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I worked once.

Ya wanna hear about a job? I got a folking job for ya.

Come to think of it, it's probably not for ya, and it's not... well read on.

When being interviewed for a job, the right thing to say is 'YES', and that means under all circumstances, including on the entrance interview 'Have you ever murdered/killed anyone'.

Yes, but only with humor. I once slayed a dragon by telling her that her letterhead had a typo in it. It took her several weeks to figure out that I was just kidding.

But that's not the story I want to tell now.

I interview quite well. I dress to perfection, and have that savoir fare air of confidence, and know how to shake hands, smile, and present myself as if I've done this a few times... mostly because I have.

Out of 10 applicants to this one job position - and mind you, it was a job, not a career... I was finally chosen.

However, I had my doubts. First of all when I drove to the place, I could not for the life of me wrap my head around the fact that it was in a neighborhood that even by day I felt uncomfortable walking around in with out a glock in my pocket. With the safety off. Now, usually I can walk through tough neighborhoods - you must know I'm a regular honest white boy, and not some punk - and get practically NO attention because
a) I talk to myself a lot
b) I rummage through other peoples trash and often walk away with something
c) I have that cachet of being harmless and totally fucking insane.

But not today, for today I was dressed in shiney grey tweed, red tie, hat tipped just enough for attitude, one degree more would have been cocky, my portfolio in hand, and that 'yes sir, yes sir, three bags full sir' smile. The same one I would shine when asked by the interviewer that the job required me to have sexual relations with the boss's sister. Luckily for me, that topic did not come up.

What did come up, and was probably just as scary, was that I needed to show up at 6:30 in the morning.

When I was 10, 11- or even 20 years old, my mommy would have to practically drag me out of bed, and sometimes my father was asked to intervene, and even then, it was a struggle. I'd fall back asleep, I'd fake a cold, I even told them once that I had brain cancer, and couldn't make it to school that day. This all because I would stay up way too late and read books, magazines, or talk to my imaginary friends, and read them poetry I was making up impromptu. I thought I was pretty darn good at that, who know, later on, it might just come true?

So I had to wake up at 5:30, make the coffee if I was lucky, and then drive into the bowels of Newark, otherwise known as the armpit of New Jersey - although a good argument for that title is Kerney, so maybe there are two armpits. Not a big stretch of the imagination. I won't go into the southern towns just now, it would not be appropriate.

My job was to make big signs for people.

See, we had a system that let people design signs online, for their car, or business window, bumper stickers... I mean just about any kind of flat product that needed some imprinteur of the owners desire or authority, we made it happen at the sign shop.

Now, I've watched 8 mile, and saw how Emminem went to his low class job, and were I to work next to him I'd get a 'fuck you for breakfast and this was my friend who I had to work either for - or eventually over.

It was a comedy of errors, every thing I could have done wrong - from my holier than thou attitude, my 3'rd day write up of everything I saw 'wrong' with the shop that I shared with a midlevel boss to my presumption of wearing a suit and tie everyday, kept asking for, and finally got that corner office with a lockable door and a view of the parking lot, so I could see all the minions and secretaries go trot trot in the morning, their coffee splashing, their hair dashing, their shoestraps tangled, and then on to the times I came in still drunk from the weekend party, to my glad handed attempts at friendship with co-workers... I think I hit about every point in what NOT to do -

So when they let me go, I was SO relieved... oh my fucking Iced Tea, I don't have to wake up at 5:30 and drive down into that ugly part of the city and slave for $10 per hour while trying to look pretty.

I'm a fox up on a hill, gazing at all the silly little people below... and knowing I am just one blow away from being even lower than that, which is what I suppose is where I was at, but it didn't fit, so I got quit, and took all the knowlege of that wonderful experience (no joke) with me to use wherever else I choose. Truth be told, I count it as a 'freelance opportunity' that provided a bit of money, enough to keep the lights on for the next couple months, and honestly, nothing I could have done for much more time. I still wake up at 5:00 am and go brush my teeth, or fix something to eat, then go back to tweet on my laptop, I'm so glad not to have to stay up and drive down only to fuck up, because the people who send in their 'artwork' for signs are not designers, just clowns who don't know how to use the tools given, and need my help, but I am not given time or encouragement to help, just to schedule jobs, and collect money, that was not how I was raised, I was taught to love what you do, and this was just a bad picture in a dingey art gallery, filled with otherwise smart, but awful boring people...

This is the job, I was very glad to be let go from.

My next job?

My next endeavor will be to rule the universe! That is, I will write, and more profane examples of employment idiocy will ensue.

Love - and 7ox Out.
L3l&

An angel tipped the scales for me today.

It is relatively unimportant in the big scheme of life the universe and everything, that this happened, but I do believe in the butterfly effect, one good flap of an angels wings can provide comfort to millions, unbeknownst to the butterfly or the millions.

That is how Karma works.

So from now on, it is not the butterfly effect, but the Angel Effect. Angels do not do things for us, but they intervene in subtle ways, to create good things to happen if ...

if we are deserving? If we ask? if we have paid it forward? If we do the right thing?

So many times I see this to not be the case, the people who do the right things are killed, blasphemed, deposed, ignored, or just die without proper dignity. Well, that is the way life and death is, right now, and has been.

As superconsious beings, we DO deserve more, keep asking for more, and sometimes get that recognition. Unfortunately, posthumously, and in my humble opinion, not enough.

But we, as transient beings on this stage must understand the bell curve of luck, I will not go into what a bell curve is, google it and see for yourself.

I have usually been on the far right of the curve - not in money, not in love (although that has been very good to me) but in luck.

I have so far avoided death. I have so far found love. I have so far not been entangled or ensnared by either love, money, corruption, committment, or anything more than traffic tickets. Which is why I don't own, or drive cars anymore, nor can I see any way to do so in any near future. And that minor detail is just that... minor, and silly.

As I told a friend tonight, I have never *until now* experinced a psychotic girlfriend relationship, or OCD behavior first hand. She agreed it is difficult, and I was lucky. I agreed that it was an eye-opener, and a learning experience. I didn't say this next, but it was one that I needed, because expanding into my wealth of friends, I should expect to see this more, even though I had not really planned on it, nor was prepared for it. But had I the time or glib of conversation, I would have said so. But what we exchanged said enough. She knows crazy, too.

Most people I read from blogs know crazy... and I suppose I have seen it before, but just called it good humans weird, and considered myself as such, so they're family in some way. My burner friends, crazy and silly as they are are not psychotic, are not that self destructive, are not ...

And I accept them as fellow denziens of the alternate way of perceiving  our way of living amongs each other, partying responsibly, looking out for each other, caring for each other, as I do so fiercely. That to me is normal, the way it should be.

I look at politics, and I see so many monkeys throwing their poo - and millions of dollars - at each others on nationwide tours, campaigns, tv advertisements, and hoards of social bloggers, tweeters, facebookers, and whatever the hell else they don't even understand to motivate the immovitable into clicking yes or no, and then spreading the manure, and then going to a polling place... the last thing is probably the least that will happen, in reality  among those sane, yet, we are America, and must choose one leader over another, and then we go on conquering much more important things, like, our lives, jobs, children, spouses, homes, places in our sphere of humaity. Our Nation and God Given Right to Choose. Every vote counts, God Bless America.

Yes, God Bless, and forgive America, except I don't believe in God. WE are the gods that make systems work, we define what and who we are, and the sane amongst us must ignore, yet protect, the insane who would either kill us or run for political infamy.

I do not believe in God, I believe in my fellow humans' sanity, where in local ponds it exists, in all walks, political, legal, party, or friendship. I see and hear it all the time, the outcry of what should be, as opposed to what is.

Trouble is, every sane person is right in their way, and there are so many ways of being right, we stub our toes on the foundation of truth, trying to get in.

That is all for now, but the main thing I wanted to say is...

An angel gave me wings today.

I did right once, paid it forward, and am now rewarded.

I will never again have fear of doing the right thing, even if it seems like a leap of faith, I have faith in abundance. Not in God, or Jesus, but in friends that talk to me like a sensible human, with love and respect. Who can doubt me if I'm wrong, and who can accept my doubt if I think they are wrong.

We must protect, and correct each other, while giving wings to freedom. It is a balance, a difficult one,  but thus is how vigilance must be done. The more personal the better, but our social networks over the internet, are just as valid and valuable.

Next up: How to give up - how to let die.

L3l&

My Psycho Girlfriend

My Girlfriend. That is what she calls herself.

I call her a place to stay in Midtown Manhattan after an all night party when I am too tired to wait at Penn Station for the morning train, want a bed (or couch) to sleep in, and eat food.

All the negative things I hear men say about psycho girlfriends are encompassed in this woman.
All except for the fact that she has not yet cut my dick off with a knife. She is not that evil, nor am I that provoking of such wrath. Frankly, I'm a  marshmallow, a softie, but I do call her on insanity, which is apparently the WRONG  thing to do when you are trying to be in good graces with the insane.

Yah, I make mistakes. Call me Dr. Obvious.
marsh
Thursday night, I was going to a PsyTrance party in East Village, NYC. I got a call from GF, and the chat went nice, I told her what I was up to, and told her I had a bit to drink, which she doesn't approve of (she likes crack cocaine better, because she used to be an alcoholic) so I was honest. She asked if she could go with me. This rather surprising so I figured (correctly) she must be smoking crack.

She hugged and kissed me, dressed nice, with my fashion design help, and looked like a little rock chic.  We took the subway - a surpise, because she's a limo-cab type of gal, and once there, the first thing she wanted was to cop some drugs. I wanted to dance. I had on my black/white checkered skinnyjean pants, wife-beater sleevless skank shirt, trippy fedora with headlamp and feathers, and some silly wrisband bling. So we looked the part, her in a low cut short leather dress, and pourghpie style black straw hat. I mean, we were the part and parcel of party, right?

And because people know me, I got VIP status and walked in front of the line, no ID, no bag check, AND I was on the list, so I got discount tickets for both of us.

I was not 5 minutes down to the Psycheground that I met friends. Lia, Neff, Ron-K, and others. Some people just came up and hugged me - I assume they were stoned or on X or something, hey, a hug is a hug and I'll take that anyday! Nobody knew GF, of course, she's twice their age and barely goes out even to shop, but didn't look it at the time, so all is good.  I had given her a glowstick to fuck between her titties, so that was cool. But the whole thing with her was 'where can I get some cookies?' as in crack. I wanted to get a Mollly. Some dipshit offered MDNA, I dip my finger in a baggie and run it over my gums. Yah right. What the fuck. She did it too. Nothing. Nada. But I danced, she sat. I hugged, she sat. I yelled and whooped, she sat. So after a bit, I sat, hugged her, and sat next to her, and kept near her, you know, like a boyfriend would do.

I gave her comfort in the confusing storm of young sweat and womp womp womp ( pause) DROP the bass FOOOMMM!.

It was just so much brain jiggling noise to her, but I expected that. She's a '60's music chic.

Oooookayyyy. We go back upstars to the street, and she's still trying to cop a hit. Whatever. We decide to go, but we gots no money left! Well, I do have lots of cred on my MTA card, but she needs to take a cab. We get a cab. He drives us home. She wants to ditch it. She runs. I run, but my foot hurts so bad I can't run. I try and hide, but I do it very badly because I'm drunk and quite out of breath, and my fucking foot HURTS! Cabbie finds me, confronts me, so I...

I do the right thing. 

I give him my debit card, and tell him I doubt it will go through. I know my balance is low. I apologise for running, it was GF's idea  (yah, lay blame, silly Leland, you went with it) and Gods be praised, it went through. I am absolved.

I stumble home, remember, my foot really does hurt, I am not making this up, and we get home, to GF's place, in Sutton Place Midtown manhattan with a cute little Shitzu, artwork, food, drink... bed, covers, excuses all gone comfort.

We talk, drink the rest of my alcohol  (which I am not supposed to have in the place)  with GFand then we go to bed. No sex, we actually don't do that. For reasons I cannot explain because I don't know either.

Apparently I talk in my sleep. As it is recounted to me, I am hilarious, talking in different voices, talking to my father... I know nothing of this, I don't even remember dreaming, which I often do.

I wish I had set my phone on 'record' and someday I will capture this, it will provide me hours, if not minutes of amusement.

Next day is sweet, except toward the end, where she gets more and more nervous headachey, and crushes up pills of Hydromorphone into powder and then snorts from a rolled up dollar, just like cocaine. Mirror, razor blade and all. Okay, makes her happy, whatever.

Then starts the insanity. From room to room, taking something from here, putting it there. A towel, windex washing walls, parts of the door, the dog's ass, then the frame of her bed, and part of the TV, then realizing what she's done, laughs it off. Offers a blowjob for me if I keep my hurting foot on some pillows, then goes wandering off int other rooms, to move things from one place to another. while I try to sleep. I can't. She's asking my why things keep appearing on Facebook she dosen't like.

OH MY FUCKING GOD! THE DOG PEED ON THE FLOOR!

So the pee must be cleaned up, out comes the cleaning supplies, out comes the mop, and mop she does, the living room where the pee is, the dining room, the kitchen, the bedroom. Not once. Not twice. Three.. FOUR times (and this is where I call her a bit insane, and she does not cut my dick off with a knife but explains how things MUST be CLEAN, and then once again, I savor the fact that my dear penis is still intact, and cover my head in pillows, and blankets. while she bangs around the kitchen cleaning dishes I don't believe were left in the sink. This goes on for a while.

She comes over, at 4:30 am, kinda sweet and shows me some fake pearls that look nice, and starts to explain (again, I've heard this story) and since I'm tired, and cranky, I say Thank You, and go into the living room couch with the big feather tic to go to sleep, and then the haranguing begins.

"ALL YOU WANT TO DO IS SLEEP, THAT'S ALL YOU FUCKING DO HERE IS EAT AND SLEEP WHILE I'M ON MY KNEES CLEANING AND SCRUBBING, AND CLEANING UP AFTER YOU! YOU ARE A PIG! ALL I DO IS CLEAN UP AFTER YOU!"

What can I do? I apologise, and get up, make some coffee and roll us some cigarettes.  Okay, it's calm for now. We talk a bit. More wandering on her part, so I go back to sleep while she shuffles papers into piles. Moves clothes from one closet to another. Asks me where her debit card went. (It's in your wallet, I put it there).  Then the Vacuum cleaner comes out again. She brushes the walls, the table parts of the floor, the couch, my privates (under the feather tic), and now that she has my attention she lifts her shirt and shows me her sagging boobies (which I really don't mind at all, boobies are nice, sagging or not) smiles at me and then goes on about her floor suckage.

I cannot sleep, really, I pass out, but only for brief.

It is morning, and now time to CLEAN UP THIS PLACE, get it ready, because people are coming to buy the artwork and give her money, or so she believes and tries to convince me.

I am not convinced,  and for good reason. I do not need to explain the reason at this point, you know?

Next day, I get a list of Aetna approved doctors - General practitioners, Rheumatoid Specialists, Psychiatrists, and Pain management doctors. She's trying to 'get better'. I copy all this down in her datebook from the Aetna rep who is very patient and informative.

She is very grateful, and very loving, so sweet (no sex, just nice). I am an angel. I am the Burning Man. I have that power, that influence, I am special. Yah, I'm so fucking special

We go the next morning, late because she can't decide what to wear, even with my expert coaching... and truth be told she looks great like an orange sorbet with orange purse, white pants, orange and white striped shirt, with an orange undershirt and big floppy hat, white rimmed sunglasses... she's midtown stylish! Damn, I dressed her well.

We get to the doctors office, and damn she can't fill in the forms because I picked out the wrong seeing glasses for her. Nevermind that she has had NO sleep for the last five days... none... never mind that she's still high on snorting hydromorphone.. She gets frequent bouts of 30 seconds of narcolepsy, luckily not while dodging traffic, which she does with abandon... (please will someone run her over and put her out of her misery?)

So she gets in 45 minutes late, and then finds out the doctor not only closes in a half hour, but cannot prescribe the drugs she wants - on the spot, is what she wants - but cannot do it without a referral. Begging ensues. Doctor wants to go home. More begging ensues. Explanations of stuff that has nothing to DO with her condition at the moment, other doctors have prescribed this, here are the bottles of pills, (yes, she brought them) and that is all the PROOF that is needed... in her mind, if it has been done before, any doctor should do it for her right now, with only this. The doctor goes on to explain procedure, but that has nothing to do with the reality of GF who is begging for drugs, while explaining again and again she is not just looking to get drugs.

Ummm.  yah.

She gets pissed off at me, because I have found that I have enough money in my bank account to get home - 20.95 dollars. I should get her ice cream. And pads for her dog to pee on. And a meal from a restaurant. I try and explain that this is the only money to get me home. She opens a can of whoop ass on me that I am the stingiest cheapest person she has ever met, (every time I go to her place I end up spending all my money, however meager it is, on her crack habit, or food) and tells me I'm a drunk and I sleep all the time and I'm a total fuck up, worthless piece of shit that is just abusing her, and I should just take all my stuff and get the fuck out.

I agree. I am using her. I come here with little money, I give it all to her, but it is not enough, and I try and cook for her, walk her dog, clean her apartment - but not enough to her specification, because I am a slob, and yes... I am broke, I have no money, and come here to depend on her after I go out and party and spend whatever I have left on you. I admit that. I am a sorry. I apologise. But I still care for you. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

Oh is that all, you care, but you won't buy me a dinner at a nice place, you won't provide for me, you won't even buy me puppy pads, you eat the chicken you make for my dog, while you go out and party and go whoopt the woop with your underage friends while my dog is dying, is THAT WHAT YOU DO? YOU ARE A MONSTER!

And she went on to call me a schizophrenic, which perfectly defines her. I have come to realize that she accuses others -defines blame, and attributes bad practices that she is guilty of - on everyone else. It's so Freudian, a matter of transference, blaming \ other people of your own guilty demise.

----

There is a matter of truth to this. I do believe in telling what I know to be the truth, until proved otherwise, and I have thought about this lengthily.

I go there after parties, I am drunk, I am in a loving mood, I try and seduce her, but she is a stone cold bitch, or a zombie, or just intent on smoking her crack. At least I can either sleep in her bed, or on the couch. It is comfortable. I get to walk her pretty little dog. I get to raid the fridge of all the rotting stuff she doesn't eat (because all she eats is ice cream, cookies, and peanutbutter-berrypreserves on raisin-cinnamon-sworil-bread). I had to force her to eat a salad one day, because half of it was in decay. She ate half of it.  Oh, and Cheese on Pepito Corn  Tortillas. Whatever. But every time I cook, the stove needs to be cleaned cleaned, brushed, washed, cleaned, with bleach, and then the floor has all the crap that has dripped off the stove so it needs to be cleaned, mopped, swiffered, and then she needs to get on her hands and knees with a sponge and cry while she labors over getting the white floor clean again after I have slobbed it all up, and all I can do is stand there and watch her labor, and not help but one fucking bit while she slaves on her hands and knees!!!

But she does ask me to cook for her, else she would not eat right.

I once opened a two year old can of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli, and a three year old can of Sardines. If they were that old, goodness knows she wouldn't miss them.

Wrong again. She keeps bringing this up. The sardines were for a special diet she was on.

Right.

The Chef Boyardee... was there a year ago when I first met her. I remember things like that.

So, this is a detail of what I deal with, when I go to see my 'girlfriend'. She calls me my 'boyfriend' and professes to love me, but there is no sex, although she struts around either naked or in her panties... teasingly enough, and amusing to me, but when it all boils down, it's only that. Tease.

And then blame. And then money. Give me your money. I want your money! I need it for my habit!

Basically a crack whore who does not put out. She's a midtown bitch with a nice apartment I can crash in from time to time, and my rent is to take her abuse, while I eat her food.

Sounds like we're both some kinds of rats!

But in all of this, I keep a level keel. I think of the song 'Sweet dreams are made of this'

"Some of them want to abuse you -
Some of them want to be abused -
Who am I to disagree"

L3l& - looking for love in all the wrong places ;)