Saturday, September 09, 2006

Hunting The Yankee Waddler

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Hunting The Yankee Waddler
by Jolie Blond

Hysterics and fearmongering!
Hysterics and fearmongering!
The TV people
don't want you to own a gun,
because if you look too closely
at the fall lineup,
you might be tempted to drive over to the station
and shoot them.

I saw this on the news tonight:
According to some wizard of statistics,
the number one cause of infant death
(in Maine or Massachusettes
or some other yankee state)
is the murder of their mothers.

Someone is running around
shooting pregnant women
on a grand scale.
Funny that I'm just now hearing this shit.

Deer season,
duck season,
first, second and third trimester
mother season:
doesn't seem much sport
in shooting a slow-moving, big-breasted
yankee waddler.

This hysterical tidbit
on the tv news
was delivered with wide eyes and a solemn tone,
a 'something must be done about this' tone.

It seemed a thinly veiled
anti-gun propaganda thing to me,
but I could be wrong.

The overall feeling of the piece
was that if you owned a gun,
you were probably a baby killer.
Details at 11.

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Holding Back A Big-Assed, Angry Tigress
by Jolie Blond

I heard screaming outside my crack motel room door
and poked my head out
and saw that seven or eight other motel inmates
had poked their heads out their doors,
not that screaming is so unusual here,
but being 4 in the afternoon,
it's a little early for the crack motel screaming.

Down the hallway
past the locked swimming pool
that is used as nothing more than a giant, wet ashtray
past the courtyard
that is used quite often as a staging area for sheriff's deputies
(and then later on as a gathering place for crackheads to share a glass pipe),
almost out in the parking lot
were two women screaming at each other,
their men holding them back from mutual combat.

The young, thin one was hopping around like a mongoose
as she screamed her insults at the older, fatter one with dayglo orange hair
trying, it looked to me, to find an open space between the barricading men
to land an overhead blow on the orange-haired lady.

The older lady's big bubblebutt ass jiggled like jello
every time she stomped her foot down
and from forty feet away
I could see the mad dog saliva spraying from the older woman's mouth
as she called the younger woman a ho.

You a ho.
No you a ho.
No you a ho, bitch.

The discourse was not particularly illuminating
as to why the women were fighting.

Then the younger woman's man got into the argument
as the younger woman jumped back
and displayed several sweeping, mongoose, gung foo moves
she had apparently seen on TV,
one of them I recognized as 'The Crane' from "The Karate Kid."

She don't have to be no ho, Mongoose's man yelled,
I takes good care of my woman
she don't have to work a lick if I don't want her to,
we doing good, real good!

Then why you live in this dump you doing so good?
the older woman asked
and I thought the logic was impeccable,
but Mongoose's man,
a sturdy-looking rag-topped brother
surprised me
when he shot right back
We jus passing through ch'ere,
but you'll be hoing outta this motel come the next millennium.

Lord, gawd amighty!
I heard the older woman's man exclaim
because I knew that he didn't want to have to tangle with the ragtopped kid,
probably a gangbanger,
and I knew that he knew that if he didn't
after THAT insult
that his orange haired woman
would make life hell for him for weeks to come.

The older man was puffy
and pot-bellied from too many years on the couch.
He was in no shape
to tangle with any hotheaded gangbangers today
or tomorrow,
or the next day,
but his salvation came at the whim of the mongoose woman
who twirled away on some half-remembered appointment
drawing her ragtopped man away with her,
leaving the old man metaphorically holding
the still-smoldering tail
of his dayglo orange-haired tigress.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Green Thoughts And Spam

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Green Thoughts And Spam
by Jolie Blond

My roommate got a
Stupidity Scholarship
from our community college
because he made terrible grades
on his placement exams.

My roommate doesn't think well
under pressure,
it is a fact
they surely measured.

He doesn't think well in a car,
he doesn't think well door ajar,
he doesn't think well in a house,
he thinks not much without a spouse,
the louse.

He doesn't think well
in the sun,
go ahead and test him
just for fun.

He doesn't think well in the kitchen,
I'll bet you think it's jealous bitchin',
he doesn't cogitate I'd guess
or ponder long without some mess.

He can't conjecture I suppose,
he's troubled thinking past his nose.
He cannot ponder, muse or pose,
It's hard to tell just WHAT he knows.

He has no craving for a thought
unless the TV says he ought.
I'll apprehend and you'll surmise
a lot of stuff gets by this guy.

He doesn't picture or conceive,
now THERE's a thought for some relief.
He fancies not to ruminate,
opine, regard or speculate.

He doesn't think well I would reason
in summer, spring or football season.
I fail to see him contemplate,
I think a thought would crack his pate.


Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Jolie Blond

I have scientific proof!
I KNEW all those people
running on treadmills
early in the morning
were losing brain mass!
I knew it!
Now I have proof.

It was on the news last night.
"Frequent flying
causes your brain to shrink.
New scientific evidence."

If you look at the demographics,
you'll see what I mean,
see the connection:
People who fly frequently
are also the kind of people
who drive SUVs,

the kind of people
who yak on their cell phones
while driving those monsters,

the kind of people
who play their car stereos loud
while yakking on their cell phones
while driving those monsters,

the kind of people
who exercise on treadmills
early in the morning
so they'll have the energy
to sit at their desks all day.

It's all connected.
Skinny people are dangerously stoopid.
Now I know why.
Ads by

Homeless Prose About How Homeless Goes

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Gray Man
by Jolie Blond

Gray man,
got no place to stay man:
sleeping in a piss-yellow Fairlane
parked in front of a motel
on Crenshaw Blvd
at 4 in the morning.

Gray man,
got no place to stay man:
you gotta move that piece of crap
in a few hours.
Nobody wants you around
in the day, man.

Gray man,
got no place to stay man:
you know they'll run you off
because you're smelly
and unkempt
and because you scare them.

Gray man,
got no place to stay man:
you know their chief objection,
besides the fact of your
is that they can see you.
They don't want to see you.

Gray man,
got no place to stay man:
I know a bridge you can park under
after 6, just down the way;
shady and unobservable.
You can take my old spot.

A Quiet Afternoon With Lenin and Jill Scott

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

There is in the worst of fortune the best of chances for a happy change.---Euripides

    The old man, my homeless attorney, is sitting up here in my homeless veteran's dorm room, reading V.I. Lenin's "Left-Wing Communism, An Infantile Disorder" and another paperback . . . some trashy pulp fiction thing called "The Denniker Code."

    He could've been out driving his tweaker girlfriend around to her connections, but his $500 car broke down again, some sort of serious electrical trouble that kills batteries and alternators, so he's stuck reading the trash that's piled up on my quad's day room table while we listen to the music my old roommie Ant left behind . . . an afternoon of reading and listening to Jill Scott.

    Could be worse. He could be out on the street pushing a shopping cart and I could still be bumfighting and selling watered down fuel to the gasholes, but I have moved off the street and it looks like the old homeless man I adopted out there has moved with me.

The Man Whose Breath Stood Still

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others. ---Robert Louis Stevenson

    A man walked into the Arco the other day. He was dressed all in black like a wild west circuit judge or country preacher. Nice, grand fatherly-looking man. Silver-haired. Almost stately-looking.
    This old man walked up to the counter and purchased some gas. I was standing over by the Arco ATM, hefting eight-paks of 2 liter cokes onto a too high stack of other 2 liter sodas. He barely spoke two sentences at the counter. He handed the clerk a twenty and got his change for $10 worth of gas. Then he walked out of the store.

    I needed to ask the clerk behind the counter something, I've forgotten what, and walked over to where the man had been standing. The foulest, boiling sewage stench I have ever smelled (and I have smelled death) hit me square in the nose.

    "JESUS, MARY, MOTHER OF GOD!!!" I screamed and jumped back a foot or two, "WHAT INA UNHOLY HELL IS THAT?!"

    I waved both my hands in front of my face, fanning the air as if I was trying to put out a fire on my face. Tears rolled down my eyes as if I had just eaten a jalepeno. I spun 360 degrees clockwise and 360 degrees counterclockwise, trying to spin the stink off me like a man trying to stave off a swarm of killer bees.

    The clerk was busy doing her shift change report and didn't notice me. You could drive a truck through the Arco while they're doing their shift change report and they wouldn't notice it.

    Much to my relief, the stink was off me. I stood there, frozen for a moment, wondering if the stink was just playing possum. In fact, I took one more step backwards, just in case. I sniffed tentatively at the air. Tentatively first, then taking a bolder sniff. Nope. It was gone.

    Now, I don't want you to think that I am exaggerating here. This was no garden variety stench. This was no common household pew. I have slept comfortably in abandoned warehouses full of toxic fumes. I have walked among the open-topped 'honey buckets' full of fresh human excrement overseas without so much as a twitch of my nose. I have eaten Kimchee and kissed women had just eaten Kimchee. My nose is no pristine virgin. Generally speaking, my nose is fearless, but this . . .THIS was a whole new ballgame, a paradigm shift in what is possible in the field of stink!

    I walked back to the spot in front of the counter where I'd had the encounter, where every neuron of my olfactory system had been so grossly offended.

    "JESUS!" I said at the stink attacked again like a slap in the face. Again I made a hasty retreat. This was no pansy pungency that wilted away with the air currents with which I was now dealing. No. This was a potent smell that wasn't going to fade easily!

    I stood over by the stacks of 2 liter sodas contemplating my next move. I would have never suspected this kindly old customer in black of having such a foul thing in him. Just goes to show you, you can't judge a reek by its cover.

    I decided to go in low. That would be my tac. I determined to investigate the source of cabbagy smell. Don't ask me why. That's just the kind of a guy I am. I investigate ALL paranormal phenomenon.

    The malevolent stink had hit me square at the five and a half foot level. If it had been flatulence, I reasoned, then traces of it should still remain around the three foot level. Cautiously, I crouched and approached the area where I calculated the old man's ass to have been and sniffed at the air. Nothing.

    Thinking the danger had passed, I stood up and was immediately overpowered by the stench. It had been his breath! His breath! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this poor bastard's breath was SOOOOO bad . . .that it stayed at the Arco counter long after he had walked out. It stayed there in a little frozen puff, right there at the five and a half foot area for at least ten minutes!

    I went into the sanctuary of the Arco cooler, deciding to leave the problem to someone else. Yes, sometimes flight is the better part of valor.

Bad-Ass, Motherf*er Faces The White Rhino

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

To turn an obstacle to one's advantage is a great step towards victory. ---French proverb

            I was just getting off a three-hour shift of humping beer for Arco. Co-worker Allah was just getting off his eight-hour clerking shift. I filled my soda cup with Cherry Coke and followed Alla out the door. His car was parked against the fence. I just have a short walk to my crack motel. I was going 'home' to my crack motel room to unwind on my broken barcolounger. Allah was in a hurry to get to his second job at another Arco.

            Some chollo was parked almost right up against the front bumper of Allah's car. He was sitting in his car trying to negotiate terms with one of our local afternoon streetwalkers, whose head and arms were inside the chollo's car. Her ass waved back and forth like a dog's butt waves when he knows you're fixing to give him a doggie treat.

            Allah got in his own car and, being the impatient Mediterranean type that he is, immediately honked his horn at the chollo to move. It was completely unnecessary to honk. Allah could've just backed up and drove around the transaction, but nooooooooo, Allah had to assert his Arco employee right of way.

            The streetwalker popped her torso out of the chollo's car and started walking away. I was walking past the front of the big, bald-headed, gangbanger-dressed chollo's car when Allah had honked. When I saw the look of anger, no, bloodcurdling, murderous rage in the chollo's face, I decided to backtrack a few feet back onto the Arco driveway to watch . . . maybe even participate . . . in the 'festivities' I was sure would follow.

            The bullheaded chollo looked back at Allah, yanked his door open with such force that I thought the door would come off its hinges and stomped over to where Allah was sitting in his car. For a split second, I could see in Allah's eyes the realization that maybe he had fucked up. He had just hit a beehive with a stick and the swarm was racing towards him in the form of a big, angry, coitus-interrupted gangbanger whose fists were tight as he screamed curses at Allah.

            Words were exchanged.

            I moved to within a few feet of the back of the chollo. He sensed me and looked back over his shoulder at me. I gave him my best White Rhino dead-eyed, bring-it-on-if-you-got-the-stones look. Allah was wearing his Arco uniform. I had my Arco name tag on the nasty blue jacket I had found in the dumpster and wear to work. I looked like I had just been in a fight. Two Arco employees. One gangbanger. He must've decided the odds weren't in his favor for a clean getaway.

            Bullhead swaggered back to his car, keeping me in his peripheral vision until he reached his car door, then turned to face me like a bull in a pasture turns to face an intruder, his head high, chin up, nose up, sniffing at the wind for that telltale odor of fear. Bullhead was facing me squarely and I tucked my head down a bit, in the pose of another bull, a challenging male, getting ready for the charge.

            If he makes just one move towards me, just one step, I'll step towards him with my right foot, swing my right hand out and throw the soda on him. He'll jerk back a moment, into the involuntary protective pose most people make when someone is throwing something liquid at you, and that'll be my chance: I'll step off quickly towards him: left, right, left, plant my left foot and swing my right foot as hard as I can towards the bullhead's center until my right foot plants itself powerfully into bullhead's testicles.

            He should go down. I might have to follow the brutish kick with a short, right-handed downward chop to the right side of his head to finish him off. If he makes me do that, if this big bull of a man makes me work to put him down, then I'm going to be angry, real angry. I'm gonna have to break some bones on this big motherfucker. Break them hard. I'll go to town on this guy and it'll take five cops to pull me off him. Why? Because this is MY neighborhood and nobody brings that cock-of-the-walk, gangbanger spirit of violence into my neighborhood, into my face. Nobody.

            I pushed a narrow, two-foot wide {I'm -gonna- break- your- bones- and- rip- out- your- intestines -if- you -make-one-move-towards-me} mental vibration at the bullhead.

            His body snapped back a few inches as if he actually felt the force of my mental pushing, {gonna-rip-your-head-off-and-pee-down-the-hole-in-your-neck} vibrations and he hopped in his car and drove off. Alla pulled up to make his right hand turn, giving me an exasperated, eyes rolling up in his head "Where do they get these crazy motherfuckers?" look as he passed.

            I don't think he ever knew how close he came to seeing the breaking and dismemberment of a bad-ass, motherfucker.

My REAL Resume

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

            My electronic resume is sending me some strange matches lately. I might have to revise it. But I wonder what would happen if I wrote a brutally honest resume. What kind of matches would I get if I sent them the truth?

(Jobs listed in reverse chronological order)

Arco Stock boy----Beer humper. Some cash register.

Day Laborer----Driving auction cars, squeezing Starbucks caramel bags, riding garbage trucks.

Homeless Gypsy Cabby----Driving call girls and strippers to their appointments.

Dog House Sitter----Care and feeding of a Russian mastiff in HIS home

CEO, COO, Star Media Productions----Administrator

Computer Consultant----Systems Maintenance and Installation

Escort Agency Collector----Bag man duties.

Bag Man----Contract negotiations. Loan shark enforcer.

Self Employed----Loan shark.

Self Employed----Manager of floating poker games.

Political Speech Writer----Nate Holden Campaign

Self Employed----Freelance graphic artist.

Pre-Press Operator----Computer pre-press.

Magazine Editor----National Notary Magazine

Graphic Artist----Computer graphic arts.

Civil Service----Aircraft mechanic.

Editor----News magazine.

Publisher----Underground newspaper.

Security Guard----Brewery

Salesman----Vulcan Fire Alarms, Commercial Real Estate

Convenience Store Manager----Stocking and Inventory Control

Self Employed----Landlord/Slumlord

Self Employed----Paint Subcontractor

Warehouse Manager----Employee and Inventory Control

U.S. Military----Newspaper Editor, Information Specialist

Not to mention Milk Jugger, Brick Jiggerer, Short Order Cook, Taxicab Driver and Mass Transit Pollster

Residences vary from living under bridges and in abandoned warehouses to a Chevy Lumina to a dog guest house to a stilt house on top of the Hollywood Hills. Currently residing in a crack motel.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Nothing You Do Is Ordinary, Even If You're Just Pumping Gas

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

To most of us the real life is the life we do not lead. ---Oscar Wilde

    There's a U.S. Air Force recruitment commercial running on TV here that shows an Air Force mid-air plane-to-plane refueling going on while the narrator says, "There is a place where nothing you do is ordinary, even if you're just pumping gas."

    That's the way I try to look at my employment at the Arco gas station. It's just stocking the beer shelves for a gas station for Pete's sake, but still there are stories here; stories of gas-crazed customers, toilets gone awry, romance, bums and winos trying to take over the neighborhood . . . all kinds of stories about the human condition if one just looks.

    Today I ambled over to the Arco at elevenish and as soon as I got in the door, the Arco manager Kimmie handed me the keys to the back storage container and told me to go hide back there until the Arco inspectors from corporate headquarters left the property. Kimmie was trying to pass the bi-annual inspection and the last thing she needed was for them to get a load of me: tattered bluejeans, paint-spotted tee shirt, feral hair. Not exactly the employee of the month type. So I don't dress up or comb my hair for stock boy work. Sue me.

    Kimmie passed the inspection for the first time today. The owner had told her that if she flunked another inspection he'd fire her. I'd like to think all my pole painting, island painting, graffiti removal and cooler cleanup efforts had something to do with her passing the corporate inspection. Still, I'm somewhat of an embarrassment for her. The customers think that I'm either the owner (an eccentric owner) or a panhandler.

    I don't much care what they think. I just don't want to piss on my life by treating my job as something ordinary.

    But then again, I do.
Ads by

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Jolietharian Hobo Dreams

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The strength of a nation is derived from the integrity of its homes. ---Confucius

    When I was doing my son's taxes the other day, I discovered that my boy made EIGHTEEN TIMES more money than I did last year. Normally I'd feel like a failure if I didn't know what I was doing. Working at Arco is making me strong enough and mean enough to take that cross-country freight train boxcar Willie adventure I've been dreaming about. It's taking longer than I thought to shape up for jumping on and off boxcars, but I was probably fatter than I thought, too. 

A Zippy Ending For My Turgid Little Tale of Toiletry Gone Awry

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

He who does not get fun and enjoyment out of every day . . . needs to reorganize his life. ---George Mathew Adams

    One of my friends wrote me a zippy ending for "Day of the Cabbage Patch Turd":

    “Faster then an urgent crap, more powerful then a silent fart, able to flush what no man has flushed before (this last line brought the concept up to date). Look behind the counter, it's a clerk, it's a stock boy, it's Turdman. Disguised as James Jarvis, ruckus transient/author turned stock boy, Turdman fights a never-ending battle for...??? well the toilet works.
Ads by

Day of the Cabbage Patch Turd

Tags: turd, killer turd, Arco, gas station, gas, Arcology, toilet monster, triumph, viral video, Factotum, Cabbage Patch, crapper, latrine adventure, head, gollywhumper

Defer not till tomorrow to be wise, Tomorrow's sun to thee may never rise. ---William Congreve

One of the Davel Limo drivers comes in to the Arco, signs his gas charge slip and trots briskly over to the restroom. He's a tall, lanky man in a black suit not quite big enough for him. It makes him look like a black Abe Lincoln.

"Man," he says to no one in particular, "I REALLY gotta go!"

Soon as Abe shuts the Arco restroom door, he bounds back out.

"Toilet's backed up," he says, "BAD!" Abe looks at Serj behind the counter. Serj looks at me.

"Cabbage Patch," I say, "She was just in there. I TOLD you guys not to let those crack heads in there. See what happens?"

"Can SOMEBODY fix it?" the limo driver asks plaintively, "I REALLY gotta go!" He looks at Serj. Serj looks at me. Serj ALWAYS looks at me when there's something to be done on the customer side of the cash register counter.

I walked into the restroom and peered into the toilet bowl. Inside the toilet bowl was the biggest, meanest chunk of crackhead shit I had ever seen. Big mother. Jeeezus! It was big around as my fist and half as long as my arm. The fucker was jammed tight into the little toilet hole like a brown concrete log.

Jeeezus! How the hell's something like THAT come out of somebody without an ambulance being summoned? Frikkin' monster turd it was. Something like this could plug up the whole neighborhood sewer.

The limo driver called out through the door I had closed for modesty's sake, "See it! See it! That thing's got her all jammed up."

"I see it."

"Can ya work it? I, uh, I normally wouldn't ask a guy to work something like that alone, but . . ."

"You gotta go. I know. Hang on."

I looked around the restroom for a plunger. There was no plunger. In fact, I don't ever remember seeing a plunger anywhere in the gas station.

"SHIT!" I said.

"What happened?" the limo driver asked as I possibly could've been attacked by the monster. Wouldn't want something like THAT on his conscience. I imagined he was on the other side of the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the male of the species is like to do in cases like this.

I looked at the malevolent biological mass in the john. Jeezus, it was a big fucker. Freakin' Cabbage Patch. What the hell had she eaten? A horse? Cripes.

I took a deep breath, held it a moment, and exhaled. No fuckin' turd is gonna beat ME, I thought. No turd. No turd. No turd.

I steeled myself. Planted my feet. Grit my teeth in as ferocious a badass scowl as I could manage (maybe scare the fucker off). Then I made my body hard as iron and plunged my arm into the abyss, yanking and tugging and pushing and punching the damned turd. On the other side of the door, no doubt they heard splashing a cursing, "No turd! No turd! No turd!"

I wrestled that evil boa constrictor turd with my bare hand, twisting and yanking and cursing the day that Cabbage Patch ate the horse and the turd began to give way, began to crumble around the edges and succumb to my powerful will until finally, with one last burst of power, I shoved that evil piece of human concrete through the little hole.

If nothing else, I am master over the trespassing turd. No turd has ever beaten me. None.

I washed my hands and walked out of the restroom triumphantly.

"Go ahead," I said to the limo driver with the air of a city mayor who had just cut the ribbon to a new underground expressway, "It's all yours."

The limo driver hurriedly brushed past me into the restroom and backed out again.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's lookin' at me," he said.

Damn! The thing had crawled back out. Tougher turd than I thought. It was just a smaller chunk, though, and I was easily able to dispatch it. No turd has ever beaten me. None.
Ads by

Pumping Glass and Looking Pretty In My Imaginary Deluxe-o-matic LazyBoy

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

I'm a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it. ---Thomas Jefferson

            I saw my reflection in the crack motel laundry room window tonight and noticed my breasts have stopped sagging. They're firm and perky again! My nipples were pushing out against my cotton tee shirt! When did this happen? Must be my $6.75 an hour exercise program at the Arco.

             I checked my resting/standing pulse: 60. Sixty? That can't be right. I've been chain-smoking for 28 years now. I just lugged two loads of funkalicious laundry out here to the washers. I shouldn't have a 60. That's athletic pulse. Must be the 40 ouncers. I pump cases of 40 ounce beer every day at the Arco.

            My pot belly is still there, big as ever. Bigger. That thing's got a life of its own. Nothing to do with me, really, except that it makes it hard for me to bend forward and tie my shoes. The last time I weighed myself (what year was that?), I weighed 250 pounds. I think I look bigger now, except that some of my fat is not sagging like it used to.

            My numbness is 90 percent gone. I can feel most of my right thumb again and my right leg feels great. Maybe it was just one of those little strokes that numbified me a few months ago. My daily diet of raw garlic and apple vinegar must be doing the trick . . . not to mention all that pumping glass, humping cases of soda, trash-hauling and occasional floor mopping.

            I still lead a sedentary lifestyle. When I'm not humping beer for Arco, I'm lounging on my broken barcolounger, daydreaming about the LazyBoy National recline-a-thon and about what a lovely life I would have if I could afford to buy myself one of THOSE bad boys.

            I saw a picture in a magazine once about a LazyBoy recliner that had a food storage area built into one armrest and a laptop tray connector built into the other and a back massager built into the back. Man on man, if dreams could fly, mine would fly over to the nearest authorized LazyBoy retailer for a ride on the Deluxe-o-matic.
Ads by

Return of The Cracker Attacker

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

When an idea is too weak to support a simple statement, it is a sign that it should be rejected. ---Marquis de Vauvenargues

            I'm kinda cranky 'cause I didn't get much sleep this morning. I worked the graveyard shift at the Arco last night from 10 until 6 in the morning, then was scheduled to double back and work the day shift at 11 a.m. Couldn't make it. Hadta pop in at 12:30. So by 6:30 tonight, I was a little cranky.

            Plus there was a minor incident an hour earlier that didn't put me in very good spirits. Remember The Cracker Attacker from my previous posts? The guy who used to live at the motel who couldn't stand the thought of white people? Can't bear to look at one, much less speak with them? Well, he turned up at the Arco today and we had words.

            The owner of the Arco wanted me to go out to the counter phone, the gas station phone for gas station business only, and make a call to one of his suppliers, Jetro, to find out why an order was short. A man was lying over the phone on that counter, his elbows resting on the innermost part as if he was at home watching his wife cook dinner. He wasn't doing business. The lottery line was elsewhere. I think he was trying to cut in line.

            So I came up behind the lounger and said in my most courteous tone, "Excuse me, sir, I need to use that phone."

            "WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?" he yelled angrily as soon as he turned and saw I (appear) white. It was The Cracker Attacker.

            "I said, sir," I repeated in a sterner, no nonsense tone, "Excuse me. I need to use that phone please."

            "DON'T TALK TO ME! YOU got no business talkin' ta me! Don't speak!"


            "DON'T SPEAK!" he said as he turned to leave.

            "ARE YOU MY BOSS?" I asked him loudly, "You OWN me? You tell ME when I can speak and when I don't? I'LL SPEAK WHENEVER I DAMN WELL WANT and you got nothing to do with it!"

            "I ain't got time for you now," he said menacingly as he glared his Cracker Attacker glare at me at the door.

            "Make some time," I said as I walked towards him.

            "I ain't got time. I'm goin' now."

            "BYE!!!!!" I yelled after him, "BYE BYE, NOW!!!"

            I feel sorry for the poor bastard. He must live in a land of hell. But I'm not gonna shed a tear for him, because the hell he lives in, he built . . . hee hee . . . as many of us do.

            Some of us even live in other people's hells. Me? I'm a tourist. Sometimes I'm a tour guide:

            "To your immediate left you will see the hell of those who sold their souls for a buck fifty nine. To your right is the hell of the homeless. Coming up on your left just around this next corner is the hell of roommates poorly chosen. I hope you're enjoying our Urban Nomads tour of the inner city today."

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Peruvian Bigamist Can't Cut The Propane

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Feb 16, 2002

            What a jerk Eddie is. Tonight there was a long, long line of lottery-fevered folks in the Arco. More people than I have ever seen in there. Eddie was doing just the lottery sales and night man Day was doing gas and sundries. I had finished my stock boy chores around 6 and was getting ready to sign out when Galen asked if I could hang around a little while until the lines went down to watch for shoplifting in the back of the store.

            A customer came in for propane and I attempted to fill his tank, but it wasn't working. Something was wrong with his tank. I tried 20 minutes to get it to work but it just wouldn't. I explained to the customer that something was wrong with his tank and apologized that I hadn't been able to help him. The customer understood, no problem, but when he went back to get his refund, Eddie left the long line of lottery customers, came up to me and barked "Give me those keys!" (as if I had done something wrong). He just walked off and left the lottery customers. I couldn't believe it.

            Eddie was going to show me up, to show what a smart-ass he is, but all he ended up doing was showing his ass to the customer when he couldn't do it. Eddie couldn't put any propane into the tank even after he'd told the customer that I didn't know what I was doing. What a jerkwad. Where the hell did he get the idea that he knew more about propane tanks than me. I do them all the time. It's part of my stock boy job. He just does them when I'm not around. What a dipstick.

            Meanwhile, Damian was mad as hell at Eddie for just walking away from the counter, leaving all those customers angry. He does that a lot, Eddie does. Just walks away. Fuck the customers, Eddie's gotta act the big cheese. I think it's because he's so short. Short people often have that Napoleanic Control Freak Complex thing going on . . .always trying to prove that they're smarter than the tall people.

      I'm gonna clobber that little Peruvian bigamist sonovabitch if he tries to pull that "he don't know what he's doing" routine on me again. I'm The White Rhino, I sure as hell know how to fill those Blue Rhino propane tanks.
Ads by

Monday, September 04, 2006

Blessed Be The Arco Garbage God

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
A Dumpsterdiver's Hymnal

Once again
the Arco garbage god,
a deity well fed
by my gas station employer
(through me, chief trash dumper)
has favored me with a gift.

A few weeks ago
it was the opportunity
to return a trash-hidden purse
to a struggling mother
who had no idea
how the purse
got into a trash can.

Before that
it was a video camera.
Then a nice spice rack.

the god of garbage
and all things dumpster
gave me
a brand new black solar-powered
water resistant
chronometer sports watch.

Looks good on me.
Keeps time.
Didn't come with instructions, though.
Maybe I'll find them
in the Arco trash tomorrow.

One of my friends tells me she has noticed
over the years
that I have telekinetic powers,
the power to manifest into reality
the serendipidousest objects
and peoples and events . . .
all manifestations of my whims.

What I have noticed
is that I seem to be a copper magnet.
Pennies follow me wherever I go.
Maybe I should focus
on silver or gold.

Mulholland P.S. Reviewed: Working The Felony Shift

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

You see it all working The Felony Shift. ---Mudhead

    One of my buddies who also used to drive callgirls to their appointments wrote me:

    “One of these days, one of those bodies along Mulholland Drive will be some girl we knew tossed along the roadside.”

    My response:
    “I know. The girls we drove led dangerous lives. They got to meet the sickest men in a sick city . . .but enough about their drivers . . .let's talk about their customers. Now THOSE guys were REALLY twisted.

    Every time there's a news report about some woman's body being found near the freeway (remember 1997? there was a lot of that back in '97), I wonder if I knew the girl. Odds were pretty good I did back in '97.

    I was there when Bill Cosby's kid got whacked on the Mulholland/405 access road. Passed right by the car on my way to deliver a callgirl to a mansion on Mulholland. That's just the kind of shit you run in to when you work the felony shift.

    Ah, but that’s all behind me. I’m an Arconian now.

Sunday, September 03, 2006

How To Catch And Milk A Tom

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

One day with life and heart is more than time enough. ---James Russel Lowell

    I'm full of Tabouli right now. My eyelids are heavy. After work tomorrow, I will explain at length to those of you who have been asking how to catch and milk a cat. It's no big deal, really: common knowledge back in east Texas.

Mulholland Drive Ecstasies & Blues

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Like the bee, we should make our industry our amusement.---Oliver Goldsmith

            My foreshadowing sucks. I need more foreshadowing.  But my food karma is good. My stomach is all gaga about my food karma right now. That's probably why I'm writing this crazy 'Mulholland Drive' junk. My stomach is all agog. I'm having an 'Out Of Stomach' experience.

            As I said, it all started last week when suddenly good food started coming my way. Through the generosity of my friends, I was inexplicably thrust into a life of eating out of restaurants instead of cans. Dented cans. Restaurants, not junk food kiosks.

            Enough foreshadowing? On with today's tale then. Today was payday at the Arco. I decided to celebrate with a rare trip to Ralph's supermarket. Oh, how long it has been since I've seen the glistening shelves, shelves bulging with America's great horn of plenty?

            I went straight to the deli department where I chanced to meet my boss at the Arco, Kimmie. I immediately made a fool of myself, doing a fat man's Tango of Culinary Lust in front of the deli counter, telling Kimmie of the virtues of Tabouli and Cooscoos and Hummus and Krab Salad and Chicken Corn Dogs and Greek Salad and Pistachio Creme, all of which I was ordering from the fat Mexican behind the counter with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head as if the poor woman behind the counter was Santa Clause and I was having the best Christmas ever!

            I must've looked pathetic to my petite Filipino boss. But the lack of good eating is like a slowly stretching rubber band. Sooner or later, that sucker's gonna snap, and when it does, look out for the fat man. He's gonna eat every delicacy in sight.

            So I packed the Cooscoos and Tabouli and Hummus and Corn Dog and Greek Salad and Pistachio Creme and Green Tea & Hemp soda off to my crack room and who was waiting for me at my crack room door with pierogies sautéed in minced garlic? My roommate! Out of nowhere he decides to treat me to his Hungarian great aunt's favorite Polish pierogie recipe.

            Mmmmmm. Polish pierogies! Auuuggggggnnnnnnnmmmmmm mmmm mmmm. I am a stomach out of control.

            Several hours later, when the satiated bloating subsided around midnight, I walked over to the Arco for cigarettes, and for my usual four bucks, I got my $4 cigarettes and a special unexpected bonus from the night clerk: a thick slice of three cheese pizza. Auuuggggggnnnnnnnmmmmmm mmmm mmmm.

            I know the day will come when the good food ends and the dented cans return, but right now, I don't want to think about that. Right now, I'm thinking about the leftover Tabouli in the reefer.

Mulholland Drive

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The greatest use of life is to spend it for something that will outlast it.---William James

    Just because I’m a 46 year old part time stock boy at a gas station, that doesn’t mean I should put away my  urges to write:

    The body was found on state owned land near the Encino Reservoir between Farmers Fire Road and the Mandeville Fire Road. This is the quiet, wealthy stretch of Mulholland; the part that turns its back on industrial Hollywood, turns its back on the glutinous and depraved Hollywood Hills and faces the valley, blue collar symbol that it once was, right in it's metaphorical eye.

    The corpse was found only 75 feet from the northern edge of Mulholland Drive in a shallow ravine. Coyotes, crows, opossum and other scavengers had dined on the corpse. Many scavengers. It was as if someone had rung the dinner bell when the man fell, or was pushed, off the shallow embankment which marks the steep drop-offs along that stretch of infamous Mulholland.

    Strangest of all about the corpse was the fact that not ALL of the scavenger dinning had been done post mortem. Very strange. Even the most incapacitated accident victim will rebel against being eaten alive, will thrash around enough to scare off the scavengers, unless that person is paralyzed or deeply unconscious . . .or under the influence of some really nasty morpheus drug . . .like heroin.

    There was nothing about the 75 foot fall that would cause paralysis or such unconsciousness. No sharp rocks with blood on them. No evidence of blunt trauma to the skull. The man appears to have laid there and watched the coyotes rip and tear first at his extremities, then, having been emboldened by the absence of thrashing or struggling, the ripping at his throat. Terrible way to go. You wouldn't wish this on your worst enemy.

    The man's car was found first by a routine park ranger patrol. The Lexus was safely parked in a turnout patch of dirt next to the narrow two lane drive. No skid marks. Headlights off. Gear in park. Doors locked. There was nothing particularly odd about the car to the ranger . . .except for the smell. It was pungent. The ranger tried to place that smell. Tried and tried. It was kind of manurey, but this was the wrong time of year for someone to have returned from visiting his grape orchards a few hours north of here.

    The ranger bent down and smelled the tires. This caused no end of laughter from his partner, who kept making cracks like "Whatsa matter, Bill? You smell a rat?" and "I know you're looking for promotion, Bill, but this time you've stooped too low!"

    Bill decided there was a decomposing body in the trunk and called in the sheriff's department. This stopped his partner's guffawing. They marked off the possible crime scene with road flares and waited for the parade of law enforcement lookee-loos they knew would descend upon them from out of the late night law enforcement boredom.

    The parade came quickly. In no more than twenty minutes there were four deputy sheriff cruisers, two highway patrol cars and three L.A.P.D. bubbletops bottlenecking the narrow drive and the supervisor units were not far behind. Mulholland Drive would be the most policed drive in the city that morning. Everybody loves the old Body In The Trunk call and nobody wants to miss the Popping of the Trunk show.

    One old timer arrived from L.A.P.D. and immediately announced "Cat pee! It's cat piss! Whatcha got here, boys, is the biggest damned Tom I ever heard of taking a whiz on the roof a this luxury sedan."

    "Fellas," the old-timer grinned with typical law enforcement dark humor, "Whatcha got here is giant feeeeline that don't like imports!"

    No small amount of law enforcement betting on the outcome of the trunk popping ensued the old timer's declaration. The officers stood in a tight semicircle around the back of the Lexus as the trunk was being popped. Light from the patrol car headlights splayed through their legs onto the trunk of the Lexus like crazy, jagged, miniature search lights. The trunk made a "whoosh" sound when it popped open, adding to the magic of the moment.

    No body.

    Half an hour later, disappointed, slightly chagrined lawmen were going through the motions of searching the immediate area, trying halfheartedly to salvage their motivations for driving way up, way out here, on Mulholland Drive, when they found the body 75 feet away. There was a terrible different smell about the corpse. The rookies assumed that THIS smell was the true smell of death, but the more experienced cops knew better. This was a smell, bad as it was, familiar only to the sportsmen among the law enforcement officers in the Mulholland throng. Specifically, this was a smell vaguely familiar only to sports fishermen.

    Fiction's premise: A hard to solve crime may be committed with a poor man's James Bond kit: some cat urine, a little wormwood and some chum activator. Whaddya think?

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Not A Pretty Sight After I've Eaten A Good Meal

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Be not afraid of growing slowly, be afraid only of standing still.---Chinese proverb

    The manager at the Arco is starting to get suspicious. Got my third visit today from friends who wanted to take me out to dinner. Third visit within a week's time. People coming not particularly to buy gas or overpriced gas station snacks. People coming to see Crusty The Stock Boy, White Rhino, The Marquis de Jolie or one of those other guys running around unfettered in my head. People coming from Longbeach, Hollywood and even The Valley.

    Right on time, too, 'cause I've been eating out of food bank cans since I spent my mad money on getting my old computers to my son. Had it not been for The Ornamental, I'd be raiding parking lot butt cans for my cigs about now.

    Fish & Chips in a pub in Manhattan Beach Thursday, burgers & Russian lattes in Hollywood Friday night, Jerry's Deli pastrami in The Valley Sunday and the Prime Steak Special at Fisherman's Wharf in Longbeach tonight. Wow! This has been a banner week.

    My crack motel room roommate, Creepy thinks I've gone mad. Every time he comes home from school at night, I'm sprawled across my broken barcolounger in a satiated Homer Simpson pose, saliva drooling out one corner of my mouth, eyes rolled up into my head, mumbling something about fish, lattes, pastrami or steak.

    Gotta admit it. I'm not a pretty sight after I've eaten a good meal.
Ads by

Friday, September 01, 2006

Hungarian Cameos in the French Movie

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

The really happy man is one who can enjoy the scenery on a detour.---Mudhead

    Last night when The Russian and I were watching "Brotherhood of the Wolf", there was a female character in the movie that kept popping up, attacking men with knives, grabbing men's asses, whirling, twirling and writhing in epileptic seizures.

    At one point The Russian and I turned to each other and at the same moment we said, "The Gypsy! It's The Gypsy!" (one of the other Hollywood callgirls I used to drive) The movie character even looks like her, too.

    Eva, wherever you are, our thoughts are on you and your knives and your mad twirling and gnashing.
Ads by

Crusty Goes To The Movies With A Russian Spy

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

People with many interests live, not only longest, but happiest.---George Mathew Allen

    Date with The Russian tonight. We saw "Brotherhood of the Wolf" at the Galaxy Five on the boulevard. French movie. English subtitles. 1800s French/Indian martial arts movie. I liked half of it. Maybe three quarters. Gave me the wanderlust for bog stompin'. Must be my Caddo Lake back swamp roots.

    Every time I'm with The Russian, I hear that old rock song "Refugee" in my head. Only instead of "You don't have to live like a refugee," I hear "You don't have to live like a Russian spy."

    She does that: lives like a Russian spy. When I went to pick her up at her house at the appointed time, a white Mercedes was just dropping her off. Out of the Mercedes, into the Creepmobile. We see a movie, grab a couple of lattes afterward at The Coffee Bean and a Mexican girl in a 70's gunboat Cadillac picks her up at The Coffee Bean. No telling how many more car switches there will be for The Russian tonight.

    The Russian says I'm a mean old bastard. Or rather, she says I am STILL a mean old bastard. I think she means it in a "when are you going to mend your ways?" way. I tell her I may be a mean old bastard, but I'm HER mean old bastard.

    The manager of the Arco, Kimmie, says I'm a mean old bastard, too. I prefer to think of myself as "crusty".
Ads by