Here was the weirdest thing that happened today: I took an art class from a painter with Parkenson's and she told me to color in the lines. But she couldn't.

The next second odd thing was a guy who waved a towel at me on the Freeway trying to get me to stop. No! Uh-uh. I  won't fall for the old waving a towell trick. That's just asking for rape.

Is anyone here on Twitter. I'm ridiculicious of course.  Follow me.   www.twitter.com (for those of you who need to get on).

I was completely sober last night.  Now I know what a cold sweat is like. 

I brought two girlfriends with me to the first stop – a neighborhood mixer. We entered the cramped house and a short, fat gay guy walked right up to me and asked if I smoked. I looked down at my purse where my cigarettes were poking out. I was obligated to give him one.  I hate that shit. This gesture made him Velcro himself to me all night.

First conversation with him: “What kind of penises do you like?  Do you like them manscaped or not?”  Why do gay men think they can talk to me about sex?
“I like penises in general,” I said.  I hoped this  response would keep the door closed for more dick talk.  It didn’t. He apparently liked dicks short, fat and hairless. Swell.
“Hey, I left my, um, plate? In the kitchen.” I said.

In the kitchen, my first conversation was with a tall, hip man who said he had seen me around, "Are you a newscaster?" he asked me. Jesus. 

I moved on to two attractive guys who were in there early 20’s. I got giddy for a second. “Man, there is a shit load of alcohol here,” said one. The other guy adjusted his baseball hat and grinned at me.
“Kay, I have to pee.” I said.

My girlfriends were huddled around the drinks, pouring one after the other. So, I made my way to the food table and wondered how I could eat the whole table without notice and without also gaining weight. I ate two strawberries instead. A small child with an ugly, knitted hat tugged on my leg. I thought it was a cat at first. "Hi" I said. The thing looked up at me and smiled. "What's your name?" I asked. 
"Tree," it said. I unpeeled it from my leg and ran to the bathroom.

I took a deep breath and unzipped my pants. The bathroom door didn't close all the way and a guy with a full beard and "cool" glasses walked in on me mid-stream.  "Oh sorry," he said, I was just coming in to light up."  He stood there gaping. “You smoke?”
"Hey? Do you think you could get the fuck out of here?"  He apologized and closed the door way too slowly. 
I finished and went back out to the food table. I grabbed a brownie and gobbled it up.

I had a few more conversations about dogs (a safe topic for all audiences) and then asked my friends if we could go somewhere else. They were clearly irritated that I was disrupting their free drinking binge. "Where are we going to go?" they asked.  I wondered why it was always up to me to find entertainment for everyone.

We decided to go to the Northside Tavern - a bluesy dive bar on the other side of the city. My friends were already hammered and we had to stop and pee three times on the way there. It was 15 minute drive.  I've done this to people. 

When we got to the place, it was crowded and smoky and the most horrible white-bred blues band was playing. I wanted to find a dark corner to sit down and watch people, but my friends wouldn't let me, “Come dance. Come on!” they yelled
“Yeah. No,” I said.
“Come on!” they cheered, “You don’t have to drink to dance.”
“Look, I’m not white. I can’t dance to this.”  They didn’t hear me, but they finally decided to dance without me.

A drunken, hippie couple singled out my singleness: “Are you alone,” asked the woman part of the couple. I sensed the swinger in her. I told her my friends were dancing. “How come you’re not dancing?”
“I have no rhythm.” My pseudo honesty opened the floodgates.
“Well, I found my rhythm…” she slurred,  “…I was thrown to the wolves as a child, but somehow I made it."  She was apparently orphaned and had to live on the streets at age 14.  She looked like she had been orphaned and forced to live on the streets.  She had two children who were close to my age and she was only 48.  "I finally met the love of my life last year," she spat out, "Swami." She pointed to the old hippy with a Grateful Dead jacket and bells on his tennis shoes. "He's old. But he still gets it on."
"Awesome," I said.
"Come dance," she grabbed my hand.
"Yeah. No."
"Come on!" She insisted.  Her hippie husband sensed my allergic reaction to her touch and  finally pulled her away.

A handsome drunk man came up to me and asked if I wanted to dance. "Nope," I said.
"Come on!" he said tugging my hand. He would not take no for an answer.
I finally blurted out, "I had knee surgery yesterday."
"Can I get your number then?" he asked.
"I have four kids," I said.
He looked confused. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to have four kids."
He still looked confused. Then he grinned and said, "I don't care. I like kids."
Oh but you will care tomorrow morning when you sober up. “Hey. I don’t want to dance. I don’t want you to call me. Do I need to say something mean now?”
He shrugged his shoulders and skipped over to my friend who gladly took his hand and gyrated up against him for the next hour.

I finally had enough when a wasted ball of a mess of a couple fell on me whilst trying to fuck on the dance floor.  “Hey gotta go!” I announced to my friends.  On the way out the door, the hippie lady grabbed my hand and said: "Don't worry, you'll find your rhythm Baby."

I wanted to yell back, “When I find it, I’m still not gonna dance to a motherfucking white-bred blues band!”

We've had a rather serious crime spree in Cabbagetown, Georgia.  So far, just about everyone has had something to say about it on the neighborhood website.  Reading my neighbors' comments has me even more convinced I'm living in an alternate universe.

For example, Troy, the gay hotel designer with his own name tattooed on his back (so his boyfriends won't forget his name),  is furious because people are leaving stuff in their cars -- just inviting crooks to steal. This just doesn't show street sense people!  He had this to say about the crimes:

If you wouldn't have left anything in your car, would it have happened? I guess it is like the tree in the woods; would the tree have made a noise if it fell and you were not there to hear it? I find it amazing how street people/people without a roof or a common means to survive have reduced their life to simplicity and people with college educations/careers/live outside their means, acquire credit card debt, commit adultery, 1 out of 2 marriages ends up in divorce......knowledge/education/street sense, I wonder. We are all victims if we chose.  Or we could be responsible and live a choice-driven life. I ponder.

Good point Troy! And can you share some of that weed!

Laura the middle-aged mortgage lender who IS SO OVER MEN IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY responded:

Troy, I think you are  WAY off base. If a tree falls in the woods, and no one is there to hear it, it still fell. You're missing the point. If the car is left unattended, and a THIEF steals something out of the car (which is against the law) he is sill stealing. There's a great song by Kelly Clarkson, "Because of you, I am afraid." You would have to live in a perpetual state of paranoia not to be able to run into your house for a few minutes without locking our car. It would be a horrible mental/emotional existence. No one did anything to bring anything on themselves. To suggest otherwise is ridiculous.

You know when someone brings up Kelly Clarkson, they have got to be angry. And they probably need to get laid.

Indian Ad Executive, Jiri, has a plan to deal with the crime. He wants everyone to pinpoint on Google maps where the crimes are so that we can find the perp. He adds:

...after we catch the guy, I will drop him off at Troy's house so we can all fire up a fatty and debate the beauty of living a life of simplicity and perfection.

Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away. --Antione de Saint-Exupery

Catching a thief -- what a good excuse to smoke a joint!  But I have nothing more to add and hence nothing more to take away from his comments.

Here's what's been stolen in the last few weeks:  My owner's manual and bag of pink Walmart tights for my Halloween Poodle costume; several catalytic converters; a bag of Halloween candy; some Atlanta Falcon's vouchers and some credit card sales' receipts.  These extreme thefts have prompted everyone to post descriptions of suspicious people in the neighborhood:

I saw a man put a dufflebag next to my car and he was peeing in the windows of other cars on our street. A neighbor saw him work his way down the street looking in car windows. The neighbor was in the process of calling 9-1-1 when I started locking my car over and over again so that it would beep.  The man slowly retreated, picked up his dufflebag and left. The cops said they have sent a car to patrol the area and a description has been given to the cops.  -- Lynn on Gaskill

Wow, stealing and peeing in windows. That's too much. I hope, at the very least, he washed his hands.

I did see a suspicious man last night on Gaskill Street outside my house around 9 p.m. He was walking very fast and I think I startled him. He asked me for money while I was at my car. He was about 5'7", an African-American male wearing glasses. He said he lived in the neighborhood, down the street as he pointed to Carrol Street. He was very strange. - Matt on Tye

Jiri responds:

Was there something very wrong with his lip? Did he give you a story about being co-infected with Hepatitis? If it is who I think it is then he is probably not the perp: I don't think this poor guy would be capable...he is very sad.

Sad indeed. Now I know who stole my fucking pink tights. Another Cabbagetowner writes:

Normally, I would’ve shrugged it off, but I saw this guy peering (not peeing) in my car windows and because of the recent spate of break-ins, I called the cops.  As we approached, he attempted to pedal off up Tennelle. I say attempted to, because he was having a hard time riding the bike...since he only had ONE LEG.That’s right, be on the lookout for a one-legged, shifty looking dude on a bike.  Middle aged, scruffy-faced black guy, smoking a cigarette and wearing a knit cap.

So it seems we have a girly, one-legged cyclist with a potential cleft-palate stealing our shit.  How does he do it? Ride a bike with one leg and smoke!?  And wear a knit hat!?  And carry a bag full of catalytic converters!? And why can't I catch a glimpse of this dude?

As a result of all this crime, a group of vigilante Cabbagetowners who call themselves the C-town Ninjas, have decided to dress in black at night, put some laptops in an open car and wait for the guy to peddle up and break in. They  plan to film the break-in... mostly because Rob on Berean Street just bought a hot new night- vision camcorder that he wants to try out.  Strangely enough, the C-town Ninjas have yet to catch the guy. Especially since he's only got one leg.

As I say... an alternate universe.

Here is what I didn't hear last night:  someone breaking in my car;  my neighbor's alarm going off for hours; and the police knocking on my door.

A couple of months ago, I got super sick and lost my hearing in one ear.  Since then, I hear nothing but the ocean in my right ear.  This has some advantages.  Ear plugs for concerts last twice as long because I only need to use one at a time.  If I fall asleep on my left side, I can't hear a single thing but the ocean which makes for a very peaceful night's sleep. And I don't have to listen to people blathering on -- as long as they sit to my right side that is.

I've noticed though that when someone wants to tell  me secret, they always go for the deaf ear -- no matter how I am facing them. Once, someone told me they had monkey caged in their basement. The thing that struck me as weird was they don't even have a basement!  And there was the time when someone told me they were thinking about killing themselves and I just smiled and nodded not sure what they said for sure. And that time a guy whispered in my ear and I thought he asked me if I wanted to see the dead.  The look on my face was probably not what he expected.

I smile and nod. And they get up and leave. You can call it unfortunate, but I call it fortunate.

It's like my grandfather who had what I call "Selective Hearing."  He was only deaf when he felt like it, like when my grandmother asked him to do some shit around the house.  My deafness is real, but who says I have to ask what someone really said. It's so much more fun to guess what people say.

Yep, you can tell me a secret now and I will take it to the vault. Mostly, because I have no idea what you just told me.

In some ways, I think it's Karma. For months, when the horrible construction was going on in my neighborhood and the beep beep beeping from the trucks backing up stabbed my soul repeatedly, I wished I were deaf. Be careful what you wish for.

So anyway with my deafness, I didn't hear the windows crashing in, nor the alarm, nor the police last night. And I'm okay with that. I really am.

I am still recovering from when a drunken, meth-head grandmother with no teeth almost broke my neck at the demolition derby in Winder, Georgia a couple of weekends ago.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning…the part where I decided to go with four men to the most redneck place I’ve ever been (next to Myrtle Beach) -- the Winder Super Dirt Track Extraordinaire. That’s not really its name, but it should be.

I should probably describe the town of Winder first.  How do you know when you are in Winder, Georgia? For starters, just about every car has the rebel flag on it, a “Support our Troops” bumper sticker, and a Bush/Cheney sign in the window right next to the gun rack. But perhaps that's too general a description because just about every car in Georgia looks like that. Except mine.

Let me get a bit more detailed.  You know you’re in Winder when everyone has a mullet, or a perm, or both. I’m talking women, men, kids…dogs.  Everyone that is, except the town pimp who wears a red pinstriped suit and an real live pimp hat and who works his hoes out of the BP in the center of town. You also know you are in Winder when that pimp’s (probably only) ho goes into the BP after doing her John and buys a 12-pack of malt-liquor and plops it in her two-year old's lap in the back seat and then gives us the wrong directions to the racetrack.

You know you’re in Winder when two out of the three BBQ places are sold out at 6 o’clock on a Saturday night.  That means the whole pig has been eaten in a couple of hours. You know you are in Winder when you can find a Country Buffet with four lanes of all-you-can-eat food for $6.95 to replace that sold-out BBQ. You know you’re there when the waitress at the Country Buffet tells your table that you are the best table she’s ever had, and God how she wished she could go with y’all and she would have sex with all of you if it meant she could get the fuck out of Joy’s Country Buffet. But she would probably have sex with all of you anyway – at the same time. And she doesn’t say all that exactly, but you can read it in her eyes. The desperation.

You know you’re in Winder when in order to find the hidden race track you have a choice of following a Camero with a burned-out, bleached-out wrinkly 25-year old woman with her gut hanging out, or a truck with rebel flag. Or both.

Okay, so you think you have finally made it to the racetrack. But, how do you know you are really at the Winder Speedway?  Well,  when you have these three amazing choices for your bathroom facilities:

 You also know you are at the Winder Racetrack when your concession stand looks like this:

And you are definitely at the racetrack  when the kids from the in family in front of you are able to fall asleep despite the deafening sound of race cars and the ice from our beer cooler dripping on their heads. In fact, the sound is so deafening that most people wear earplugs.

You know you are there when a methed-out, drunken grandmother with no teeth falls on your back from the stands above…and keeps on drinking despite having almost killed you and her three year-old grandson who she was holding onto for support when she went down.

And lastly, you know you are at the demolition derby in Winder, GA when the driver of the winning car has a family who looks like this:

     So today, the pest control guy finally came to spray for the millions of ants that have been crawling out of such places as the sink and the dishwasher.  The guy looked just like he stepped out of a William Bourroughs' novel. I suppose you can't really have a normal pest control guy, but this guy was downright spooky.

     He arrived with his "kit" and placed it down on the kitchen floor so he could sit on it. "Okay then, I guess I'll leave you to it," I said and walked back to my office. 

     About five minutes later I hear:  "Ma'am?"  I go out to the kitchen and he's still sitting on his kit. He points to the fridge where there is a picture of my friend Peter on Halloween, wearing  this hilarious mask that looks like he's undergoing a facial. Complete with the cucumbers on the eyes and everything. "Is that you?"  he asks pointing to the picture.
      "Uh-no, "  I say, "That's my friend Peter." And why the fuck are you looking at my fridge? Spray dammit and get the hell out of here.
      "Phew!" he says, "I thought that was you!  I was worried there for a minute. "  Then he laughs in this high-pitched squeal.  I give him a funny look and then return to my office.

     About 15 minutes later, I assume that he is gone, so I go into the kitchen and he's still sitting there on his case.  "What are you doing ?" I say.  He tells me he's trying to see or hear the pests in question. I say, "You do know you are spraying for ants right? I mean they are right there on the floor!"  He nods and shushes me. I walk back to my office, grabbing my cell phone off the kitchen table on the way, in case I have to dial 911.

     Five minutes later, he comes back to my bedroom where my office is. He is holding this glue gun-looking thing and  he says, "Okay, I'm ready to spray!"  He's actually holding it like it's his cock.
     "Wait!," I cry, "You don't need to spray in my bedroom. Spray in the kitchen! Where the food and the ants are!"  I push him out of my bedroom.  "You know I have a dog," I say this hoping this will deter him from raping me. I point to my dog who is passed out on my bed with his tongue out.
     "Oh!" he laughs, "This stuff won't hurt your dog."  I usher him back to the kitchen.

     Five minutes after that, I go to the kitchen and he's packing up his case. "Okay, that'll do it!" he says. "You should really see a difference in 30 days." Thirty days! Of course I'll see a difference, the damn things will be wintering in Florida by then.
    
      Then he says:  "But I want you to call me in five days so I know how it's going."  Then he carefully writes out his name and phone number in red pen on my empty Lean Cuisine box in the kitchen. The minute he leaves, I throw the number and the box in the trash.

     Now, I feel like I've got to call a pest control guy to get rid of the pest control guy. 

Someone just put this on our neighborhood list serv:

Hi!

If anyone has a suit of armor I can borrow, I would be much obliged.

Sincerely,

XXXX.


In response I wrote:


You can borrow mine, but it's a size small and you have to dry-clean it when you are done.

Thanks,

Ridiculcious

So it seems that I'm being investigated for the murder of some dude named Tommy W.  According to the voice mail left by the Gwinnette County Police Department yesterday.

I got the message when  I got out of an important client meeting. They called my business phone and left a message that said:  "This is Marcia BlahBlah (incoherent last name) calling from the Gwinnette County Police Department. You are being investigated for the murder of Tommy W. Please call us back at 678.xxx.xxx." 

The woman left the message in this monotone annoyed voice as if she was checking off her "to do" items for the day.

Hearing this message, after a long meeting with a surly client where I was wearing a suit that made the sweat run down my bra because they didn't have the air on...well you can only imagine my reaction: What the fuck? When did I murder someone? God! How fucking annoying!

So, I got in the car and dialed the number. I tried it three times. Listened to the message again  three times. And all three times, I got an old Hispanic lady, who by the third time was irate that I kept calling her.

Marcia, the police chick, left the wrong fucking number.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you how wrong this shit is on so many levels. But let me address them one by one.  First of all, what kind of detective work is that, to leave a message to call the police department back because they have pegged you for the murder of someone?  I mean any intelligent criminal would really appreciate the "heads up" and get the fuck on out of the country.  "Gee thanks Gwinnette Police Department! God, I thought I had gotten away with it, but thanks to you, I have some time to get the fuck out of town."

Secondly, if they are going to leave a message like that they should hear that my voice mail was a business number and doesn't really say my name. So basically, the entire business is being investigated. "Just all you motherfuckers. All you all are being investigated. You bitches. Now call me back."

Thirdly, I would at least like to know how and why I murdered someone. I mean if I'm being investigated, please at least let me know the evidence so I can cover that up too. I mean how did I kill this guy? I hope it was with a big frozen leg of lamb that I then baked to get rid of the evidence. Bludgeoned. Yes. That's how I would do it. Mwahahaha. But yeah, leave some motherfucking details would you?

Fourthly, try to leave the right number for me to call you back, or at least an address so I can turn myself in. Jesus Christ.

Fifthly, I have not been to Gwinnette County in my entire life except to drive through to go somewhere else. I'm not even sure how the hell to spell Gwinette? So at least give me some idea where I was when I murdered this dude. Was it at the Conoco? At my lover's house? The street corner? Jesus, leave the whereabouts would you?

Frankly, this type of incredibly intelligent police work, has me amazed that anyone is allowed to get away with murder. I mean those criminals must be hyper-intelligent to outsmart the Gwinnette County Police Department. I mean how do they do it? They must be in MENSA-- the fucking PoPo from Gwinette. Fucking smart ass detectives.

So I let my friend listen to the message while we're at dinner and he says, "So you gonna turn yourself in?"
"Of course," I say. We eat. We pay. And then 10 minutes later he calls me to say that he was pulled over in his neighborhood because they were investigating a murder.  I'm like, did they mention my company?" 
He's like, "No, but they did ask to see my ID."

Again, another piece of brilliant detective work. Pull over everyone, check their ID on the of chance that on your driver's license you might have underneath your birthday: I murdered Tommy W.  I mean, the murderer is bound to show up in the same place he committed the murder. I mean who doesn't just go back to the place of the crime and hang out? God. Again. FUCKING BRILLIANT DETECTIVE WORK.

So yeah, I'm not calling them back.

Do you like parties, conversation, and costumes? Ouroboros Multimedia, Incorporated is an upstart entertainment company in search of attractive women that are witty and engaging. Our ladies dress up in alluring attire (which we provide) and are paid for their company and conversation. We provide parties with ladies that can provide thought provoking conversation and good company, NOT SEX. Ladies can make $110-200 a party, as well as whatever they make in tips. Once again we DO NOT want you to have sex at the parties. Feel free to send us any pictures for us to use for promotional, record making, or for whatever use for consideration.

 No picture, no profile...just this email.

Hello, would you date a Jamaican guy?

Sure, if you're hung well and you don't talk with an accent...and you look like Johnny Depp.

New emailed profile:


My name is Carlos. Three words to decribe myself determine, motivated and optimistic. I love working out, sightseeing, traveling, cooking, dancing, movies and much more. An ideal mate for me is someone that I am able to win the amazing race with because it requires team work and a support structure. If you feel that you could win the amazing race with me then E-mail me and let see if things flow because it have to flow.:)

I've never watched Amazing Race, but I'm quite flattered that he would pick me out of millions to win that shit.  And he's goddamn right...I would win that shit.

The simplicity of this emailed Match.com profile makes me want to cry a little.

 i am just anice man that is looking for a nice girl to spand time with and go out to have some fun, but the most importannt thing is to be able to open your hart to me, couse i would like to find my soulmate.

 for fun:
 
 i do any thing to have fun to me place don't matter, what is inportant to me is the person i am going to be with. it can be just a simple thing like takin a wolk outside of the city. 

favorite hot spots:
 
 don't have one
 
favorite things:
 
 i love stake, and my favorite colors are black and blue

Put my profile back up to get some more material. Got this today with a picture of a 6 foot 5 man hugging Goofy.

In society today there are so many issues and challenges that we all face on a daily basis that it is frustrating and disappointing to see people be mean and cruel to each other. Walt Disney endured this struggle. I believe that it is very important to never let anyone tell you that you can do not something. You should always follow your dreams and make them happen. Walt Disney is one of my heroes and role models. Walt Disney was such a visionary for his time and his dreams and goals that he set into motion have brought and will continue to bring much happiness and joy for generations to come.

And P.S. Disney movies suck!

Darrell Roy was the first person I met when I moved to Atlanta. Really. I litterally met him the first hour I spent in Atlanta. He was at the Yacht Club having a beer and I went there to have dinner.

The Yacht Club is a dingy little bar in the middle of an arts and hippie district in Atlanta called Little Five Points. It’s smoky and full of bikers and it’s the kind of place where the bartender has a fuck-you look on his face. My friend and I were sitting at the large table in the front. A dark man with a PBR in his hand came up to our table to ask if he could sit with us. We said sure and motioned to a chair.

We ordered another pitcher to share with the guy who introduced himself as Darrell and our stories were shared. Turned out he knew everyone and every band in Atlanta. We knew no one and had strange tales to tell about Myrtle Beach. It was my story about my car buying experience with a backwoods broker named Harris Tweed that gave us the immediate free pass into a friendship with Darrell.  Seven years later, he still introduces me as the girl with the most hilarious stories ever.

It was Darrell who helped integrate me into society. In fact, we had a Halloween party a month after we met him and he brought all of the 30 to 40 people who showed up. It was him who introduced me to girl who ended up being best friend for a long time. My mother and I even had Thanksgiving Marshall’s house -- another friend of Darrell's.

Marshall is the guy responsible for everything I’m about to tell you. I would describe Marshall in detail too, but it would take me forever and I’d never get to the point of my story. Let’s just say that he’s a character and that during the event I'm about to describe, he chose to sport braids, mutton chops and mirrored CHIPS’ sunglasses.

So this past weekend was the Inman Park Festival and my friend and I were watching the parade from the sidelines when we saw the Darrell Roy float stop in front of us. I don’t know how to describe it any better than to say that the entire float was made up of Darrell Roys. A giant paper mache Darrell head covered the hood of the truck.  A group of about 15 people donned Darrell masks and mimicked his high-pitched girly goat laugh to the crowd. Everyone carried Darrell Roy signs and wore Darrell Roy T-shirts that said D-RHROID. And Marshall was right there in the middle of it --  throwing out packets of sugar to the crowd and telling everyone it was cheaper than candy. Darrell Roy Ladies and Gentlemen, Darrell Roy! he was shouting.

“Marshall,” I yelled from the sidelines, “What the hell is this? Where’s Darrell?”
“Hey! You need to get up here too! Come on,” he yelled.
There was no way I could pass up a ride on the Darrell Roy float. My friend and I jumped on the back of the truck and grabbed a Darrell Roy sign.  Darrell Roy!  Darrell Roy. Great Guy. “Where’s Darrell Marshall?” I asked again.
“He’s not here. He doesn’t know about this float. It took me a year! Darrell Roy Ladies and Gentlemen, Darrell Roy! Nice Guy.”

His mother was on the float, so was his father...and his girlfriend, but Darrell was not.

The float mades its way down the street. People in the crowd shouted out "Who the hell is Darrell Roy?"
"A nice guy. Doesn't know he has a float!" we'd shout back.

Someone yelled out that it was time to call Darrell. It was in the midst of the call that Darrell discovered his float.  I imagine the conversation went something like this: “I’m on the corner of Edgewood and blah blah blah. Where are…OH MY GOD!”

Darrell Roy ran out into the street with his hands on his face screaming: “OH MY GOD.”   He was so overwhelmed I thought Darrell Roy was going to pass out right in front of his own float. He had tears in his eyes and I don’t think they were necessarily tears of joy.  We finally got him on the float though. It took awhile of convincing him it was done with the best of intentions. And pretty soon Darrell was waving to the crowd and shouting his own name. 

Without further ado, here are the pictures of the Inman Park festival and the Darrell Roy Float. Sorry I couldn’t get the float in its entirety, but I managed to capture a bunch of shots of Darrell in shock.

 

 

 

 

The other night my friend Genene and I went to TV on the Radio at the Variety Playhouse and I donned my favorite shirt ever-- a pink tank top that says in big black lettering: COREY FELDMAN ROCKS.

I bring out this gem on special occasions and when I do, it always brings back that fateful day, some five or six years ago, when I saw Corey play live.

It was a Wednesday night in the middle of the summer and my friend Katie and I were bored and having a beer at the Yacht Club. She picked up our local alternative press and was thumbing through it when she saw, buried in the events section, that Corey was playing that night. "No fucking way," she said, "We have to go see him." I made up a barrage of excuses: I had to work the next day, and there was no way I wanted to pay to see Mr. Feldman perform. So she made an agreement with me that we would not pay more than 8 bucks to see him and if it sucked we could leave immediately.

So we made our way there. At the door, the price to see Corey play was advertised at $15. "No way," said Katie to the doorman, "You don't actually think people are going to pay that do you?" The guy told us it was practically a sold-out show.
"Fuck it. Let's go," I said to Katie.

As we started walking back to our car, a white mini-van with purple-tinted windows pulled up and stopped in front of us. And who should step out of it, but Corey himself.  Let me repeat that, Corey Feldman arrived to his gig in a white mini-van. Yes indeed. He was with a group of sexy black women and the rest of his band. He was naked from the waist up and he was wearing a big black Amish hat and a pink feather boa. "Holee shit," I turned to say to Katie. She didn’t hear me though because she had fallen in line behind all the people from the mini van. We ended up following Corey and his entourage right into the Star Bar. The doorman blocking the backstage didn't even blink an eye. But Corey did. I think the exact wording he used was: "Hey, you can't do that you bitches." Katie, who was a cute blond, just smiled and waved and climbed the stairs to the front of the house.

It was as if the Universe wanted us to see Corey. I mean how else would something like that occur unless it was a divine moment?

The place was packed. After an hour delay, a machine started pumping smoke into the room. The crowed started stomping and screaming for him. Then, in one of the most dramatic stage entries I have ever seen, Corey came out...rocking.  He was in his Amish hat and boa, but he had switched his pants to leopard print David Lee Roth pants.  

For the next hour, he played Michael Jackson covers, Stand by Me, and a barrage of shitty originals. The crowd was ecstatic.  After every song, he'd give a shout-out to his wife who was working the merch table.  She was wearing the same "Corey Feldman Rocks" shirt, but her fake tits were bursting out  of the side of the shirt. "I met her in rehab," he told the crowd.  "I fucking love that woman! I love you baby!" he'd yell out to her. She'd blow him a kiss and wave back.

Thirty minutes into the set, I had made friends with a dude who was standing next to me.  We shared a good many laughs. We even wiped each other's tears of joy at being part of such a spectacle. The dude and I came up with the International Sign for Ambivalence that night. It is to be used when you don’t know whether to flip someone off or give them the thumb’s Up. Much like in the case of Corey Feldman. Use it wisely.

 
It was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. In fact, Katie and I ended up shelling out 20 bucks each on that t-shirt which I still wear proudly on occasion.  Usually when I wear it, someone stops me in the street to tell me their own personal Corey Feldman story.  Recently, some gay gentlemen told me about the time when they stayed at a Hedonist resort and Corey was on the balcony of his hotel room doing his wife doggie-style and waving to the crowd at the pool below yelling:"Yeah, it's fucking good. Yeah baby."
"That guy is such an asshole," said the guy when he told the story.

Later at a party after the TV on the Radio show, I told my friend the amazing story behind the shirt. He thought I had purchased it from the internet. "Oh no..." I told him, "This is the real shit." 

So now ladies and gentlemen, you too can feast your eyes on the shirt which is being modeled by one of the hottest guys in Cabbagetown.  

If you want to see where I live, click here.

I was leaning back on the grass letting the sun graze my body. Ahhh spring!  Me lovey spring!  Then my little Springtime Dream-World bubble was violently pierced. I was in the park,  like I am every day,  when I heard a "fuck you!" escape from a child's mouth followed by a "You can't touch my balls!" retort from another child's mouth.  I kept my eyes shut though, for I already knew what I would see when I opened them.

There would surely see a boney, square-hipped, pre-pubescent boy whose gray skin would look as loose as his hand-me-down pants.  He would be beating his plain, purple-lipped, rotund girlfriend/sister in the head while she would be trying desperately to kick him in the balls. All the while, their 8-year old siblings, who look like smaller carbon copies of the older two, would most likely be fondling each others' genitalia and tonging each other over on the jungle gym. I even knew what they would all be wearing.

I peeked through one eye...it adjusted to the light and once it did, I saw that I  was only off by a hair -- the girlfriend/sister was wearing an off-pink shirt and I thought it would be blue.

I shut my eye and threw my "Policy" into effect.

What could I do, but chalk it up to the daily delicatessen of  weird shit I see in Cabbagetown. This stuff doesn't even phase me anymore. In fact, I had already started filing it away into the depths of my brain as the usual inbred-kids-beating-and-making-out-with each-other minutiae that I see every day. 

When you see this so often, you learn the simple tricks to help you spot an inbred. It's easier than you might think. My drunken old pseudo-architect neighbor confirmed this when he identified the children by asking me, rather simply,  if their entire body looked as if it was disappearing in their hips.
"Yes! That's them. They have small heads and dark, rodent-like eyes and they talk on their cell-phones incessantly and they make out with each other and kick each other in the balls!"
"I don't know about the cell phones, but everything else sounds like them," he sighed, " Every generations' hips get wider while their heads get smaller."
"Wow."
"Wait until you see one of them pregnant."

Every time I spot them, I can almost hear the National Geographic voice-over whisper: "There, in the green jungle gym, is where they lie in wait. See how the interesting creatures beat each other in their most unusual mating  rituals. Look now, as one appears to be courting his mate/sister by allowing her to kick him in the balls. Notice their unusual markings --the puple hickey upon the lower part of the neck shows that she belongs to him. Oh but wait, the younger one doesn't take notice of this brand -- he is attempting to court her too. A swift kick in the balls by the older boy keeps the younger boy in check."

Cabbagetowners, as we call them, are almost extinct except in very primitive places -- like around the corner from me, in the middle of downtown Atlanta. Their great-great-great-great grandparents came from Appalachia bringing their unique bloodlines to work and live here where the cotton mill was years ago. Today, a few of them are still scattered throughout the tiny village. In fact, if you'd like, you might be able to catch one in the park around 5 every day. They are a bit elusive though. I tried to capture a picture of them on my camera phone and they were too quick for me.

Anyway, so there I was with my eyes shut, trying like hell just think about the sun and the lovely wind and not the inbreds, when I heard  a woman above me say: "Jesus. I think I just saw those kids fucking over in the bushes." I opened my eyes again to see New Orleans Debbie and her big, black dog Max standing next to me.
"Huh," I said with my hand over my eyes, "I must have missed it because now it looks like they are kicking each other in the balls." 
"Jesus. I can't watch that. Owww!"  she said when the younger girl connected with the older boy's nut sack.
"Apparently you don't know about my little 'Policy'?"
"Oh yeah? What's that?" she asked.
"The I'm-Just-Going-to-Pretend-I-Didn't-See-That Policy?"
"Oh, I can't. That shit burns through my lids --  it's like a trainwreck."
"I'm disturbingly used to it by now."

We paused and stared at the offspring for a minute longer until a cool gust of wind slapped our faces. Debbie shivered and waved goodbye, "Welp, I better get going. I've gotta go throw up now."
"The Policy, Debbie, use the Policy." I said waving back at her.

As I walked back home down the red brick sidewalk, a gray and red Dodge Omni pulled up to the park and honked. All four of the kids ran up to the car and got in. As the car rolled passed me, I caught a glimpse of the driver. He was an exact combination of the older brother and girlfriend/ sister and it looked as if his body was disappearing into his hips. It must have been their older brother? Or father?  Or son? Or all three?

Recieved an email profile today with this picture attached.  The profile begins:

Would love to meet an outdoorsy type girl. I love animals especially pomeranians!!!  Would love to have an australian shepard oneday. My perfect match would be someone I can spend everyday with and enjoy every second with. Lately I have discovered that alot of women on this site are looking to play head games and one night stands.

I don't know what's more disturbing -- the  Pomeranians?  Or needing to spend every day and EVERY SECOND with someone?  Or the women who have contacted this guy for a one night stand.

So I've taken to asking my personals' victims what their most embarrasing moment is.  I like the one below the best so far. 

The most embarrassing moment that I will put in writing is this:
Back in the early 80s I had a girlfriend who worked in an adult
toy shop. She would bring stuff home to sample on occasion.
One night, she brought home some blueberry flavoured joy
jell (she liked the taste of plastic bluberries, but not the real
ones)and we proceeded to test it out. Needless to say, I woke up
late for work the next morning, so I threw on my clothes and
zipped off.

For the first couple of hours at work (I sold and
repaired bikes) everyone was giving me strange looks, not unusual
as I had orange hair. Finally, a buddy of mine walks in, points
at me laughing and asks if I axe murdered and ate a Smurf last
night? I asked what he meant and he dragged me over to a mirror. I was
mostly covered with a sticky sapphire blue film, which I forgot
was applied to me the evening before. It was everywhere. I
looked like a bank robber after a dye bomb marker goes off. The
old guys at the bike shop didn't say anything about my
condition, as they thought it was a punk rock thing. I was
stained for days.

So what do you think? Should I go out with this guy?


Hobbies...I love to paint but it is a mood thing, I like to drink, then again a mood thing, I love true horror novels and movies.

First line of recent emailed profile:

I am brutally honest so if you can't deal with that or the fact that I have Epilepsy, then stop reading now.

I didn't read the rest.

Ahhh. Man. I can't cancel my account. It's way too funny. I do like creating new music instruments. For example, the other day I made a tit harp. ** I forgot to add that the guy has a picture of himself in his tightie whities splayed out on his couch. He looks like Mr. Bean.



You are a jewel hidden in he mud...

Do you like philosophy, dreaming in your bath, the talkative silence of a cat, learning foreign languages, travelling overseas, sailing, writing poetry, creating new music instruments....

A bientot

Do you speak French?

Marc

Wow you have a condo in Midtown? When can I suck your dick?



I am from England originally, and just moved to Midtown from Gwinnett County. I work in Midtown too so it was a good move, eliminated a 2 hr/day commute. I bought a high-rise condo here, check it out if you like, www.plazamidtown.com. My building has a pool, clubhouse, fitness center, and even a Publix grocery store. And it is so nice to be able to walk to all the great restaurants, coffee shops, theatres, etc. in midtown.

Oh man. The Irony of some of these emails I get is painfully funny.  I hope this guy is never my radiologist. And do you think his sense of humor includes this email? It's a joke right? NO FUCKING GAMES. Except Soccer and Tennis and Camp Yoga.





Looking for an intilectual, funny sexy sophisticated lady who is loving carring passionate and has great sense of humor... I am m,36, 5'9", divorsed, 168, med., in great phy. cond., blk.hair/eyes, light tan, love to hug, kiss, cuddle, very romantic, great sense of humor. I love to play tennis, soccer, hike, camp yoga, movies meditation or just be cuddled with that someone special.  I am a Radiologist and I travel from different private Dr.s offices and help the Dr. and his Rad tech staff about reading , and interpitation of x-rays.I am looking for someone who is loving, carring affectionate, has a great sense of humor, someone who is bursting with life and not into games.I am very down to earth, looking for someone REAL, and looking for something long termand not a one night fling. No games.

When I first moved to Cabbagetown, there were so many things in my life that were in transition that the village more or less became one giant metaphor.

There's the never-ending construction. The streets being ripped up, obnoxious workers and deafening noise.  I've taken it to symbolize a reconstruction in my life. The constant rebuilding and recycling of things that I thought were fine. And then tearing down those walls and starting all over again, brick by brick. Every day.

Then there was my apartment that became my prison of sorts. A place that trapped me and smothered me and then finally thrust me into the world with sheer exasperation and panic. How the fuck did I get here anyway?

Then, two doors down there was this ancient beast resembling a dog. Its yellow fur had turned ashen. Its ass was always muddy or shitty. Blind and deaf. Mean as a snake. A wart on its head and its tail, the thing would just wander around tripping and falling into the street. Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, I'd go out on to my balcony and the thing  would be stumbling up the street in the middle of the night -- searching for something. Water? Comfort? Heaven? 

Many times it was almost run over. I'd cringe when I'd see a car just barely avoid swiping it. The thing never noticed, it would just pant and creep back to the shade of its house.

Even my dog, who loves everything, shied away from the beast. It represented unpleasant things. Unmetionable things.  Loneliness. Old age. listlessness. Filth. Anger. Rejection. Neglect. Every time I saw it, I felt a jolt of pain through my entire core.

 It just kept going, getting up each morning, licking the water in the sewer and shitting on the sidewalk. Once or twice it would lay in a patch of grass and let the sun warm its arthritic legs.

For four days I haven't seen the dog. I saw the owner getting drunk with some buddies. They commented on my plaid shorts and then I blurted out, "What happened to the dog?"
"Oh," they all shook their heads and drank. "It's sad. She died."
"But how?" I didn't think it was possible that that creature was mortal.
"She just didn't get up one morning. You know she was 18."
"But how did she die? Was it peaceful?"
"Yeah, man, she just didn't get up. She's buried out back now. You want a beer?"
Yes, but was it peaceful?

Thank god it's dead. I couldn't bear to watch it struggle anymore. It's dead. Finally.

Yesterday, I was buying some flaxseed oil and some dryer sheets and I completely forgot it was Valentine's day.  But I was hit in the face with it when I saw about 20 or so men huddled around the five dollar flower station and balloon display at Kroger -- all furiously buying shit to help them (maybe) get laid that night.


-------------------------------------------

A girl I know sprinkled rose petals all over her boyfriend's bed. When she told me her plan, I was like, um I wouldn't do that if I were you -- you're just asking for a man to sprint out the door.  Turns out, the guy totally loved it.
--------------------------------------------------------------

I remember Valentine's Day from when I was a kid. Stuffing little valentines in a bag that you open at the end of the day. I remember I got one when I was in sixth grade from a guy named Rod.  Rod is, by far, the worst name ever.  Anyway, he wrote "Will you Go with me" and then placed two boxes: "Yes" or "no" for me to choose.  I chose yes, thinking that I had most certainly hit the jackpot with ROD.  I found out that going with someone meant pretty much nothing because he also wrote at the bottom: "Don't tell anyone."  So I was secretly married in sixth grade, but we never even talked or touched.
---------------------------------------------------------------

The best Valentine's I ever had was when my best guy friend and I threw a bunch of Kroger flower petals all over my bed from some miscellaneous boyfriend that I had but didn't really like. We suddenly fell into this mad fucking all night in the flower petal forrest of love. It was so cool. But then we awoke in this horrible awkward cloud with petals smashed into our faces and stuck to our hair.  Needless to say, my sheets were ruined. We forgot that there was this unspoken reason why we didn't sleep together and now the bond was horribly soiled by cheap Kroger sex. There became this weird, now what do we do?,  thing  between us sooo...  our friendship pretty much ended after that.  And that's what I think about Kroger rose petals on the bed.
------------------------------------------------------------------

My mother retired a couple of years ago, but according to her, she's never been so busy.  She fills up her time with master gardening classes, grandchildren, dog shows, the Rowlett Texas Woman's Club, book clubs, going to Curves, and attending community college classes.  The community classes are given free to seniors in the area. Considering that my mother has a Ph.D. and has retired fairly wealthy, it irks me a bit that she takes classes for free, but she insists it's her right -- as a tax-paying citizen.

Every week, for the last year, she shows up to her Photoshop class in one of her brightly-colored velour track suits and  tennis shoes. She vowed never to wear a suit, or for that matter, pants without elastic, ever again when she retired. She can she barely operate her toaster, but for the last year she has been at the top of the class.  She is now on Class 4 which means she can probably just about out-Photoshop any designer I know. 

This has become a handy skill for her. She can make her grandkids look cuter, make flowers more colorful, change the weather in the background from rainy to sunny. What's more, is she can make herself look thinner and younger in pictures. She has become a sort of God in a way. In fact, I think she might be taking these classes to avoid the costly and more painful face-lift. Photoshop is so much easier.  And if you look great iin pictures, who gives a shit what you look like in person.  Models do it. Everyone does it on internet dating sites.  And my mother should, at the very least, be entitled to perform a little magic on a photo of herself. Right?

But I draw the line when she asks me to resend the original photos of myself on Halloween because she would like to "fix them."
"What do you mean?" I ask. "What's wrong with them?"
"They could be a little touched up. You know, your teeth, your hair..."
"What's wrong with my teeth?"
"Well, they could be whiter for one.  And your skin looks a little pale. We can put a little color in your cheeks.  I also don't like the background. Too dark. We should change that."
"But you can't change the background. I was at a Halloween Party. People would be confused about why I was wearing a Spam hat."
"I could touch up your boyfriend's face too. He has a bit of a five o'clock shadow."
"Mom," I whine, "I don't want you messing around with those pictures."
"Why? No one has to know what you really looked like at the party. They were probably drinking right?"
"I'm not sending them to you."
"Everyone does it. You’re being ridiculous." She says this calmly as if she has been in the picture touch-up "biz" for years.
"Because there's something inherently wrong with you wanting to Photoshop the hell out of your daughter's face!"
"I do it to your brother’s pictures and he's thankful for it. I don't understand the problem. Just send them to me."
So I relent. It’s like that with her. I just give in. I send her the originals.

I almost forgot about them until I got an email from her today. I opened them up and unfortunately, I do indeed look much better. It's still me.  I just look, well...better?  I mean, the picture is lighter and clearer. That pimple is gone. My skin looks great. My boyfriend looks good too. His face is thinner. There's a sparkle in his eye.

She made us look ...how we think we look.

I'm not going to thank her though. It would go straight to her head.

Cabbagetown, Georgia is tiny neighborhood near Downtown, Atlanta. Maybe two miles by two miles if it made a perfect square. Originally, it was founded by the Cotton Mill workers, a mixture of mostly poor white folk from Appalachia. Today, it's still bordered by the Cotton Mill Lofts on one side and train tracks on another.  On just about every street there’s a small one-room church, on some there are even two. There’s a small community center that holds yoga twice a week, a protective historical preservation committee, and a sometimes hostile neighborhood restoration committee. There are a few local restaurants and pubs. 

The colorful houses, some no more than 700 square feet, have all but few, been renovated, restored and resold for prices that some say are ridiculous for their size.Some of the original cabbagetowner’s still live here, with their strong mush-mouthed accents and their sense of fierce localism, and just a touch of inbreeding about their look. But mostly, the community consists of young urbanites, a good portion of them artisans or small business owners.

As a newcomer, it hasn’t been easy.  One must have what it takes to be a true cabbagetowner. The fierce sense of community and almost gossipy knowledge of each neighbor. There is certain eccentricity that exists here that everyone fights dearly to maintain. In some ways, Cabbagetown feels almost like a gated community.

Just recently, Cabbagetown recently restored their small community park. The park has been the glue that really binds this community together. Children play until dark every night. Odd, punked out, blue-haired lovers walk hand in hand. Dog owners congregate to let the neighborhood pooches have their play hour. It’s a tiny park for a tiny community, but everyone loves it.

To maintain the park, the neighborhood restoration committee holds a chili cook-off and bluegrass festival every year called the Chomp and STomp. To try to pry my way into  the community I agreed to help promote the event.  This proved challenging when the committee said, “We don’t really want people to come to the event, just locals.” 

Despite the difficulty I had advertising, but "not advertising" the event, the day arrived and appeared to be quite successful. Rows of chili contestants lined Tye street. Pumpkin Chili, Aligator Chili, Jewish Chili, Heavy Metal Chili. The music banjos and strings were a perfect compliment to the crispy fall day. Artist’s booths filled one side of the park. One could buy knitted kitty hats, jewelry by the local glass blower, pottery, paintings. Children played in the blow up castle provided by the local real estate agent.  Everyone seemed to be very pleased.  But apparently, some weren't happy with the judging practices.

Cabbagetown has a message board  where neighbors can post events, or questions, etc. Last week someone complained that their prized Carter Country bumper sticker had been stolen by a bunch of “freedom haters”. Someone recently posted that their cat was killed by a pack of wild dogs. This week however, the board is filled up with "comments" about the Chomp and Stomp Chili Festival. Apparently, the local Southwestern restaurant, Agave, won for one for the third year and the row with their green chili recipe and the neighbors have been fighting about it on a thread that’s lasted for three days.  This thread gives perhaps the best example of the neibhorhood where I live.

_

I have been trying to write a novel. What I go through each day to gear myself up for writing is akin to poking hot needles through my eyes and then squeezing lemon into them.

I'm usually okay if I can get out of my house by 9 a.m. and get to the local Cafe first thing. Sometimes it doesn't work out that way. Take today for example. I am deluged with noise from the construction below. They are ripping up the sewers and have been for over six months. To describe my hatred for this project is pointless, just know that once the noise starts at 7 a.m., I become enraged. Enraged because they are once again pounding open a hole that they just paved over YESTERDAY. The Mexicans start yelling. Suddenly I decide it's their fault I don't have a novel. They can't speak English, they keep fucking up the project and that's why this thing is lasting so fucking long. Today, I spent a full hour trying to find the boss of the entire project to figure out why the fuck they do this endless cycle of plowing up and covering over. Why, for example, they would pave over a water main break. AND WHY WOULD THEY DISRUPT MY WRITING? WHY DO THEY HATE ME THESE MEXICANS IN THEIR BULLDOZERS? WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS TO ME?

Then I check my email. I find emails from needy clients , volunteer organizations who suddenly need me, friends who suddenly need me, shopping sites who suddenly need me. Bills to pay, crap to fix, bank accounts that keep fucking charging me for shit that they said they wouldn't charge me for. Shit to delete. Vacations to plan.

Then the phone. A friend needs a ride to pick up her car. Another friend needs me to watch her dog. My mother calls and needs something. My father's wife's grandchild dials me by accident and it takes me one hour to clear up that he did not call me, the two-year old brat did.


I should watch that Netflix. I have to go to Target immediately. Perhaps a walk would help. The dog needs out. I feel fat and decide to stew about that for awhile, exercise, find a book on dieting. My dishwasher breaks and water goes all over the floor. Now the plumber has to come. He comes and starts singing. Does he know I hate him too? And finally, I'm so fucking tired I can barely sit at the computer. I need to take a nap, but I can't because of the construction.

Maybe a trip to Amazon,com would help. Books that will help me write this book. Help me understand why it's so hard to get past these distractions. Books to help me manufacture a vacuum chamber, completely silent that no one could get into and out of until 3,000 amazing words have been written. $150 later, I purchase a million books that tell me that I just need to sit down and write. No shit! No fucking shit. Screw you Amazon.com. I paid a fortune for this!? Then I think about being broke for at least an hour.

It is now 3:34pm my time. I have approximately four more hours of construction. The jackhammer. The saw. The screaming Mexicans. When they leave I shall write. But Lost is on at 9 and my boyfriend will probably call at 8 and I have to walk the dog and for Christ's sake I haven't even showered yet.

Then I get really worked up. I only have four months of savings to live on. Maybe I should look for work now. No, fuck it, I tell myself, I have to do this.

And so I write. Even if it is a blog entry -- I am writing at least. Even if it's really bad, at least I'm writing. Then my mother calls me again. "What do you want?" I yell at her. Then I tell her sorry and that I just got started writing. Oh, she says. It sounds like Dorothy Parker. Apparently DP said, "I hate writing! But, I love having written."
Thanks Mom, I say, but I need to hang up now.

I hate everyone right now, and everything that gets in my way. Even Halloween-- normally a joyous time--is just a distraction.

God that fucking beeping is making me crazy. Maybe I should become a drunk or a drug addict or something. Something just to give me focus. I hear that adderrall is supposed to help people write novels?

Tomorrow, I will get to the cafe. Tomorrow this won't happen. But for now I need to write.

For three months, the Crazy Hippie Neighbor, Anita, has been sucking my soul out of me like some sort of supervillian. When I first met her she had this boyfriend who she described as her "soul mate." I saw a picture of him and they did sort of look like they belonged together. He had stringy, long, red hair-- just like her. He had a receding chin and skinny white wrinkled limbs -- just like her. And they both had British teeth. He played the fiddle like her and forged garden tools over an open flame for a living. Not that she forged iron, but she was a midwife which made them both seem like they came from some land in a mythical dragon tale.

Ah yes, this man was perfect for her. Until that is... until he got stoned and cheated on her at a bluegrass concert with an older, uglier woman from Kentucky.

Anita fell apart like only the heroine in a mythical dragon tale would. She took to her bed, stopped eating, stopped washing, and to my horror, stopped taking care of her dog and cat. Once in awhile she would come to her door in a ripped up t-shirt and granny panties, to trap me into listening to her sad tales of unrequited love. Because I too, had recently gone through a breakup, I was patient with her.
"But we were soul mates," she would say.
"Yeah, well Anita, some asshole made that word up. Truth is relationships are usually good for awhile, but inevitably they go away or start sucking unless both of you are down in the trenches together."
"But we both played the fiddle" she'd say with an off-tuned whine.
"Well, you had something in common. But, he still cheated on you. I don't think soul mates are supposed to do that."
"I just don't feel good," she would say.
"Yes, it sucks. I know how you feel." I would tell her to take her dog on long walks so she could heal. But she insisted on replaying her entire relationship ad naseum to me, including how he touched her breasts. Anita's breasts are more or less just skin flapping in the braless wind. They are pointy and turned out at an almost perfect 90 degree angle. I would think to myself that it was cool in a way, because even creepy, right-angled breasted women got some play and there really was someone for everyone. This gave me a sick sort of hope...in a way.

I let her carry on like this for a couple of weeks. I would take her dog out, feed her cat, listen to her moan and groan, and then slowly, I realized that I too, was getting depressed. I started to regress in my own breakup healing. I started to lose my creativity. And I started taking to my bed like some sort of heroine in a mythical dragon tale. I knew that I had to get away from her or I was never going to get through my own grief. I tried avoiding her, but she would find me in the park and start playing the loop again.
"I called him," she would say, "I drank a beer and called him." Anita didn't normally drink or do drugs, although if you met her you would never believe that.
"Oh Jesus. Why did you do that?"
She'd sob, "I just miss him soooo much. We were soul mates. He told me I should give him space." Snot ran out of her nose and her dog started whining along with her.
"Well give him space then," I'd say, "I've got to go walk Flynn now, bye."
"Can I walk with you?" she'd whine.
"No Anita. I need, uh, I'm planning a dinner party in my head and I can't do that with you near me." A dinner party? Oh well, at least she wouldn't come with me.

Two days later, I'd see her in the park again and she would tell me the same fucking thing with a slightly different twist "I wrote him a letter."
"Oh Jesus. Why did you do that? He said he wanted space."
"I just needed closure. Here, read it." She passed me the a tattered note full of chicken scratches. It said something like this:
Dear Russ:
You Realy Hurt Me! You Fuking Ashole. We Where Soul Mates! Then you Gone scrwed that woman. You are bad man. I hate you!

I couldn't even finish it because it was so poorly-written. It was almost as if the I needed the CIA to decode it. "Anita! Please tell me you didn't send this!"
"Yes I did! And I feel better now," she said.
"Oh Anita! Why!? Don't do this again. Don't write him or contact him again. Please. For your own sake. Just dont." And then I'd run away.

For two months, the same story -- she would not stop contacting this poor schmuck.
"I called his ex-wife."
"Anita, why the fuck would you do that?"
"I just wanted to see if she had seen him. I was drunk. I drank a beer before I did it." Anita began to become the very definition of Psycho ex girlfriend.

Then she dropped the bomb on me: "I'm moving to his town in Virginia. I bought some land and I am going to build the cabin together that we always dreamed of." By this time, I was just sick of her, if I would have thought of it, I would have suggested that she pitch a tent outside his house and start screaming at him to come out and rape her. Just as long as it meant her getting the hell away from me. So I congratulated with enthusiasm and ran away as usual. Yay! She's leaving! I can finally get on with my life.

Then her Heroin-addict son showed up at the door. This really put a kink into everything.

Stayed tuned for more tales from the Mythical Dragon Novel.

It is now 6:15 p.m. on a Monday. I have now been avoiding my big project for approximately 5 days. It is due tomorrow.

My project is for a renown stress expert. She tells me that I am the "chosen" one all the time because I saved her ass from a bunch of blood sucking men who are in the Russian mafia. I shit you not. Mamood, her reiki/Sufi healing master in Canada confirms that I am the "chosen" one. I did not pay him to tell her that.

This stress expert is by far the most stressed out person I know. When I am around her, my shoulders instantly tense up. My jaw starts clicking. I'll get this weird itch around my ribs. She always brags about being beaten as a child. It's as if she's saying that because she had a shitty childhood I should respect her craziness. I do not. She keeps me on the phone for hours talking about herself. Once I mentioned something about myself and she just plowed right over it with another story about some sort of famous person she knows. "Oh I know the Dalia Lama. I studied with him. I'm going over to Jane Fonda's later. I'm a personal friend of Richard Simmons." She brags about this shit as if I give one flat fuck who she hangs out with. I want her money and that's it.

I feel bad writing this and I may take it back tomorrow when she fires me after she sees how stupid this thing is that I will eventually get around to doing for her.

So that leads me to right now, 6:20 p.m. I am hating my friend who told her I was amazing and that I would do something incredible for her. Why the fuck did she do that? She set me up for failure. I don't want to do incredible. I don't feel like doing incredible. I want to slap something down and be done with it so that I can start sipping Mint Juleps from my porch whilst wearing my jumpsuit. I am lying about this. I hate Mint Juleps and I don't have a jumpsuit. But at least I'm not doing her "incredible job."

Instead of working today here is what I have done:

1. Watched every episode of Law & Order.
2. Instant messaged several friends all day long.
3. Wrote two online dating profiles for two different friends. I am the master of this. If you want me to write yours, I'll do it for 10 bucks. And it WILL get results. And furthermore it keeps me from having to do my "incredible" job.
4. Walked my dog 4 times.
5. Took two naps.
6. Jogged.
7. And worked out at the gym. I might work out again just to avoid this job.
8. Watched the hot Mexican construction workers outside my window until they saw me and blew me a kiss. Then I ran away and closed all the curtains. Then I peeked at them through the curtains 16 or 17 times.
9. Read a book on publishing.
10. Read 6 or 7 different Horoscopes to see if I would be receiving more money anytime soon. I won't be. This fucking sucks.
11. Emailed 6 or 7 friends to whom I haven't spoken in months..
12. Watched Oprah who is beginning to be more like Jerry Springer every day.
13. Cleaned my kitchen.
14. Went to the bank.
15. Watered my plants.
16. Hemmed this skirt I have.
17. Talked with the crazy neighbor.
18. Talked with the crazy neighbor's heroin addict son.
19. Emailed a fake death threat to my landlord for not putting in my dishwasher.
20. Did a tarot card reading online.
21. Checked out how many calories are in a head of cauliflower. 50. You could eat the whole fucking head and it's only 50 calories. I find this amazing. Not as amazing as this stupid thing I have to write, but amazing none the less.
22. Started two activity groups on craig's list.
23. Emailed the one person who wrote me back.
24. Called up some print vendors and made them add my name to a fancy free dinner.
25. Confirmed that I have box tickets for the Braves game on Saturday. Thought about who I would take. Still haven't decided.
26. Read all the back issues of the New Yorker, Harpers, Atlantic Monthly and the Economist that I usually avoid reading because I can't stand to read one more word about Iraq and I'd much rather find out how to lose 10 pounds in 10 days from Self Magazine.
26. Decided to write something on Live Journal for the first time in a month.

And so here I am, I don't think I can avoid this thing any longer. Wait! I think I may need to pluck my eyebrows.

Since I moved to Cabbagetown a couple of months ago, I've been hearing this blown-out version of It's a Small World coming from somewhere in the neighborhood. I've assumed it's an ice cream man, but every time I look outside, all I see is an unmarked rusty van parked across the street.

The idea of an ice cream man is absolutely fantastic to me. I grew up in the rural mountains of Colorado, so I never got to experience the ice cream man unless my father drove me to the Coney Island hotdog-shaped restaurant for a soft-serve. And let's be honest, soft-serve is gay. I also never experienced pizza or Chinese delivery as a child. These three things make it so worth living in the city.

So anyway, I kept hearing this tinkling music, but every time it blared through the neighborhood, I was in my underwear watching the Golden Girls. So by the time I could get my jumpsuit on, the ice cream man was gone daddy gone.

And then, on my birthday a couple of weeks ago, I heard the sweet sound of the ice cream man. And what do you know! I happened to be dressed! I practically fell down the stairs to get to the magic. But when I got to the street, all I saw was the unmarked white van. I paused, looked around, and then saw a couple of filthy kids lined up next to the van.

Uh-oh! I appeared to have stumbled upon a child slavery ring. But then I saw a small boy with his pants falling down, carrying a popsicle. Hot damn! It was the ice cream man.

I ran over and pushed all the kids out of my way, telling them it was my motherfucking birthday and ME first! I got to the door and there was a diseased and weathered black man sitting next to an old cooler. The front of the van was filled with crumpled-up fast food bags and there was the distinct smell of old lady ass emanating from the cockpit. Nevertheless, it was my birthday and I was getting an ice cream. "Where's your chart of products sir?" I asked him.

"I don't got none. Here. Here what I got." He opened up the cooler and there was a bunch of generic popsicles which I assumed he bought from Costco.

"Hmmm," I said as I perused his selection, "All I see here are fudgsicles and orange creamsicles. I see no drumsticks or Rocketpops. Where are those sir?"

"This what I got," he said.

Well that was perfectly crappy. How in the hell could he be out of his wares so early in the day? Did he not understand it was my birthday?

Defeated, I decided on a fudgesicle. I asked him how much and he told me $4.59. "What! Come on! Don't tell me these little bastards can afford a five dollar ice cream?" He just held out his hand and I gave him a five and he gave me almost all of my change back.

I was just crushed. I walked back to my house licking the freezer-burned fudgsicle. In the movies, the ice cream man wears a white suit and drives a nice truck. And he has a nicely designed poster with all the items you could buy. And he was friendly and sort of cute and didn't have Hepatitis. What the hell happened to the ice cream man of my childhood dreams?! Was it just ruse this whole time?

That sickening ice cream man inspired my new business plan -- Ice Cream Woman, LLC. Yes, I will wear pink, slap a little sign on my car, play a little Candyman Can...you know, who can bring the sunshine? Who can bring the rain? The Candyman can! God damn it! I can get some decent ice cream -- some Hagen Daas, some Drumsicles -- do a marketing plan, run a little targeted advertising in the area and make a fucking fortune. If that dude is selling a two-cent popsicle for $4.59, I can certainly charge $20 for a pint of Ben and Jerry's. The only problem I foresee is oversampling my product. But it would certainly be an improvement over the ice crap man that's in the neighborhood now.

The other night after my 4th of July Hot dog Fest, I went with a friend to pick up "something" from one of his friends late at night. This friend of his lived in a strange loft on the outskirts of the outskirts.

Inside this loft there was a yellow brick road painted to a giant tin door. I was so hoping to see midgets inside, but instead there was this strange bony woman with purple dreadlocks, a girl passed out on the couch with a Reader's Digest covering her face, and greasy zit-faced man playing video games.

My friend had told me not to say anything, he said this woman was really weird and paranoid and I should just shut up. But the dreaded woman immediately took my hand and led me down to show me her latest purchase -- a genuine church pulpit. "Wow," I said, "Have you thought of a good sermon?"
She laughed like a horse and then pulled out a cigarette and said, "I knewed I'd like you. I could tell by your dress that you were a really fresh spirit."

I was wearing a green and white sun dress that I had purchased from Ross for exactly $9.99. It is reversible. And I look really good in it.

The woman then pulled out her cell phone and called her friend, "You know that dress you got? Can I have it?" Apparently, the person on the end of the other line said yes, because the next thing you know, the purple-haired woman was leading me to another door around the backside of the loft. I shot my friend a worried look on the way out, but he just shrugged his shoulders as if there wasn't a damn thing he could do.

She then knocked on another big tin door and a big fat gay man answered. Mind you it was 2 am. Inside this man's house was all sorts of weird things stacked floor to ceiling. Giant clown heads. Big balls of wire. A million fake Christmas trees. A half a carosel horse. "Hey Ray," said the woman to the fat gay man. The man said nothing and passed her a dress. She took it and he shut the door in her face.

"Here, see! This dress is perfect for you!" She held out the dress. It was a white polyester turtlenecked horror of a thing. Completely shapeless. With two faux pockets located right about the snatchal region. It had florescent green and orange horizontal pin stripes, and it was about four sizes too big. In short, it was the worst fucking dress I have ever seen in my life. But what the hell to do, but take it.

"Are you sure you want me to take this um... treasure?" I asked her.
"Try it on! I know it would look perfect on you!"

And so I was forced to go back to the end of the yellow brick road and try on this horrible dress. My friend was still sitting there, anxious as hell to leave, but this was clearly his fucking fault, so I went into her bathroom (which had pictures of old tampax boxes all over the red walls) and tried it on. The fabric was so horrible, so polyester, so itchy, so dirty. And I looked about 17 pounds heavier. But I had to go out and model the dress anyway.

I came out of the bathroom. She put her hand over her mouth and exclaimed that it was the cutest thing she had ever seen. My friend had a look of subtle disgust on his face. The passed-out girl never woke up and the guy never looked away from his video games.


I thanked her for her gifts, but told her I had to really had to get home. She forced me to wear the dress out, but once I got in the car, I practically tore the dress off. "You could have waited until we were home," said my friend.

"Yeah? Well you put the fucking thing on and see how long you can stand it. It smells like glue." I threw the dress in his face and he threw it in the back seat of my car.

"It's your fault," he said, "I told you not to talk!"

Since June 3rd, every morning but Sunday, I have been woken up at 7:30 a.m. by the piercing sound of a bulldozer backing up. Beep! Beep! Beep! .

It backs up for like half an hour then it takes the metal lid of this giant hole in the road and drops it from a height that makes my windows shake. Then it backs up some more, grabs a metal tin circle and drops it on top of the hole. Then this generator thing starts up with a roar.

No matter what time I go to bed, I am forced up at this hour. Lucky me, I don't even need an alarm clock!

I can see the men get out of their giant trucks from my window and go down into the hole. The thing is, I have no idea what is actually going on in the hole. I have been dying to ask, but the men are rather leery and they know where I live. But I must tell you, that a piece of me has died every day that I don't know what is going on inside that hole.

So today, I walked right up to the hole and peered in. Okay, I did sort of trip on something before I got to it, but it was a gutsy move nevertheless. What I saw down there made me swoon with joy.

Down in the hole was an amazing world one could only imagine. There were a group of small bearded leprechauns wearing silky green pants. The little men were putting on a feast for their fairy friends who were hovering above. The walls were sparkly and brilliant. And there was a smell of fresh pastry right out of the oven. I wanted so badly to go down into the hole, but I had this feeling that once I went down I could never come back.

Suddenly I was perfectly fine with waking up at 7:30 a.m. I mean after all, who wouldn't want to be woken up by leprechauns and fairies making chocolate eclairs?

Or maybe... what I really saw was a couple of Mexicans, crawling through a pitch black sewer to reinstall fithly shit pipes. And flies were eveywhere and it smelled like poop and there was no light and it was like 90 degrees. And apparently, it's never going to end because they must be reinstalling sewer pipes throughout Atlanta and this is the fucking portal right outside my house.

Then the dirty men in fluorescent orange vests whistled and shouted for me to get the fuck away from the hole and that it was dangerous and so I walked back inside leaving my fairy friends behind.

It is important that I tell you about the BEST PURCHASE OF MY LIFE: this little bathtub rack thingy below made especially for my clawfoot bathtub. It holds a book, a candle, some wine, a Fla-vor-ice, and a pickle -- just perfectly. It also holds a Publix rotisserie chicken or a frozen burrito...if you so desire. And I do, thank you very much.

I'm pretty sure that the universe sent me this treasure.

The Hippie neighbor made me some patchouli soap as a peace offering. I won't be washing myself with it, but it does make me feel better that we are now friends. It's all Flynn the Dog's fault. She has a dog named Rose and since Flynn is running for the mayor of Cabbagetown, he just walked right in the hippie neighbor's house and sat on her couch for a fireside chat. This was very awkward indeed as I was intent on hating her. But then she apologized. And then we drank a bottle of wine and got drunk and talked about life.

She is dating the Brawnyman and has a son who is a heroin addict. She knows everyone in the neighborhood and has made sure to tell me everything I need to know. She's pretty sure that there is a guy who looks like Harry Connick, Jr., who lives on the corner, is single, and has a dog. This is good news indeed.

She also set me up on Sunday to meet, in person, the freaks in the castle-like house who sit on their porch in pajamas. The same who still have their Halloween decorations up. And the same freaks who have chickens that run around in the street. This excites me to no end to meet them. But their chickens!

I cannot think of a beast more savage and frightening than a chicken. They can poke your eyes out, or grab your skin with their horrible, dirty beaks. Chickens are the most awful animal on the planet. So you can imagine the look on my visage when I saw three of them trotting across the street in the middle of Atlanta, in BROAD DAYLIGHT mind you. I had a look of fear so deep and penatrating that the Freaks could see it from their porch, several yards away. "Just shoo them away, they won't bite," waved the big man in a flowing Chinese robe. Shoo them away?! My God. Call the police! Scratch that. Call the motherfucking National Guard!

Flynn the dog, found them fascinating and chased one into the bush.

"Uh oh, I think my dog is going to bite your chicken. Help! Help!" Get off that goddamn porch and shoot that chicken monster, and hurry you Queens!

The robed man squawked like one of the dreadful creatures: "I. Don't. Think. So. That is a rooster and he is an alpha male and your pansy-assed dog won't bother him at all." Then he waved his hand and shooed me away and walked inside with the wind in his robe.

I considered reporting this man to some sort of anti-chicken league as I walked away. But the the rooster crowed a sound so hideous it sent chills through my bones and my contemplative pace quickened to a fast run.

On Sunday though, there is some sort of new moon in my sign and I am supposed to make a fresh start. This, my friends, is why I am going to meet the Freaks on the porch -- to conquer my fear of the winged flesh-eaters. That, and also drink the Freaks' wine and maybe eat one of their proud pets.

I moved this weekend. I moved primarily to get away from horrible landlord and from my druggie neighbors. I moved to get away from the shitting bums. I moved to get away from construction. I moved to get a fresh start.

Instead of a slumlord, I now have a pony-tailed Indian construction guy. I don't have shitting bums, but I do have a one-room church on every corner. Same thing. And the construction is still here and even worse than Midtown. And I have a brand new neighbor that makes me want to go back and live next to the coke heads.

Yesterday, after 72 hours of moving up and down three flights of stairs, tripping on the painters in my apartment, no hot water or gas, putting together pre-fab furniture, 25 different colors and sizes of bruises, a migraine headache, and a total of four hours of sleep -- I met my new neighbor. I could sort of smell what I was getting into when she passed me -- she stank of patchouli.

After living in Boulder, Colorado for nearly 25 years, I have had my fill of hippies. Dirty, filthy, shitbag Hippies. And not the old Woodstock/Vietnam protesting variety. These are the people who are Hippies because they need medication and they have no choice but to live in a bus. These are the Hippies who think they are living by the motto: freedom is another word for nothing left to lose. I add to that, nothing except for your burnt-out-acid-taking goddamn marbles. I hate Hippies.

So anyway, I now have a giant shared porch. You've probably seen them, very old south. I share it... with the Hippie lady, who happens to also be a part-time midwife. Sigh. Yesterday morning, she approached me and kindly asked me if I would give her the entire porch. And I kindly said, no way. But I did tell her I would work with her and she could have half and I could have half and I would respect her space and quiet. She seemed a bit perturbed and walked off in a huff. But I didn't care because I was busy yelling at the gas man on the phone.

Around four o'clock when she returned, she took every single one of the trees and plants I have out on the "shared porch," as well as my marble table and chairs, and shoved them up against my backdoor so that I couldn't get out.

Wondering if she was just having a bad flashback, I decided to bang on her door and ask why the fuck she blockaded my door like that? She screamed and shook that the porch was HERS, HERS, HERS and that the landlord told her it was HERS! I said, well the landlord said something different to me just about 30 minutes ago. She then called me a territorial bitch and told me that she likes to walk naked, sleep with the windows open and never close her door...and she doesn't want to put up curtains and that I MUST respect her privacy because she was there first and the people that lived her before made an agreement with her. (The people that lived here before were a 21 year-old Goth couple who broke up and moved out 6 months into the lease, probably because they saw her naked accidently.) She told me I could not have people out there, nor my dog and cat, and all my plants were hindering her view of the treetops.

I called the ponytailed Indian landlord on my cell phone to confirm that indeed the porch was shared. The crazy woman snatched my cell phone out of my hands, slammed her door in my face and proceeded to have a 20 minute conversation with the landlord about how horrible I was and how dare he allow me to take over HER porch and that it was his responsibility to give her peace and quiet and privacy.

Mind you, I had a piercing migraine and nearly two weeks of anger and frustration piled up in my guts. I felt like David Banner in the Hulk. I think I had veins popping out of my neck. I went around back to the porch where her door was open, stormed inside her house, grabbed my phone out of her disgusting Hippie hands, hung up on the landlord and said rather calmly, "I am done fucking talking to you, YOU CRAZY BURNED OUT HIPPIE. You've been told this porch is shared and I will socialize, write, let my dog and cat roam out there to my heart's content. And I will put up my fucking plants as I see fit. I will look in your windows and see your naked body and if you don't want to put up curtains or shut your windows, then it's your motherfucking problem! And if you don't like it, don't rent a fucking apartment with a shared porch!" Then I slammed her own door in her face and went into my house and sat in the middle of my floor and bawled like a baby. I broke completely down. I've been holding it together with string and wouldn't you know it, it was a freaking Hippie who unraveled me at my seams. Figures.

This morning though, I finally had hot bath in my fabulous clawfoot bathtub. I finally got some sleep. I finally got some shit unpacked. And so I went right out to MY porch where I let my dog and cat out, I drank a cup of coffee and I lit up a smoke and blew it in her window and turned up NPR really loud. Really, the whole thing kind of feels like I may have had a bad acid flashback myself.

The fact is, I may have changed zip codes, but I still live in Crazytown. Who was that asshole who said, "Wherever you go, there you are"? Yeah, well he was right. But I tell you what, I refuse to let a Hippie send me over the edge again.

I used to move like a goddamn professional. I got rid of everything I didn't need, made a couple of hundred dollars on garage sales when I culled through everything. Had everything cleaned. I packed everything perfectly and labeled each box...perfectly. I was a master mover.

This time, I've been throwing shoes in with dishes. Paintbrushes in with food. The boxes are so heavy I can't even scoot them across the floor. I just wrote "junk" on a box because I have no idea what the hell I had just put in it. I haven't been able to throw anything away because that would require thought and effort. Everything is filthy. I cut my toe when I dropped a frozen veggie patty on it from the freezer and I threw my back out just by standing up.

Despite the hassle, I am over-freaking-joyed to be leaving this neighborhood and this house. Today when I was walking the dog, I passed a pile of human shit with a napkin on top, conveniently left right in the middle of the sidewalk for me to step in. It was as if the bums and the crackheads gave me a parting gift. Aw thanks guys, I'll miss you too!

And I'll also miss Skeletor, the lawn guy, who looks like he's going to die any minute. I will miss the old guy who walks around with a cigar, gigantic earphones, and two dogs, one who has tumors the size of a midget's head on its belly. I will miss the black guy who carries around a ghetto blaster and sits out front of the little store telling everyone who walks in to get a lottery ticket because the jackpot is big. I will miss the store owners Richard and the Korean Lady who gets her hair permed, makes sarcastic comments to everyone, and talks in Korean on the phone all day. I will miss all the gay folk from the Eagle Leather Bar who wear assless chaps and fuck in my doorway. I will miss the floods. God will I miss the floods. The bad landlords, man will I miss them too. The crazy cokehead neighbors too. I'll miss you Midtown! In my own little fucked up way. (Can you see me flipping off Midtown?)

It's time for a new happier chapter in the book of Ridiculcious. It's so exciting. It's like shedding a layer of pockmarked skin. Cabbagetown here I come! That is if my back is healed by then.

My dog likes to eat gum and not just one piece, the whole pack -- foil and all. My dog is scared to death of the sound of farts. He doesn't mind firecrackers or the vacuum, but farts will make him shake with fear.

My dog must nuzzle everyone he passes on the street. If we spot someone from afar, he takes his time smelling various things, pauses, looks back until the person gets near enough for a nuzzle. I must wait while he does this.

In the morning, he yawns and then rolls over on his back so that I can tickle his underarms. He laughs when I do it. When he falls asleep in my bed and I'm not there, he lays on my pillow -- I assume because it smells like me. He likes to lay on the kitchen floor even when the light is off because he is certain a piece of cheese will fall from heaven.

Flynn hates the water and will only fetch his stuffed pig one or two times before he gets bored, even though he is part Golden Retriever. He has bad allergies and really bad teeth from when he was a baby and had distemper. He sneezes when he lays on his back for too long and his breath is repugnant. But in a way, smelling his breath brings me comfort.

Flynn the dog is by far one of the best people I've ever met.

There is a neglected guard dog next to my house -- a big Rottweiler -- who never gets taken on a walk, never gets to go inside and probably never gets petted by anyone by me. He is thrilled when I pat his head. He barks all day and all night, but more with a "I'm so lonely bark" than an "I'm going to kill you bark."

I've called animal services and apparently if a dog gets fed and watered and has a shelter with three sides and a 10 by 10 pen, there is nothing you can do. They can't take the dog away for lack of affection. I've had words with the guy who owns him. He's an asshole and I'm kind of scared of him. I've considered stealing the dog, but I don't want him, I mean he's 200 pounds, and I don't know who could take a huge dog like that.

If only that guy knew how much comfort that dog could bring him just by simply showing the poor beast some affection and letting him in the house once in awhile.

I'm writing this at 3 am because the dog's barking has kept me up. In two weeks I'll be moving to another place and I won't have to deal with it any more. But still, I can't help just feeling horrible about leaving that dog.

I've always wondered and worried about what Flynn the Dog and Jean the Cat did all day long while I was at work. They probably have little musicals, I thought, and they flip coins for the lead role. The probably forage for berries in the fridge and in my underwear drawer. The probably play keno and watch the Family Guy. But mostly I thought they just sat at the door and whined and waited for their master to get home.

Since I have been working at home all day, I have figured out what it is they do all day. See the evidence below:







It must be exhausting having such a hard life.

The forty year-old inbred Swedish-Tahitiian artist, Yule Uloo, came to Atlanta during the eighties to sober up and reflect on what it means to be man. Unfortunately, according to him, he has still not figured that out. "But I guess I'm closer than I was in the eighties when I was dressed up like Robert Smith from the Cure."

Yule Uloo is originally from Possum Trot, Georgia, as well as Sweden of course. And Tahitti of course. He credits his mother for his odd artistic vision, "She was an ugly woman, bald, with horrible temperament and disgustingly fat thighs," says Uloo, "but she loved me and she loved my art." Yule laments: "Truthfully though, I think she slept with her half-brother just so she could have me to take care of her for the rest of her life. You could say that she gave birth to her own home health aide."

Regina (pronounced like vagina) Uloo, wiled away the hours watching game shows, petting her cats and scolding Yule for being a lazy son-of-a-Tahittian-half-brother. Yule's mother's corporal punishment never stopped. "She gave me spankings well into my thirties, but I deserved every single one of them."

When she died, Uloo started drinking cough syrup to "deaden the pain." Soon cough syrup turned into to Crown Royal and Coke, which then swichted to tropical rum drinks with umbrellas and fruit garnishments, "And then I was shithoused and it just came upon me, I just figured I was gay. I mean here I was drinking girly drinks, living with my now dead mother and her 26 cats, I mean what else could I be but a damn homo?"

During this time, his media drastically changed from tempera paint to whatever was available in the house: pictures of plus-sized women from old Montgomery Ward catalogs, cat feces, his mother's hair --"I used anything that would keep me in the house, next to her," Uloo explains.

And then something happened to change everything. Someone, possibly his Uncle/father Pico, submitted his art to be critiqued. When critic, Michelle Schmmaaack, from the New York Times Classified Ad Section, said that Yule's art, "Drove her to the brink of insanity and then back again within the blink of an eye," yule knew that he was on his way.

"When I got me that critique, my whole life turned around," says Yule. "I gave up them fruity cocktails, packed up, and went to Atlanta. And ever since I've just been creatin' and creatin'."

Yule's new collection, entitled "You Are One Fat Motherfucker" is showing at Oscars Gay Bar, down the street from Ansley Mall. This collection portrays nude fat gay men in various disturbing poses. "I think this art is real rare," said Yule, "I mean how many fat gay men do you see out there?" Too many Yule. Way too many.

When asked what inspired his collection, Yule said, "I needed the cash. And it's weird -- they are selling like hotcakes! Thank God -- I needed new tires."

Yule Uloo's "You are One Fat Motherfucker" is on display through April at Oscars.

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My six foot four gay friend George has been showing this insane art at the gay bar down the street under the name Yule Uloo. For four months now, he has been asking me to write a fake biography for his work which I have finally done above. But it's not all fake. Only about 25 percent of this biography is fake. The rest of it is real. You'll just have to figure out what's true and what's not.

Anyway, he's been selling these crazy things and he's made at least 25 grand in the last month or so. The thing is, they really are pretty good. I might be able to say I knew him when. And perhaps he may give me a piece from his "You Are ONE Fat Motherfucker" collection. I doubt he will though when he sees how closely Yule's biography is to his own life story.

Recently, I've been thinking about moving. I guess I finally have the motivation to get the heck out of my pad on Ponce. It took eons to decide to do it, but I really got a fire lit under my arse. You'd think it was because of the two floods that wiped out my cars. Or the gay prostitutes having sex in my doorway. Or the cocaine gram bags littering my sidewalk. Or the bum poop on my doorstep with the Krispee Kreme napkin stuck on top, like a cherry if you will. But those things have really just enriched my life. They've brought the color that I may not have been able to experience in the burbs. No, now it's something much more serious -- I have a drug lord living in the apartment next to me.

I was a bit worried when I noticed a new sign outside my apartment that said: X and X Building Group about four months ago. What the hell does that mean? I wondered. After about ten calls, my Columbian landlady finally revealed that she had sold the house to someone else.

Strange. The new landlord had yet to contact me. I wondered how long it would be before he asked for the rent which was overdue by about a month. I also wondered how long it would be before our utilities were shut off, seeing as how we paid them through the landlady. It wasn't long really. It only took two weeks before the satellite went out.

I called X and X Building Group from the number on the sign. I'll admit, it was a bit peculiar that an antiquated machine picked up. All it said was, "Leave a message." Didn't really sound like a business to me.

It was a week before Miss Shasta Jackson called me back and told me that she had paid for the satellite bill out of her own personal account and that I owed her 230 bucks. Even though in my lease it says I get it for free. "Uh Shasta, who exactly are you?"
"I Blair's personal assistant," she yelled into the phone. I could hear noise in the background. It sounded like she was at a bar.
"And Shasta? Who is Blair?"
"He da owner. He moving next to you 'dis week. I told you to shut the hell up," she said to someone who I presumed was sitting next to her. In the bar.
"Do I have to move out now?"
"It be the same. You just pay the rent to Blair next door."
I couldn't for the life of me figure out why someone who could afford a million dollar piece of property was moving into an apartment that didn't even have a dishwasher.
"He be leaving dis girl in New Jersey... he need a place to stay, case she...I said shut up and I mean shut up." I heard a slap and then crying.
I tried to put a positive spin on the situation, maybe I will get better service since the landlord will be living right next door.

A week later, a big customized black truck with $400 rims, glass packs, and completely blacked out windows, came zooming down the driveway. A kid who looked to be about 25 got out. He wore baggy hip-hop pants that huddled down around his ankles and a gray hoodie. A cell phone ear piece was attached to his ear like a tumor. This was not a landlord -- this was the Prince of the Projects -- coming to live next to me! I stuck out my hand to him with a smile and told him I had a few things to clear up. He walked right past me and closed the door in my face.

Since then, his ridiculous truck tears up the driveway about 20 times a night, starting at around midnight and ending about five a.m. Prime cocaine hours.

Around noon every day, his music starts pounding through the walls. Now that I'm working from home, I decided to complain. He peeked through the blinds when I knocked on the door. Without opening it he yelled out, "What chew want?"
I shouted through the door "Not sure if you know this, heh heh... I have very thin walls and I can hear everything you do." He dropped the blinds. I thought he might open the door, but he never did. I shuffled back to my apartment, shaking my head. When I got back inside, the music was louder.

It wasn't long until the gas was turned off. Right when I had the flu as a matter of fact, and a fever of 102. It took me several hours to muster the courage to knock on his door again. "Uh yeah," he shouted through the door, "Dem bitches upstairs stole all my mail, so I didn't get the gas bill," he dropped the blinds again and I walked away shaking with fever and fear.

What really happened was that he had forwarded his mail to the wrong address and the girls upstairs were getting it accidently. They finally figured out that he was living next door and put a big sack of mail on his porch. Most people would call the gas company when they didn't receive a bill for 4 months. The Prince of the Ghetto however, prefers to blame the bitches upstairs.

Wafts of weed come through my vents most nights. I won't be complaining about it though. A leak sprung in the bathroom ceiling and caused it to bow out like a cow's swollen udder. Think I will keep that to myself. Ant colonies have been forming on my kitchen counter. Doubt I will mention that either. My back gate was open and the lock was off. Going to pretend it didn't happen. My dog is suddenly hiding into the closet when I leave for any length of time. I think the landlord has something to do with it and all of these things and If you think I'm going to confront him, you even crazier than that baby momma he's hiding from. I mean we're talking about my life here. And... he has the key to my place!

I may be stepping out on a limb here, but I'm pretty sure this is a money laundering operation. So I guess I have to move. Too bad because I really love fearing for my life.

Has this ever happened to you?

So you're sitting there. You're sitting in this vile, dirty pink room with a dry-erase board and a couple of gray filing cabinets. You've been in this room four times already. To you, this room represents failure, fear, humiliation, weakness, and a gross, itchy anxiety.

You come to this room at 10:00 am on a Wednesday morning. More than likely you have about 7,000 more interesting things you could be doing, including picking up dog poop, staring at the ceiling, and driving around like a zombie in traffic. But there you are -- in the vomit room.

An old black woman, a frat boy, a fat gray lady, and an Indian lady enter the same room and sit down. You wait for approximately a century. Then a large, pantyhosed woman comes in the door and asks you to fill out the form on the desk in front of you. You've already filled out the form because the other four times you've been in this room you've had to fill out the form. The form asks you for your social security number and all the other things that make you such a robot to society. But you fill it out, because you have to. The man behind you asks you for a pen. Every single fucking time, the man behind you asks for a pen. You tell him no.

The pantyhosed woman then writes her name on the dry-erase board. Then she smiles and says the one thing that you thought you'd never hear again: "I want you all to stand up and introduce yourselves and then tell me what your hobby is." She then writes hobby on the board and spells it "hobbie." You take a mental note of this.

One by one, each person gets up and tells their specific horror story: I was a wigmaker, I was in sales, I was a copywriter, I was a steel broker. The hobbies are always reading, writing, cars, hiking, art, sports -- no one ever says that they are into chicken sex or that they were once a smut dealer. You wish someone would say those things. You wish someone would tell a lie and say something interesting, but then you realize they are all probably lying to appear less interesting.

After that, you are forced to listen to a 30-minute personal introduction from the lady at the front of the room. You hate her. She is trying to be positive. You, however, are feeling negative.

You reach down to get your book out of your bag, but she sees you and says, I need everyone's FULL attention please. You release the book with a deep sigh.

For the next hour and a half, you listen to the plan, formulated by the state of Georgia, on How You Can Get Back to Work in No Time™. The pantyhosed woman tells everyone that they must understand the seven principles she's outlined on the board -- in order to Get Back to Work in No Time™. Number four is the word "positive." She's underlined the word three times with an almost-dried-up red marker. You take another mental note.

You think about everything during that hour and a half... you think about God...you think about death...you think about strawberries. You never listen to one word the woman says. You perk up a bit when you hear a guy in the back ask if it's illegal for an interviewer to ask you where you see yourself in five years. You think to yourself that it should be illegal to ask that question.

When it's time to leave, you no longer feel human. You feel like a pile of sludge. You fill out the evaluation that the pantyhosed lady has asked you to do and in other comments? you write "You spelled hobby wrong." And then you leave.

When you go outside, it's cold. And gray. You wonder, as you exit, if this was really the fourth fucking time you've had to do this in six years? And then you suddenly realize that the Georgia Department of Labor's Reemployment Registration Seminar is, quite possibly, your personal hell. Then you think to yourself that you must have certainly done something bad to have to have gone to hell FOUR times in SIX years. You roll that thought over and over in your mind on the way home. When you pull in your driveway, you are noticeably more hunched than when you left at 9:30 that morning.

You walk in the door. You immediately get in bed and go to sleep... for awhile. And then you wake up, realizing that somehow, you are going to live. That things aren't all that bad and that you'd probably even be able to withstand another visit to the unemployment office. Because, you tell yourself, because you are one strong motherfucker.

Has that ever happened to you?

A dirty and fairly hideous Hippie I knew once in Boulder, told me about how he protested in D.C. during the Vietnam war. These were his words I think:

Me and my buddies had a lot of love to give. Our friends died horrible deaths. We were sick of it, Man. So we went to Washington, a group of us. Once we got there, we got out of our Chevy Impala, lit a joint, and followed the swarms. There was music. And love. And moonshine. And fuck Man, we made that shit stop. We made Vietnam stop – we had the power. Hey, what do you think about giving me a blow job?

Of course that guy was a bum and stunk to high Heaven and was asking me for a dollar to buy crack, but his words really stuck with me.

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I remembered the immortal words of the Boulder Hippie when I came across a protest rally in my email a couple of days ago. “Go,” it said, “Protest the foul stench in the White House,” or something like that.

And so I did.

I smoked a joint with my friends and got on the MARTA train to D-town . We were strong. We were high. We were going to take it down – we were going to take the Goddamn Bush administration down. In one night.

I imagined 50 or 60 city blocks filled with people. I imagined people united. I imagined a secret quickie with my boyfriend in the huge crowd. Nothing prepared me for what I saw.

Thirty people with poorly-made signs were lined up outside the CNN center. Thirty people! There is hope, I thought, People will come! Everyone knows how bad he is. They will come.

Maybe 20 more showed up. I shed a few tears.

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In marketing, we often do heavy-duty statistical analyses of our efforts after a campaign. Usually, the analyses go something like this:

We fucking rock, you fucking suck and that’s why your business is going down the tubes! Ra! Ra! Ra!

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My analyses of the protest goes something like this:

1. Maybe think about getting a celebrity to be the MC instead of a 20-year old college kid whose leadership qualities don’t go past his dirty, yellow sweatshirt that says: Bush Step Down. I’m thinking Lee Majors would put on a better show than that fuckhole. KID STEP DOWN.

2. Also get an MC who won’t use the chant: two, four, six, eight, um, [pause], push Bush down and the world is great?! Or something like that. Who the fuck knows, because it is perhaps the gayest chant in the world.

3. Get a new slogan! Bush Step Down is gay, gay, gay. How about something like: Bush Die In a Pile of Hot Chicken-Tasting Acid! Now that is powerful.

4. Get a speaker and amp system that goes beyond the capabilities of a Mr. Microphone.

5. A 60-year old guy playing folk music about Vietnam is not really relevant for these times, nor for that matter, is it interesting. Try a hard core punk band maybe? Maybe a couple of bands? U2 maybe? Sometimes they do some political stuff. Get some sort of Goddamn band at least. A Cheaptrick cover band would work better than that guy. A band would at least stimulate the people who smoked way too much weed prior to the event.

6. Selling 20 dollar Bush Step Down T-shirts one minute and then 10 dollar Bush Step Down T-shirts 12 minutes later, doesn’t instill a lot of confidence in the protest propaganda.

7. Note to self: Don’t get an ugly communist youth in a bad hipster hat to lead a Bush protest – somehow it just doesn’t look good on the news.

8. Maybe get some hot tubs for the next protest?

9. And some beer!

10. And maybe think about holding it on a day when it’s not 20 below.

11. And most of all, think about hiring a PR firm.

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I say all this with levity and with humor, but I am truly and profoundly disappointed in this country! I shed tears people! Do you realize what it takes for me to shed tears?! How can YOU let that asshole stay in power? How can YOU watch American Idol, read People Magazine, and get up in the morning knowing you have done NOTHING to get this guy out of power?

Are you stupid!? Do you like corruption!? Do you like morons representing your country!?

If you say, "FUCK NO, THAT GUY IS A PIECE OF SHIT," then say it out loud. Say it in a public forum. Say it in a protest. SAY IT OUT LOUD. In the immortal words of James Brown, say it loud and say it proud: BUSH DIE IN A HOT PILE OF CHICKEN-TASTING ACID! Go! You fucking sheep! Do something! Protest! It worked for one war, maybe it’ll work for this fake one.

The fat snoop who calls herself the office manager, just came up to me and asked me if I had any gum. I happened to be chewing gum when she came up to me. I stared into her vacant eyes and said, “Nope. I sure don’t have any gum.” Then I took another piece out of my pack and put it in my mouth.

Oh it’s on now.

For the last year, this woman, who I like to call Smegma because of the way she sticks to the underside of the dicks in the office, has been bumming gum off of me every single day. Sometimes three or four times a day. I usually say nothing and hand her a piece because she is just that buried in the ass-kissing layers of the office. Plus, she has a giant mouth that could get me into some serious trouble.

Once, I told her I had to go to the doctor to get some blood drawn to check my blood sugar. By 3:00 p.m. everyone in the office thought I had AIDS.

Good Ol Smeg wants attention, because she doesn't get any at home. Most of the time she stands behind us with her fleshy breasts and fully-accessorized outfits, chirping like a parakeet on crack about how So and So got a DUI and won’t be able to make it into the office or how What’s His Face got dumped by his wife for sleeping with a male prostitute. With a small twisting of words, I’ve seen her turn a small comment into a full-blown drama that you can catch every Friday night at 7:00 pm on the WB. She’s gotten people into some deep doodoo for basically just disliking her. She is bad fucking news.

I have also endured her false-flattery every single day. “Are those new earrings? Is that a new outfit? I just love this and that about you. Will you marry me and bear my children? Because I just think you are fucking great Aimee!” By the time I mutter the usual monotone thanks, she is already running down to the next cube to say how she hates everything about me.

And so, up until now, I have endured Smegma’s gum-bumming-back-stabbing-ass-kissing ways, because that is what one must do in an office. That, my friends, is office politics – dealing with people you don’t like and pretending that you do.

But I got laid off on Monday and Smeg can go right to hell now. No you can’t have my gum Lard Ass. Why don’t you shut your big mouth and do your so-called job huh? No I don’t like you, what are you going to do huh? Fire me? Ha!

Yeah that’s right, instead of being upset that I, once again, got laid off -- I am elated. I say fuck it. I am going to start my own business. I am going to do my work from a laptop in the park with my dog next to me. I am not going to work with assholes (not counting clients) anymore. And I’m never going to sit in a cube again.

It may be hard. I may be poor. I may have to be another type of hooker soon, but I’ll be goddamned if I am ever going to put up with the Third Cocks from the Sun, The Georgiafrieds, or the Smegmas of the world. I'm free motherfuckers! I'm free. And I'm broke! Woo Hoo!

I never do anything half-way, unless of course I don't finish it. I mean if I'm interested in something, I really dive in. I do serious research. I take classes. I buy the tools. I form committees. In short, I have to do everything I'm interested in with excellence or I might as well be just some mediocre slag out there who people pass by and throw empty 40's at on the street.

Take blow jobs for example. Lately I've been feeling a bit insecure in that department. I've been wondering if my BJ's truly measure up to the man to whom the organ is attached. Have I really been doing them with excellence? Do I really know everything there is to know about blow jobs? The answer is a resounding no. I may even suck at them for all I know (that was just a little blow job double-entendre). I really don't know jack about the Johnson. Oh you know, my performance in the sack has been okay, but I want to bring my man to his knees (or to his back, whichever is easier). I want my man to holler out in ecstasy. I want him writhing. I want him to submit my name to the the blow job museum. The plaque would read: "She gives the most EXCELLENT head."

Cum to think of it (gotta love blow job puns), I really don't want my name associated with giving good blow jobs, because society is a bitch and people would presume that I was a whore. And trust me if I was that kind of whore, I'd be making a lot more money. I mean I am a whore of sorts because I work in advertising, but I don't want my name on the walls of the McDonald's bathroom if you catch my drift.

And so I have begun my serious research into blow-jobology. Part of my research has been done on the internet, of course. I Googled "how to give a blow job" and I received back something like a million sites on the subject. And since I'm at work when I do most of my research, I couldn't open up: 100 Cum Swallowing Tips, but God I WANTED to. If you think about it though, isn't there really only one way to swallow? I mean I suppose you could mix his spuge with a martini or something. But I only swallow one way and that's through my mouth thank you very much.

As a result of those overwhelming results, I went to Amazon where you can buy self-help and sex books without worrying what the zit-faced counter dude is thinking when you buy Blow Him Away. Pssst, you can also buy cheap vibrators there too, ahem... so that book came (yet another pun) in the mail yesterday along with a few others on the ins and outs (God I'm so funny) of sex. Books for example, on how I can have an orgasm while sitting in my office chair -- WITHOUT accessories mind you. Or how I can have an orgasm while standing in line at the post office, WITH accessories mind you, but using those that the postal employes won't think are guns. I have one book on how to have Tantric mind-blowing super duper hippy sex. And one that demonstrates fun with foreskin. There's another about how to do that with that and which butt plug goes with which outfit. How did I not know all this stuff?

If I really think back though, my sex education was pretty lame. My manly P.E. teacher who had never gotten a proper fucking in her life basically told us how we have our periods and that was it. I wasn't even really clear about that either. She never said nothing about no nipple clamps. And then when she finished her brief overview of the fallopian tubes, she promptly got on her Harley and probably went off to give her girlfriend head.

Then there were the lessons by the millions of guys I've slept with (I don't think my boyfriend reads this, but we shall soon find out) who never told me anything about how they were feeling because they could more or less get off just by watching the Cosby Show. So it didn't really matter if I was blowing them like someone who had Down's Syndrome.

Despite this crappy education, I guess for a 34 year-old the rest of my sexual techniques are somewhere up there in the 7 to 8 range on a scale of 8. But I sure as hell haven't been having ejaculatory orgasms, or orgasms that I get just by thinking of something sexy. I sure as hell didn't know where the frenulum was or that it was even called a frenulum. And there's a bunch of stuff I didn't know about sex toys (spend the money on the brand names or you will really REGRET YOUR PURCHASE) and that kind of junk and I just really feel like I should know all that stuff. Mostly because I want to be excellent at everything.

My other research on this subject has been with the fabulous man who is on the receiving end of my blow jobs, but I don't want to get into the details because that's private. I say this as if I haven't been discussing our sex life now for the past few paragraphs. Or on the internet for that matter. Let's just say that I'm having fun experimenting, I'm pretty sure he is too. I hope to God he is too.

So I piled all my sex books around me last night in an attempt to become an expert in Sexology. I perused my material fervently and with gusto. After flipping through a few pages about interesting sexual positions, information about vulvae (yes, that is the plural for vulva), and so forth and so on, I was completely caught off-guard by the book that teaches one how to have quick and easy orgasms at the drop of, well, your pants I guess. AND SOMETIMES YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO DROP YOUR PANTS I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW! With this book you can learn to have an orgasm right bloody well through your pants. I'm having one right now in my jumpsuit.

Let's just say, I didn't even pick up the damn blow job book -- the orgasm book was far more interesting. As a matter of fact, I fell asleep with the book on my chest and my hand on my vulvae (not that I have more than one, I just like to say it: vul-vay).

This morning, after a very restful sleep (thanks in part to the multiple orgasms I gave myself), I have a whole new attitude about sex. What I'm getting at is this: fuck blow jobs and the horse they rode in on. What sex should really be about is me. Me, me, me and how I can both learn and instruct my lover to make sure that I'm always getting what I want.

There you go! That's what I learned about blow jobs. And all you need to know too.