Archive for the ‘women’ Category

I have one good story from our trip across the county.

After driving 260 miles through Nevada, along the loneliest road in America, Interstate 50, we got to a small town called ELY, NEVADA. We went there so we could visit the Lehman Caves, which were awesome! But after we did the caves, we took the dogs to a small park. As we were leaving, I pulled our car out behind another car stopped at a stop sign. Suddenly, the driver in front of us threw her car into reverse and slammed into out front end.

Just as we were recovering from the shock, a police officer pulled in behind me. She gave me a big smile and a thumbs up. Luckily she had seen the whole thing.

Ely Meth Head #1

Ely Meth Head #1

Why luckily? Because the driver of the other car was straight out of central casting for Meth Head #1. She was probably 30, but her face was all sunken in since she had no teeth, her skin was grayish purple with pink splotches of calamine lotion covering up the scabs on her face – probably where she had tried to pick out the meth bugs!

Of course, when she got out of her car, she was super apologetic, but was super squirrely. She was convinced that she did not see us because of the road’s slope or the sun or the fact that her front bumper was caught in the dip. Take your pick. All of these excuses came out of her super fast with darting hands.

The police officer came over to assess the extent of the accident. The police officer asked us to move our cars and when Meth Head #1 tried to get back into her car, the driver’s side door handle fell off.

While she was trying to get back into her car, she managed to make a call to her dealer to let him or her know that she:

A.) had the money

B.) was on her way

C.) even tho she got into an accident.

Of course, things got better when Meth Head #1 argued with the police officer about her expired proof of insurance. Frustrated Noelle took the dogs and walked away, while I dealt with this hot mess.

As the police officer wrote up the accident, Meth Head #1 tried to talk to me about how hard it was to have a car in this town and how she was going to be late for her appointment. All I could think about was how she managed to keep her leather moccasins on her feet with all her nervous hopping around.

Luckily, again, there was no real damage to our car. There was a tense moment when Noelle was convinced the hood latch was broken and we would have to stay in ELY to get it fixed. The police officer laughed at us. “If you need your car fixed, we gotcha ’til next Christmas, at least.” I guess there is only one mechanic in ELY and that mechanic is either really busy or took his time.

I am not real sure what happened to the Meth Head, since she was still talking to the police officer when we pulled away to go back to the hotel. Part of me hopes, the police let her go about her day getting high and recounting her tale of woe. But part of me, hopes that police jammed her up, so maybe she will get some help.

But then, again, if I lived in ELY Nevada, three hours in any direction from everything, I would probably do a lot of meth, too.


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Needle Junky

But It only goes into the future!

Speaking of crack heads on the bus – I take a cramped and filthy morning bus down into the Lower Mission area of the city. I have this temp job at a hospital that caters to the indigent, crazy, and drug addled. So this other morning a very skinny, very junked out couple slips into the seats across from me. The lady is skeleton skinny she has those unfed sunken cheeks, a couple of dark scars, and the popped veins of tight skin.

Her boo is an older man missing a couple of lower teeth but is fairly clean. He wears a black vinyl windbreaker with some hip but failed designer label scrawled across the front and a baseball hat with that gold and silver size sticker still stuck on the brim. They are coming down to the hospital, which I know, because they keep talking about which stop to get off.

A friend of the skinny lady gets on and sits across from them. This friend looks to be in her late 60s, round in all places and with short bathroom sink cropped hair. This new older lady has big chunky headphones on  and is singing along to the worst gangster rap. She smells of beer or other assorted spirits. And maybe a hint of dryer sheets.

Anyway, the two ladies start talking.

Skinny: You seen Joyce?
Older: Maybe around, what for?
Skinny: I haven’t seen her in awhile.
Older: She still live across from me. I seen her the other day. She got herself some new shoes.
Skinny: Yeah? Where she get thems at?
Older: She shops at Marshall.
Skinny: You means she shop LIFTS at Marshall!
(Both break up into that high pitched crackle of fake laughter and sheer criminal delight).

The guy just shakes his head. Then worries about what stop we just passed.  Speaking of that guy, I just remembered, how he told a story about this third woman they all know. I will call her Rosalita-In-A-Wheelchair.

It seems Rosalita-In-A-Wheelchair is a tough little lady. She ran some man off into the road. She pushed up against him until he stepped right in front of a bus. The bus missed him, though.

Plus Rosalita-In-A-Wheelchair will get shit started. She might not be able to stand up, but she will knock you out cold!

Then there was the shelter story about how whenever ballcap man sees Rosalita-In-A-Wheelchair, he sticks his stuff across the hall near that white boy’s room. Whatever that means, logistically.

If he does not do this, he will wake up and find Rosalita-In-A-Wheelchair all with her fingers in his stuff.

“I didn’t know it was yours,” she will protest.

“Bitch that don’t mean it yours! DAMN!”

Again, everyone laughed. Including me.

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Public Piles of Poop

So last week, I was moving stones. Peeling 12 X 12 concrete path stones off the patio. Real filthy work, filled with squirming slugs and spider web wisps. Not to mention the slow nature of the work due to navigating a clunky wheelbarrow around some tight corners.

Anyway, when I was finished moving the four foot stacks of bricks from one spot to another, I noticed that our grassy square was suddenly, filled with idling teenagers. You know, that slow gurgle loitering of high school time?

Slow motion sleep walking, where even the low riding baggy jeans and oversized t-shirts are so bored they are falling off at a snail’s pace. About five boys crawled around each other, gradually spinning in a measured shit-talking conversation. Stoned immaculate, one hippy once said, and it kinda fits, though even that turn of phrase implies too much momentum.

There was one girl with them. A tall, slender blonde entirely clad in black stretchy fabric. This is important, because as I walked back toward my stacks of bricks, the girl was squatting among them, peeing on the ground. Her stretchy fabic all bunched and stretched. One of the cornrowed wanksters stood guard in front of her. If only he had a beach towel or maybe dance club faux velvet rope blocking off all peeping at the peeing then the scene would have achieved legend. But as it was, it was just a girl squatting in the corner pissing.

I just kept walking like I had somewhere else to go. But my neighbors were overly appalled. Later asking me if I had “seen that pretty white girl, with all those black looking gangsters,  make her toilet over by the water tank shed?”

I told them I saw all the teenagers but did not notice anything else. I lied, I guess. Since I did notice the pissing and the little pile of white fast food napkins that were left at the spot in an unsightly discolored mound. And I did notice the kids. Though they did not look like gang members to me. For one thing, they were not working and if they were gangster, they would have been pushing their drugs and such.

“There must be something seriously wrong with that girl,” my neighbor concluded, as she went to pick up the napkins with a doggie poop bag.

When I recounted this tale to Noelle, she reminded me of the two teenage girls she saw dawdling along Inca Lane. How the one girl just shot over to one of the trees by the fence, dropped her pants and peed against the tree. When the girl caught Noelle’s eye, she asked Noelle if she had a cigarette. Ever the polite one, Noelle said, “No, I’m sorry.”

A few minutes later, Noelle saw the same two girls in Safeway. The one who peed was obviously shoplifting. Not even trying very hard, at all, to conceal her theft. Noelle thought to herself, that that peeing girl must really had to have had to go because there is a public restroom in the grocery store. If she could have just held it for another half a block, then she’d had access to toilet paper. But then, maybe, that is the sort of long term planning skills these girls lacked.

Anywhooooo, thought I would share some more stories of public urination with you all.

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So this morning while getting my coffee, I had an unpleasant experience. Sitting next to me were two guys who were working on a book.

At first, when they sat down, I thought I would be able to easily ignore their swapping of laptop files and chit chat complaints about failing at doing computers.

But very quickly, their conversation turned toward the one guy’s new book project.

Let me back up a moment to properly describe these two: The first guy was tall and bald. As in a neatly shaven head. Clearly in anticipation for the loss of all the remaining strands that, were they allowed to grow in, would wisp across the top of his scalp. He was in expensive looking clothing and carried too many accoutrements – like a leather manbag and a crocodile brief casey thing. I pegged him for a effete business gay.

The second guy was all dark circles and skin tones the shade of elbow bruises. Deep set and wrongly hairy. A presence of successful failure clung to him. But he was wearing an expensive looking thrift store tan leather jacket and maybe good shoes? Hard to say.

Guy No. 2 was the ghost writer guy. Who was hired by baldy to help him flesh out his sequel to the best selling THE SECRETS OF THE A GAME. They spent a lot of time hashing out a single point or two about where the first chapter was going. But the conversation was circular and really too boring to follow, closely.

Mainly, the whole first chapter was going to be about the loneliness of the single life. You know the break-down of the office, the video games, the “lotion and kleenex in every room” of a 22 year old virgin.

Also, as an aside, if you ever find yourself out on a date with a special lady and there is an awkward silence – bald author suggests that saying, “Awkward Silence!” in a sing songy voice. It will really break the tension. The woman will be impressed by how in tune you are and aware of your involvement in the date.

Anyway. Bald author was telling ghost writer how he wanted his prose to sound like – and here I caution you not to look either of these Dbags up – Tucker Max (well at least the humor) and Timothy Ferriss (for the curt straight forwardness). But, also, relatable, you know, plus adding in some quotes from women will really help. Like all the female friends, Ghost writer dude interviewed.

The whole endeavor gave me pause. For a couple of reasons. First, why was it taking two guys to crank out what sounded like a terrible, barely readable first draft of trite and inconsequential book. Really. Relationship books are worse than even Astrology or Get Rich books. If only because well, do I really need to go in to it? They are silly, play to the least common denominator, and are mostly fiction.

Second, the audience for this genre is willingly gullible. The secrets of the ladies man, while being a fundamental topic of all Western art and literature, really boils down to snide predation. Plus, wooing and love are topics that everyone has experience with and an opinion on and are especially willing to share. The virgin, the shy, the loser makes an expert out of anyone who has ever had a date or sex, no matter how unsuccessful. That is a powerful elevating device and the foundation for all interpersonal gossip and power.

Third, the shine of success. Maybe bald author makes bank on his website of lady killing advice – nice guys get laid.com – but it all felt con man to me. Charlatan. River boat missionary. The grooming might be there, but it was all too in your face accessible. He may as well been wearing a button that read – Ask me about my money!

Lastly, grrrrr. Like big bear smash.

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