Jarhead is in touch again after a technical fubar and I get emails that I smile over.
I get a call from an ad I'd answered some time ago, "We love your resume, can you come in for an interview?"
Boom. Script supervising job in September, small indie, but, they are going for the internet serial thing, so, long term is ahead. They also want me to work with them on casting, based on my four years in the position in theater.
Okay. Okay, I'm feeling better.
I had found a way to do the apartment thing, if this one in mid-town didn't work out. It is a great place, but, it was at the top of my budget. My son stepped in, and told me not to worry. The SlumLord worries about his Mom. Let's be honest, he wanted a place to stay when he comes here.
Another call, out of the blue.... would I like to come interview as an assistant to a film producer on Monday? He, too, loves my resume. Well, I did use a pretty font and everything.... Oh! And, can I travel if it works out on the job?
Ummm, yes?
My mother calls... she is lonely. Would I mind terribly if she took the terrier?
This, ah, this was hard. I've been thinking lately, however, that it's not fair to the terrier... I'm out looking for work, and she's been here, alone. Her little face is not happy when I get back, and she's developing bad habits, like dumping trash cans, and burying her dog bones in my clothes.
My mother isn't a good parent to me, however, she adores the terrier. I'm thinking this may be a good thing all the way around. When I go to New Orleans, the terrier will stay behind.
I can't talk about this right now.
I managed to get everything into the alloted suitcases last night, a miracle in itself... and R arrives. We get along wonderfully, talking at, through, and around each other, setting guidelines on some areas.... I simply refuse to listen to her discuss how her friend got his nip... well, I refused. boundaries in place, we're off.
She has a GPS that she's set to have an Australian accent. It's very precise, "Turn left in 100 yards."
We stop at Dunkin' Donuts, and it goes mad.
"Reverse your direction, and turn left. Reverse your direction, and turn left. REVERSE YOUR BLOODY DIRECTION AND TURN FUCKING LEFT!!!'
I was impressed.
Fueled by caffeine and sugar, we headed out... and arrived in Brooklyn awhile later, our voices almost worn out.
I rang C, who said she wasn't home, but, was on her way.
"Oh, well, J is here," I said, naming her landlord, who was also my first landlord in the city. "He can let me in if that's okay." There was a moment of silence.
"Ummm, no. No, I'd rather you wait for me."
I was more than surprised. C and I go way back, I mean, she's my sister, and we walk in and out of each other's homes.
R and I settled in to wait, after R took 47 minutes to parallel park.
While I waited, I started to chat with J, who is a nice, nice man.
"Where have you been living since you left here?" he asked. "We've missed seeing you around."
I filled him in, ending up with my current state of no apartment.
His nice Sicilian face filled with shock. "The BRONX??? You are off Fordham, in the BRONX???? No, no, I can't have that." With a question to his wife who was leaving, a fast phone call, and a comment on said phone call of "... I have a deposit, (winks at me) and you don't need to worry about checking, she's good people.", I found myself the tenant of his son, who owns a house on Staten Island, a place where J had just finished refurbishing the basement into a nice one bedroom apartment.
New bathroom, new flooring, new kitchen, new air conditioning. No credit check thing of 60 times the rent amount. No huge deposit (he wanted $100... I gave him $200) and, it's in a house. In a nice neighborhood. With a fenced yard.
How much? $725. Everything included.
On top of that, J told my new landlord (who is having me mail the check when I get to Utah) that he can pick up all my stuff from Brooklyn and move it to my new place. "She doesn't need to have to worry about that stuff, and you've got that big car."
I cried.
CB (no, not Caj), my landlord, spoke to me... would I mind, on rare occasions, to play nanny? No, but, the kids have to call me Miss Quin, I'm old fashioned. "Sure, but, what do I have to call you?" he asked, laughing.
"Hmmm. Well, I'd say M'am, but, that wasn't one of my more lucrative careers, so, just Quin is fine."
He laughed, this big laugh, and said, "We'll get along fine."
I'm a hop skip and a jump from the Ferry. A new place, that the landlord is moving my things into, and... I'm set.
I was, well, thrilled isn't the word. C arrived, and I filled her in. I went in to use the loo, and she told R that she had no idea why she told me I couldn't go into the house. She said she'd hung up her phone, looked to her friend who was driving, and said, "I have to apologise when I see Quin, I don't know why I told her 'no'..."
The Universe...
The Aussie told us how to get home, along the way, I saw the Statue of Liberty from a new angle, and a great sight... two nuns, in full habit, roller skating.
Once here, we stopped for my last Gyros. R is a veggie, and she went across the street to find something to eat there. The vendor and I have chatted over the last months, and I told him I'd miss his food.
He's from Egypt, and has only been here as long as I have, here in the city. He is one of those beautiful young men, classic faced, always pleasant to me. He's studying art, and rents the cart, making a decent salary. He said he's had his wallet stolen, but, he carries on, because the cart pays for his college tuition.
He told me he'd miss my smile. I laughed, and replied that he had a great line. "No, you have a lovely smile, you put your whole self into it. It makes people feel... good." He made up a huge container of gyros and rice and threw in a pita and a drink.
"$5."
I gave him $1o from my limited stash.
We bartered over the tip. He ended up keeping $2, refused the rest. Before I walked away, he gave me a huge hug, than another one.
"Lady, I will miss seeing you. Thank you for always being nice."
R and I wandered up the street, found a park, where she was flirted with (we think) by some drunk speaking some odd language and ate our food.
She bought cigarettes, drove me to the house, and was gone.
Thanks, R... thanks again.
One more thing happened, the normal shuttle that runs to my house... just added a new run, allowing me to get from the airport home...so, no one has to come to Vegas and pick me up...
Good day for the Trojan horse.
I now have to Google Staten Island, and see where the hell I'm moving. Thanks to the kindness of strangers, I had a great day, and... in a few weeks...I'll be coming home.
I was even semi-caressed by a swarthy man in a white shirt today.... that's later down the page, scroll ahead if you feel the need.
Life has been, well, harsh.ish lately.
I've listened hard, to see what the universe was saying aside from, "Please enjoy this while we connect your call" and Pachelbel's Canon plays on my nerve while I sit on hold.
Things moved... slowly.
'Just now' was the Universe's modus operandi. I sweltered, worried, filled out forms, packed, re-packed, moaned and bemoaned my fate.
Things....changed. R wrote, "Hey, I'll come pick you up, take your stuff from the Bronx to Brooklyn."
Whoa. We'd never met. And she's driving from 90 minutes away, to take my stuff that far? This is on top of handing over miles she never uses to top off my Delta miles. R, thanks. Just.. thanks.
GW sends emails, making me laugh. Miss Sof and Loo remind me, your time is coming. K says, "Hiatus, keep saying, hiatus." WeatherGuy talks as if September is no big time away, the Jarhead is in touch again after a technical fubar and I get emails that I smile over.
I get a call from an ad I'd answered some time ago, "We love your resume, can you come in for an interview?"
Boom. Script supervising job in September, small indie, but, they are going for the internet serial thing, so, long term is ahead. They also want me to work with them on casting, based on my four years in the position in theater.
Okay. Okay, I'm feeling better.
I had found a way to do the apartment thing, if this one in mid-town didn't work out. It is a great place, but, it was at the top of my budget. My son stepped in, and told me not to worry. The SlumLord worries about his Mom. Let's be honest, he wanted a place to stay when he comes here.
Another call, out of the blue.... would I like to come interview as an assistant to a film producer on Monday? He, too, loves my resume. Well, I did use a pretty font and everything.... Oh! And, can I travel if it works out on the job?
Ummm, yes?
My mother calls... she is lonely. Would I mind terribly if she took the terrier?
This, ah, this was hard. I've been thinking lately, however, that it's not fair to the terrier... I'm out looking for work, and she's been here, alone. Her little face is not happy when I get back, and she's developing bad habits, like dumping trash cans, and burying her dog bones in my clothes.
My mother isn't a good parent to me, however, she adores the terrier. I'm thinking this may be a good thing all the way around. When I go to New Orleans, the terrier will stay behind.
I can't talk about this right now.
I managed to get everything into the alloted suitcases last night, a miracle in itself... and R arrives. We get along wonderfully, talking at, through, and around each other, setting guidelines on some areas.... I simply refuse to listen to her discuss how her friend got his nip... well, I refused. boundaries in place, we're off.
She has a GPS that she's set to have an Australian accent. It's very precise, "Turn left in 100 yards."
We stop at Dunkin' Donuts, and it goes mad.
"Reverse your direction, and turn left. Reverse your direction, and turn left. REVERSE YOUR BLOODY DIRECTION AND TURN FUCKING LEFT!!!'
I was impressed.
Fueled by caffeine and sugar, we headed out... and arrived in Brooklyn awhile later, our voices almost worn out.
I rang C, who said she wasn't home, but, was on her way.
"Oh, well, J is here," I said, naming her landlord, who was also my first landlord in the city. "He can let me in if that's okay." There was a moment of silence.
"Ummm, no. No, I'd rather you wait for me."
I was more than surprised. C and I go way back, I mean, she's my sister, and we walk in and out of each other's homes.
R and I settled in to wait, after R took 47 minutes to parallel park.
While I waited, I started to chat with J, who is a nice, nice man.
"Where have you been living since you left here?" he asked. "We've missed seeing you around."
I filled him in, ending up with my current state of no apartment.
His nice Sicilian face filled with shock. "The BRONX??? You are off Fordham, in the BRONX???? No, no, I can't have that." With a question to his wife who was leaving, a fast phone call, and a comment on said phone call of "... I have a deposit, (winks at me) and you don't need to worry about checking, she's good people.", I found myself the tenant of his son, who owns a house on Staten Island, a place where J had just finished refurbishing the basement into a nice one bedroom apartment.
New bathroom, new flooring, new kitchen, new air conditioning. No credit check thing of 60 times the rent amount. No huge deposit (he wanted $100... I gave him $200) and, it's in a house. In a nice neighborhood. With a fenced yard.
How much? $725. Everything included.
On top of that, J told my new landlord (who is having me mail the check when I get to Utah) that he can pick up all my stuff from Brooklyn and move it to my new place. "She doesn't need to have to worry about that stuff, and you've got that big car."
I cried.
CB (no, not Caj), my landlord, spoke to me... would I mind, on rare occasions, to play nanny? No, but, the kids have to call me Miss Quin, I'm old fashioned. "Sure, but, what do I have to call you?" he asked, laughing.
"Hmmm. Well, I'd say M'am, but, that wasn't one of my more lucrative careers, so, just Quin is fine."
He laughed, this big laugh, and said, "We'll get along fine."
I'm a hop skip and a jump from the Ferry. A new place, that the landlord is moving my things into, and... I'm set.
I was, well, thrilled isn't the word. C arrived, and I filled her in. I went in to use the loo, and she told R that she had no idea why she told me I couldn't go into the house. She said she'd hung up her phone, looked to her friend who was driving, and said, "I have to apologise when I see Quin, I don't know why I told her 'no'..."
The Universe...
The Aussie told us how to get home, along the way, I saw the Statue of Liberty from a new angle, and a great sight... two nuns, in full habit, roller skating.
Once here, we stopped for my last Gyros. R is a veggie, and she went across the street to find something to eat there. The vendor and I have chatted over the last months, and I told him I'd miss his food.
He's from Egypt, and has only been here as long as I have, here in the city. He is one of those beautiful young men, classic faced, always pleasant to me. He's studying art, and rents the cart, making a decent salary. He said he's had his wallet stolen, but, he carries on, because the cart pays for his college tuition.
He told me he'd miss my smile. I laughed, and replied that he had a great line. "No, you have a lovely smile, you put your whole self into it. It makes people feel... good." He made up a huge container of gyros and rice and threw in a pita and a drink.
"$5."
I gave him $1o from my limited stash.
We bartered over the tip. He ended up keeping $2, refused the rest. Before I walked away, he gave me a huge hug, than another one.
"Lady, I will miss seeing you. Thank you for always being nice."
R and I wandered up the street, found a park, where she was flirted with (we think) by some drunk speaking some odd language and ate our food.
She bought cigarettes, drove me to the house, and was gone.
Thanks, R... thanks again.
One more thing happened, the normal shuttle that runs to my house... just added a new run, allowing me to get from the airport home...so, no one has to come to Vegas and pick me up...
Good day for the Trojan horse.
I now have to Google Staten Island, and see where the hell I'm moving. Thanks to the kindness of strangers, I had a great day, and... in a few weeks...I'll be coming home.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Way Down Yonder
Cajun posted a column yesterday, from the great Times Picayune writer, Chris Rose.
For those of you who are unsure of what a picayune is, it was a small Spanish coin, and came to mean something trivial.
Chris Rose was an entertainment writer for said Times Picayune.. as he once stated, he was Brittany Spear's worst nightmare, camping out around her home in Louisiana. When that big ass bitch, Katrina, hit, Chris headed out of town, along with a lot of other folk... thing is, he went back to what he saw as home.
He's become New Orleans' favourite son. You can find his work in an amazing book, One Dead in Attic, that talks about my city, my hometown, after Katrina. He also writes a daily column, and it's darn good reading. You'd never know he was a damn Yankee.
Thing is, after Caj's journal today, I re-read One Dead in Attic (the title is taken from the notes left on homes, to tell workers how many were.. well, you get the idea), a book suggested to me when it came out, as Chris' work was to me following Katrina, by the formidable MaryV.
My father was overwhelmed by all of this when it happened, this huge event, this storm that managed to bring New Orleans to her knees..to drop her face down. Even in his state with dementia and Alzheimer's, he was aware the city he'd been born in, that he considered home, that he adored, was being torn apart.
The neighborhood we played in.... a Dead Zone now. My cousins lived by the levee... their things, gone. We were thankful for cell phones, text messages went through. One set had raced to Purvis, Mississippi to seek shelter, only to be slammed by Katrina on her way north.
The city I'd grown up in, where my family had lived for generations, since the mid 1800's, where we have family vaults, and my great grandmother and her children had a vegetable stall in the French Quarter, my uncle is a New Orleans baseball legend, another one owned the Dodge dealerships, my Uncle G was from generations back, my Dad graduated Tulane (GO GREEN WAVE!), family who lived in the Quarter on Burgundy (pronounced baGUNdy) my cousins are Yats, my MawMaw went to the Ursuline Convent School and I grew up making groceries at Schwegmann's.... yeah, we were New Orleans... and I sat and watched her go under.
I'd lived though Betsy... whoa, there was a bitch. Carla, she tried to take us out, but, Besty... we'd run outside during the eye, so calm, so serene, talking about what we were doing, the parents hammering up the boards, doing a basic check on trees, watching as the winds started up again. Our bathtubs filled with water, food supplies ready.
With Betsy, the week before, the neighborhood had gotten together and made a huge amount of crawfish étouffée, a arduous task when you add in 100 lbs of crawfish, all the makings, and a large amount of beer and whiskey and sharp knives. My parents had recently purchased a chest style freezer, so, the food was parceled out, marked, and stored. When the electricity went out, as it will in a major hurricane, we started eating everything in the freezers, especially the food they'd worked so hard on...meaning we had étouffée for breakfast, lunch and supper. I think Mr Frank and Mr Warren (you don't call grown up's by their first names alone) and my Dad were still eating it when the dogs turned their noses up at the idea of touching the stuff.
Each time we rebuilt, in the hot muggy air, each time saying, "The next one, that's the one that'll take out the levees" and, suddenly, there they were, bursting out on national television. Filling the city so quickly, it was surreal.
I'd volunteered to go work, and ended up having my knee taken apart and put back together, so, that stopped that. My father became upset that I would leave him.... and that stopped any future plans.
The GoldenChild ponied up, for once, and did some great relief work.
He and a friend in Santa Monica managed in four days time to fill a huge number of semi's with water, cots, clothes, food, blankets.... and a wad of cash to fill the fuel tanks of said semis.... and they were off. Now, the GoldenChild is funny, I'll give him that. He remarked that many a kind soul came to the trucks, after raiding their closets.
These were Santa Monica and West Hollywood women.
Classic, stereotypical Santa Monica and West Hollywood women.
<> big. They brought black cocktail dresses. Stiletto heels. Strapless gowns, capri pants, crop tops.... everything. And all of it <> big.
GoldenChild said, "I wanted to say, "Babe, I come from NEW ORLEANS... did you see the women at the Convention Center?" " But, you don't turn generosity aside.
We had a hard time getting the stuff down there, FEMA was a whore. If you had connections, your stuff got through. Otherwise, it rotted on the side of the road next to where they eventually parked their whoreish trailers.
He was stopped on the way, ice melting, sweating... called me, "Sis, DO something, if anyone can get something done, you can." He used to threaten his staff with me. He had two sayings that always made me laugh. If his grips were not working, he'd announce at full volume, "This is a LOcation, not a VAcation." and, to his entire staff inside, "If you can't get the job/site/things done, I'll call in my sis and fire your asses. She'll do it better and faster."
He was serious on both. He's a fuckwad, but, he knows his stuff.
I started calling, finally reaching the Slidell Police Department, and spoke to the Sheriff. You don't mess around with big ass governments in Louisiana, you just go local.
Suddenly, for a week, the GoldenChild was associated with the Slidell Police Department. His trucks got through. Generators were passed out, teeny tiny clothes, food, water... what was needed got there, to Slidell, East New Orleans, Ponchatoula.
Then, he slipped back into fuckwad mode. Sold his company, his family, his soul. Different story, not for here, ever. Let us just say, we don't speak anymore. But, what he did then? Well done, GC, well done.
Two months later, on Thanksgiving Day, Dad died. Now, the nice thing is, the last time he saw New Orleans, he was still doing pretty good. We walked the Quarter. Saw the family graves. Hit the River Walk. He spent time with my Aunt A, whom he said he should have married instead of her sister. He had grits and coffee and eggs and took a nap every day.
He ate his way though a huge ass pile of crabs and crawfish boiled up with potatoes and corn spread over newspaper on a table on the back patio out in Ponchatoula, at O and J's house. He drank cold beer, and sucked down the great desserts that J makes. My bread pudding is better, but, she doesn't read this journal, so, she'll never know I said so.
He ate and we drove around, and on the way to the airport, we went to the house where I grew up. The neighborhood had gone through changes in those years since we left. The last time we'd been there, it was pretty rough, to the point we didn't even slow down on the drive past. Now, people were taking care of things again, and our house was nice, lovely, painted gray. The big cyprus was cut down, the backyard had a vinyl fence around it... lots of flowers. We sat in the rental car across the street, and... talked. Of New Orleans itself, how his family had arrived there. How my MawMaw (his mom) taught me to hide money in the freezer (therefore, I was not surprised when a Louisiana politician was found to have tens of thousands in his freezer...made sense to me and many other New Orleanians) About when I was a kid, and the neighbors. Of all of them living in these tract homes, 700 square feet, 2.3 kids, with 3 bedrooms, 1 bath and my mom would shut off the living room... for company. He closed in the carport, added on a bedroom for his mother in law. They all were working hard, mowing that damn St Augustine grass. And, Mom's prized car, a deeply used 1954 Buick, with a wooden driver's window.
Don't ask how she drove it in our many rainstorms.
She parked it under the pine tree, on the side of our lot that nestled up to a shell half street.
He said, "I used to see you out there, in the car, what were you doing?"
I didn't realise anyone had ever noticed me.... so, I told him. I drove all over the world. All over the universe. Me, who hated cars with a passion, loved that Buick. It had a huge steering wheel, and I would hold on to it, and.... go places, far away. I'd sit and read in it, after the Chinese elm blew down in the back yard. I hid from the GC and other kids and the world.
He nodded... and laughed. "You were a funny child. I'm sorry I wasn't a better dad."
We had bought muffaletta's for lunch and brought them on the plane. The divine smell you get from olive salad smell soon circulated, and people were asking, "What is that? Can I get some?"
It was a great way to end his last trip home.
I had had Dad cremated, and since November of 2005, he's lived in a lovely jar. D has some of his ashes, but, I have the bulk of them. Since my move to New York, he was put into a closet from his old spot in the sunroom. He liked it there, it was comfortable. I'm not sure he likes the closet, he shares it with Barbies. He was never fond of small children or Barbies.
My point, and I have one here, is I need to bring him... home.
I've put it off and put it off... partly because I don't want to face this final goodbye, even though we had his funeral. Mostly, I don't want to go home. My Aunt A says, "Boo, you don't want to come here. It's not pretty."
I know. But, I have to go home. It's time. When I finish the wedding, and the maybe perhaps trip to LA, I'll pack up and fly to New Orleans one more time with my Dad.
I'll let his sister know, she can fly down from Monroe. We'll go to the family raised site. I'm next on the deed.... in New Orleans, you have to have a deed to open a grave...but, it's so complicated to get it all done. After the Hurricane, people actually trashed out the Archdiocese.... fortunately, someone had put all the records on the internet, so, I can prove who I am, and the lineage...still.
Why pay someone $150 to dig a little hole, when we can do it, then, when we can quietly stand. in St Pats (I won't say which one), pour him in, and I'll play a few of John Prine and Dr. John's pieces. I'll keep a little bit of the ash, too, so I can have some of him at home. I kind of miss the old fart.
We'll end with Ode to Joy. He loved Ludwig.
Then, we'll head over to the Lake and eat. A lot. I'll stay a week, and go see my City... help out with the relief work that is still going on. Do my part that I want to get done, to feel I've put back what I took out. Get this out of my system, and accept that although she's changed, she's still there, going strong, still with a big ol' murder rate, corrupt politicians, smells and tastes and sights you won't see anywhere else in the world... drink my coffee and cream, eat my french bread and red beans, have some decent seafood, and I'll be making the bread pudding.
One thing, though; I won't be eating any crawfish étouffée.... I lost my taste for that when I was a little kid.
For those of you who are unsure of what a picayune is, it was a small Spanish coin, and came to mean something trivial.
Chris Rose was an entertainment writer for said Times Picayune.. as he once stated, he was Brittany Spear's worst nightmare, camping out around her home in Louisiana. When that big ass bitch, Katrina, hit, Chris headed out of town, along with a lot of other folk... thing is, he went back to what he saw as home.
He's become New Orleans' favourite son. You can find his work in an amazing book, One Dead in Attic, that talks about my city, my hometown, after Katrina. He also writes a daily column, and it's darn good reading. You'd never know he was a damn Yankee.
Thing is, after Caj's journal today, I re-read One Dead in Attic (the title is taken from the notes left on homes, to tell workers how many were.. well, you get the idea), a book suggested to me when it came out, as Chris' work was to me following Katrina, by the formidable MaryV.
My father was overwhelmed by all of this when it happened, this huge event, this storm that managed to bring New Orleans to her knees..to drop her face down. Even in his state with dementia and Alzheimer's, he was aware the city he'd been born in, that he considered home, that he adored, was being torn apart.
The neighborhood we played in.... a Dead Zone now. My cousins lived by the levee... their things, gone. We were thankful for cell phones, text messages went through. One set had raced to Purvis, Mississippi to seek shelter, only to be slammed by Katrina on her way north.
The city I'd grown up in, where my family had lived for generations, since the mid 1800's, where we have family vaults, and my great grandmother and her children had a vegetable stall in the French Quarter, my uncle is a New Orleans baseball legend, another one owned the Dodge dealerships, my Uncle G was from generations back, my Dad graduated Tulane (GO GREEN WAVE!), family who lived in the Quarter on Burgundy (pronounced baGUNdy) my cousins are Yats, my MawMaw went to the Ursuline Convent School and I grew up making groceries at Schwegmann's.... yeah, we were New Orleans... and I sat and watched her go under.
I'd lived though Betsy... whoa, there was a bitch. Carla, she tried to take us out, but, Besty... we'd run outside during the eye, so calm, so serene, talking about what we were doing, the parents hammering up the boards, doing a basic check on trees, watching as the winds started up again. Our bathtubs filled with water, food supplies ready.
With Betsy, the week before, the neighborhood had gotten together and made a huge amount of crawfish étouffée, a arduous task when you add in 100 lbs of crawfish, all the makings, and a large amount of beer and whiskey and sharp knives. My parents had recently purchased a chest style freezer, so, the food was parceled out, marked, and stored. When the electricity went out, as it will in a major hurricane, we started eating everything in the freezers, especially the food they'd worked so hard on...meaning we had étouffée for breakfast, lunch and supper. I think Mr Frank and Mr Warren (you don't call grown up's by their first names alone) and my Dad were still eating it when the dogs turned their noses up at the idea of touching the stuff.
Each time we rebuilt, in the hot muggy air, each time saying, "The next one, that's the one that'll take out the levees" and, suddenly, there they were, bursting out on national television. Filling the city so quickly, it was surreal.
I'd volunteered to go work, and ended up having my knee taken apart and put back together, so, that stopped that. My father became upset that I would leave him.... and that stopped any future plans.
The GoldenChild ponied up, for once, and did some great relief work.
He and a friend in Santa Monica managed in four days time to fill a huge number of semi's with water, cots, clothes, food, blankets.... and a wad of cash to fill the fuel tanks of said semis.... and they were off. Now, the GoldenChild is funny, I'll give him that. He remarked that many a kind soul came to the trucks, after raiding their closets.
These were Santa Monica and West Hollywood women.
Classic, stereotypical Santa Monica and West Hollywood women.
<> big. They brought black cocktail dresses. Stiletto heels. Strapless gowns, capri pants, crop tops.... everything. And all of it <> big.
GoldenChild said, "I wanted to say, "Babe, I come from NEW ORLEANS... did you see the women at the Convention Center?" " But, you don't turn generosity aside.
We had a hard time getting the stuff down there, FEMA was a whore. If you had connections, your stuff got through. Otherwise, it rotted on the side of the road next to where they eventually parked their whoreish trailers.
He was stopped on the way, ice melting, sweating... called me, "Sis, DO something, if anyone can get something done, you can." He used to threaten his staff with me. He had two sayings that always made me laugh. If his grips were not working, he'd announce at full volume, "This is a LOcation, not a VAcation." and, to his entire staff inside, "If you can't get the job/site/things done, I'll call in my sis and fire your asses. She'll do it better and faster."
He was serious on both. He's a fuckwad, but, he knows his stuff.
I started calling, finally reaching the Slidell Police Department, and spoke to the Sheriff. You don't mess around with big ass governments in Louisiana, you just go local.
Suddenly, for a week, the GoldenChild was associated with the Slidell Police Department. His trucks got through. Generators were passed out, teeny tiny clothes, food, water... what was needed got there, to Slidell, East New Orleans, Ponchatoula.
Then, he slipped back into fuckwad mode. Sold his company, his family, his soul. Different story, not for here, ever. Let us just say, we don't speak anymore. But, what he did then? Well done, GC, well done.
Two months later, on Thanksgiving Day, Dad died. Now, the nice thing is, the last time he saw New Orleans, he was still doing pretty good. We walked the Quarter. Saw the family graves. Hit the River Walk. He spent time with my Aunt A, whom he said he should have married instead of her sister. He had grits and coffee and eggs and took a nap every day.
He ate his way though a huge ass pile of crabs and crawfish boiled up with potatoes and corn spread over newspaper on a table on the back patio out in Ponchatoula, at O and J's house. He drank cold beer, and sucked down the great desserts that J makes. My bread pudding is better, but, she doesn't read this journal, so, she'll never know I said so.
He ate and we drove around, and on the way to the airport, we went to the house where I grew up. The neighborhood had gone through changes in those years since we left. The last time we'd been there, it was pretty rough, to the point we didn't even slow down on the drive past. Now, people were taking care of things again, and our house was nice, lovely, painted gray. The big cyprus was cut down, the backyard had a vinyl fence around it... lots of flowers. We sat in the rental car across the street, and... talked. Of New Orleans itself, how his family had arrived there. How my MawMaw (his mom) taught me to hide money in the freezer (therefore, I was not surprised when a Louisiana politician was found to have tens of thousands in his freezer...made sense to me and many other New Orleanians) About when I was a kid, and the neighbors. Of all of them living in these tract homes, 700 square feet, 2.3 kids, with 3 bedrooms, 1 bath and my mom would shut off the living room... for company. He closed in the carport, added on a bedroom for his mother in law. They all were working hard, mowing that damn St Augustine grass. And, Mom's prized car, a deeply used 1954 Buick, with a wooden driver's window.
Don't ask how she drove it in our many rainstorms.
She parked it under the pine tree, on the side of our lot that nestled up to a shell half street.
He said, "I used to see you out there, in the car, what were you doing?"
I didn't realise anyone had ever noticed me.... so, I told him. I drove all over the world. All over the universe. Me, who hated cars with a passion, loved that Buick. It had a huge steering wheel, and I would hold on to it, and.... go places, far away. I'd sit and read in it, after the Chinese elm blew down in the back yard. I hid from the GC and other kids and the world.
He nodded... and laughed. "You were a funny child. I'm sorry I wasn't a better dad."
We had bought muffaletta's for lunch and brought them on the plane. The divine smell you get from olive salad smell soon circulated, and people were asking, "What is that? Can I get some?"
It was a great way to end his last trip home.
I had had Dad cremated, and since November of 2005, he's lived in a lovely jar. D has some of his ashes, but, I have the bulk of them. Since my move to New York, he was put into a closet from his old spot in the sunroom. He liked it there, it was comfortable. I'm not sure he likes the closet, he shares it with Barbies. He was never fond of small children or Barbies.
My point, and I have one here, is I need to bring him... home.
I've put it off and put it off... partly because I don't want to face this final goodbye, even though we had his funeral. Mostly, I don't want to go home. My Aunt A says, "Boo, you don't want to come here. It's not pretty."
I know. But, I have to go home. It's time. When I finish the wedding, and the maybe perhaps trip to LA, I'll pack up and fly to New Orleans one more time with my Dad.
I'll let his sister know, she can fly down from Monroe. We'll go to the family raised site. I'm next on the deed.... in New Orleans, you have to have a deed to open a grave...but, it's so complicated to get it all done. After the Hurricane, people actually trashed out the Archdiocese.... fortunately, someone had put all the records on the internet, so, I can prove who I am, and the lineage...still.
Why pay someone $150 to dig a little hole, when we can do it, then, when we can quietly stand. in St Pats (I won't say which one), pour him in, and I'll play a few of John Prine and Dr. John's pieces. I'll keep a little bit of the ash, too, so I can have some of him at home. I kind of miss the old fart.
We'll end with Ode to Joy. He loved Ludwig.
Then, we'll head over to the Lake and eat. A lot. I'll stay a week, and go see my City... help out with the relief work that is still going on. Do my part that I want to get done, to feel I've put back what I took out. Get this out of my system, and accept that although she's changed, she's still there, going strong, still with a big ol' murder rate, corrupt politicians, smells and tastes and sights you won't see anywhere else in the world... drink my coffee and cream, eat my french bread and red beans, have some decent seafood, and I'll be making the bread pudding.
One thing, though; I won't be eating any crawfish étouffée.... I lost my taste for that when I was a little kid.
And, The Rockin' Girl Blogger Goes To.....
Oh, yeah.
A bit ago, I received this from the ROCKIN' GIRL BLOGGER herself, GolfWidow.
I was stunned, I was flattered.. I procrastinated.
According to the Rules, I can only pass this on to five, count them, FIVE, other girl bloggers.
Sucks rocks... but, that's the rules.
I don't like things where you have to, well, pick... thankfully, GW has received hers... so, here are mine, after much thought and hard decision making.
Lisa B.~ I love Lisa's journal. She's snappy, on point, and makes me laugh. Plus, she's one of mine, by which I mean, she's a Southern Gal. 'Nuff said. She's amazing to talk to, and has a way of making you feel as if you've always known her.
Sally Tomato~ I've met Sally a couple of times now, she's as droll in person as she is on paper, and that's a mean feat. Plus, she doesn't name drop. I like that.
Irish and Jew ~ Yes, I'm cheating, but, they are joined at the Blog. What can you say about them? They put it out there, sometimes to the point I think, what are they DOING? However, they stand by their guns when it comes down to the line. It's not just fluff and who's zooming who. Met them, like them... although meeting has nothing to do with the passing of the pink.
The Bee ~ Went under fire. Came out of it, and kept on going. Life's lessons learned.
ASC~ She's working hard to achieve her dreams, to get to New York, to grab that Tony. And, she'd better fucking remember to thank me when she does.
Honourable Mention to The Prince... because he makes me giggle...and I expect him to pay for the coffee in August... and to PrincessinaPea~Carry on, A, carry on!
So, there you have it... The Passing of the Pink.
Carry on, you Rockin' Bloggers. Go forth, journal your hearts away, and remember..... I'm reading, even if I'm 1000 miles away.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
There is No Title Today
I've struggled today.
Last night, I found out Delta hadn't posted my airmiles. They'd slung them into someone else's account, and after a week of my calling to see why I didn't have miles, 'Robert' told me, they were elsewhere.
During this midnight chat, I was frantic, my new shiny phone was on one bar of power. Verizon had topped up the phone when I was on Wall Street.. and suddenly, my charger here was seen as "unknown". Robert kept giving me rhetoric, I finally said, "Bob, my man.. stop saying you are sorry, fine.. just DO something."
While I was on hold.. the phone died.
That was straightened out today, along with a new charger cord... and 124 of my cell minutes. Oh! And Delta charged me $65 for booking a 'fast' frequent flier trip. I may argue that based on the shitty transfer.
Plus, my favourite payment is ahead... the charge to put the dog under my seat as paid luggage.
I'd sent my credit cards ahead. I don't have a pin number and if I did, the account has dust in it. My cu..tw...fuckwit of an ex boss taunts me with emails, send her this, or a copy of that.. and she'll pay me. The next email says if I show up, she'll have me removed from the premises.
Yes, I've filed with the labor board. Yes, all my paperwork is letter perfect, I've the emails from her admitting she owes me everything, and that she's kept personal items that she swears she'll deliver.
Yes, in the end, the State of New York will sue her and I'll get my money.
I need it NOW.
I have a nice amount each month from my mighty corporate retirement fund, and, it's gone... rent, helping out a child or two... I counted on this usual cash to pay for things, and, remember, she'd not paid me for June. So, my budget was already a bit wobbly.
I realised when I fly out, I am schlepping out a HUGE suitcase, a carry on, the dogs case, the dog, and my computer bag. Two trains, the NJ Transit line... Bronx to Newark. Yeah.
Lots of other things, all written down in my YOU DON'T KNOW I'M HERE journal.
Life will be better tomorrow. There's some frozen hot dogs I found, and, I'm seeing some folk that make me laugh this evening.
So, in the end, I've a held reservation, a new phone cord, someone who is helping me move on Saturday, (thanks R!) I've washed my clothes by hand (Little House in the Projects), packed my things again, walked the dog twice, have a charged phone, found a cup of banana yogurt...my favourite... will nap, take a shower, and leave here soon to run an errand.
Tomorrow, it may stink again. If they don't pick up the trash, I know it will.
Last night, I found out Delta hadn't posted my airmiles. They'd slung them into someone else's account, and after a week of my calling to see why I didn't have miles, 'Robert' told me, they were elsewhere.
During this midnight chat, I was frantic, my new shiny phone was on one bar of power. Verizon had topped up the phone when I was on Wall Street.. and suddenly, my charger here was seen as "unknown". Robert kept giving me rhetoric, I finally said, "Bob, my man.. stop saying you are sorry, fine.. just DO something."
While I was on hold.. the phone died.
That was straightened out today, along with a new charger cord... and 124 of my cell minutes. Oh! And Delta charged me $65 for booking a 'fast' frequent flier trip. I may argue that based on the shitty transfer.
Plus, my favourite payment is ahead... the charge to put the dog under my seat as paid luggage.
I'd sent my credit cards ahead. I don't have a pin number and if I did, the account has dust in it. My cu..tw...fuckwit of an ex boss taunts me with emails, send her this, or a copy of that.. and she'll pay me. The next email says if I show up, she'll have me removed from the premises.
Yes, I've filed with the labor board. Yes, all my paperwork is letter perfect, I've the emails from her admitting she owes me everything, and that she's kept personal items that she swears she'll deliver.
Yes, in the end, the State of New York will sue her and I'll get my money.
I need it NOW.
I have a nice amount each month from my mighty corporate retirement fund, and, it's gone... rent, helping out a child or two... I counted on this usual cash to pay for things, and, remember, she'd not paid me for June. So, my budget was already a bit wobbly.
I realised when I fly out, I am schlepping out a HUGE suitcase, a carry on, the dogs case, the dog, and my computer bag. Two trains, the NJ Transit line... Bronx to Newark. Yeah.
Lots of other things, all written down in my YOU DON'T KNOW I'M HERE journal.
Life will be better tomorrow. There's some frozen hot dogs I found, and, I'm seeing some folk that make me laugh this evening.
So, in the end, I've a held reservation, a new phone cord, someone who is helping me move on Saturday, (thanks R!) I've washed my clothes by hand (Little House in the Projects), packed my things again, walked the dog twice, have a charged phone, found a cup of banana yogurt...my favourite... will nap, take a shower, and leave here soon to run an errand.
Tomorrow, it may stink again. If they don't pick up the trash, I know it will.
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