Meow House Theatre

While I was walking back from my guitar lesson today I took a header over a curb into a gravel patch. I have a new lovely hole in my soon-to-be-rubbish pants. At least they hid the blood running down my leg from the big gash on my knee. My knuckles are nice and cut up too. I didn’t get a mark on my face somehow. I must have hard skin.

Let’s see, what else happened today. Oh right, I told some harpy counter-clerk bitch in the post office who had been a snotty cunt for the whole time I was at the window (and not even at HER window but she’s mouthing off to me for god knows what reason) to fuck off and so she called the “police” and they threatened to arrest me for disturbing the peace. Apparently in the post office they’re so scared of former co-workers and assorted loonies from taking out their aggressions on them that they are allowed to treat the customers like shit but the customers sure as hell better not say a word. I think she thought I was going to run crying when she said she’d call the “police” but I told her to right ahead. So then two “police” officers showed up and acted like they were doing me a big fucking favor to not arrest me. Yeah I was really scared.

The whole thing started because when I got up to the head of the line for my turn I said it would be helpful if the post office put out in the lobby–in one of the six or seven supply areas–those little plastic windows that you put the paperwork in when you stick it on an Express envelope. Then people like me wouldn’t have to wait in line for 15 minutes (and that was SHORT) just to drop off a prepaid no-postmark-necessary letter. This suggestion (and I swear I started out this conversation in a pleasant manner) was met with a vapid dull-eyed expression that would make a cow look intelligent and the response, after the cogs in her brain turned a little through their layers of rust, “There’s no room out there for them.”

Me: “In this entire post office you can’t fit a stack of plastic envelopes?” [You could fit at least a hundred people in there, which they often do, with the way the line goes, and there are four free-standing supply counters, one wall of supplies, and another supply counter in the lobby.]

Turtle IQ: “No. There’s no place to put them. Everything has their place and there’s no room for them.”

Me: “Um … okay.”

And it went downhill from there when Brain Stem Only said I had to stand in line anyway because there was no date on the Web-produced paperwork. (Yes there was a date. I guess she needs glasses too.)

Me: “Well it’s the post office software on line that’s broken then; I’ve done a thousand the same way and they always are accepted and always are delivered.”

Lobotomy Test Case: “Well then you’ve been very lucky; you’ve been doing them wrong.”

No idiot you’ve been doing them wrong, you and the stupid fucking post office that has accepted literally hundreds of these same packages from me for years and delivered them all when they have been all “done wrong.”

Then as I was leaving, her cunt of a colleague who had been at the next window offering her own “helpful” commentary throughout my conversation with someone else made a final snotty bitch remark and that’s when I turned around (I was almost out the door) and said fuck off. Then the real fun began.

After the “police” left I told the supervisor that all I wanted to do was to suggest that they keep those plastic envelopes out and she, another candidate for a MacArthur Grant (NOT) repeated practically word for word the absurdity of there not being any room in the entire office for a stack of 5×7 envelopes (it must be written in block letters on a poster in the toilets), and further, “They’ve never been put out.”

Me: Oh, why is that?

Supervising Moron: “They just haven’t.”

Me: Um … is there a procedure required in order to just put them out then … you can’t just do it on your own?”

Apparent Concussion Victim: “I can look into it. We just never have.”

Me: ?????

I console myself by paraphrasing a great man: “they’re nowhere now and they’ll be nowhere when they die.”

Nothing generally against postal workers (and I was a civil servant myself a long time ago) although they do seem to have made that one branch the depository for the special-needs staff.

Anyway, I have the most fun, don’t I?

I seem to have lost about 10 pounds somehow and now all those jeans I bought a week or two ago don’t really fit. Le sigh.

Horrible nightmare last night. I dreamed I heard a loud noise and went out to investigate and my guitar was on the floor completely demolished. The neck and front were sort-of together and the back was off and in many pieces. And it was done by CATS. All I could do was think “How the fuck did a cat do this???” This was far beyond unrepairable. I could only stare at it, stunned and unbelieving. It was like something Pete Townshend would look at proudly after a concert and say, “Damn that was a good one tonight!” Although I’ve never liked this thing he does with guitars. I don’t care how much money one has, that’s just stupid. And a waste of landfill space.

I know why I had the dream: because yesterday when I had the guitar out of the case the cat, as is usual with cats, found a way to sneak his wormy little body inside. And I had been glad at the time that the guitar was out and not in, just in case he might want to try the same thing if I should ever leave it unlocked. Funny how the mind takes your worries and doesn’t let you escape them even when you’re supposed to be having that most pleasant of all escapes, sleep.

I also dreamed that a certain famous person (whom I have never met) and his wife came over. Which normally would be great, except that in the dream he was not the famous person but rather an insurance agent and his wife was a plump German hausfrau straight out of 1955, wearing a ruffly flowered over-the-head apron and carrying a casserole dish of schnitzel. I don’t actually know what his wife looks really looks like but I am absolutely positive she’s nothing like that. I don’t need to see a picture to know that as a certainty.

I really have no idea what brought that one about. I don’t think I even like schnitzel.

I’ve got a South African football team (that’s soccer in case it’s not clear) here in the office and they are certainly a loud bunch.

I went outside for lunch–it’s beyond gorgeous out today–and I got a sandwich and went to sit in this faux park (there’s curlicued benches and a few flowers and trees, to make you feel pastoral … sitting in the middle of a quarter acre of pavement) that was built up to make people feel better about having to fund cost overruns of $10 billion on the Big Dig (a hideous construction project here in Boston that doesn’t seem to me to have made much difference in anything). So I was sitting there on a bench and there were some little birds right next to me. Maybe two or three feet away. I spent a few minutes watching them flitting around, hopping to and fro, making their little chirpy bird noises to each other. And I suddenly had a Moment of Clarity, the kind that in other people might lead to the formulation of the theory of gravity or the realization of the mathematical value in understanding water displacement. Only, the thought that consumed my head was: “these birds live outside all the time. Every single day, all year long. In a tree.”

Okay it was an azalea bush but still. They live in a tree! No house! Just a nest or hole in a branch or whatever it is that that type of bird does. No job, no car, no tax returns, no divorce when the wife runs off with the UPS man, no children sneaking down the trellis at 1:00 AM, no crashing realization when they finally retire and get the gold watch and finally get to spend all day at home and on the first day sit there and think “is that all there is?” None of that for these birds. No worries, no pain, no anything. They just live in a tree. FOREVER.

Well this started me laughing at the absurdity of 1) thinking of it at all; and 2) the overwhelming extent to which this thought–IN A TREE!!!–had burned itself into my brain. I’d eat a few bites and then start laughing, get ahold of myself, eat a bite, look at the birds, and start laughing again. I could not stop. It was like having a flashback. The man in the next bench kept giving me looks. There were some girls across the way and I am pretty damn sure they were talking about me. I think I saw a soccer mom with her kid in a fancy stroller turn toward me, tilt her head, and push that thing away just a little faster. I finally had to leave. I laughed on and off all the way back to work.

No drink or drugs were involved in this experience. Swear to god.

I’ve just decided that, for today anyway, there really is a god, because I went to the shop next door to see about getting my hair cut and they had an appointment for tonight. That never happens. It’s always “um how’s a week from Tuesday?” But I want to get my hair cut NOW not in the next century, practically. So you can see why having a booking open today, in a few hours, at the exact perfect time for me, is major cause for religious enlightenment.

Tomorrow my theological doctrines might change, depending on how things go for me.

I will probably never be rolling in piles of money but if I had enough to take taxis everywhere and never have to take this goddamn clusterfuck of a subway system again, that would make me pretty happy.

I bought an iPod iTouch last night. It’s really lovely so far. I have put several CDs and other music I have on it and one video. I debated between getting the iTouch (that’s a bit of a clunky name, innit? It doesn’t flow like “iPod” does) and the 80 gig “Classic” (what’s “classic” about it? It used to be the newest model but now it’s the “classic” one?) but I wanted the larger video screen and the wifi, so I got this one. Less gigs than my last 30 gig model but I just won’t keep loads of video on it like I did with the other. If I don’t like it I have 90 days to bring it back. But that probably will not be necessary.

Maybe if I didn’t buy expensive Apple products I could take taxis everywhere. Hmmm.

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I am shooting a singer tonight. Photographing, that is. I did another band last week and the pictures came out great although I haven’t finished processing them yet. I’m still working on the previous band that I did the week before. I see a lot that have potential and I’m finding it difficult to pick out the 10-20 out of approximately 300 shots (for each session) that are the absolute best. It’s different when they’re just my own pictures but these are going to be used for someone else’s publicity, so I really need to make sure they’re as good as possible.

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I was supposed to record a couple of demo tracks last night but my car was in the shop and I had a few other problems to take care of so I had to postpone it. This will give me time to practice anyway; the guitar track was recorded separately so although I know the song I haven’t really done it to that exact backing instrumental. Many thanks to Tony Savarino for playing it for me. It sounds really good. I have to step down the pitch probably, which I can do in Adobe Audition. That’s a spectacular program and well worth whatever money it costs. I think it’s in C and it would be better for me in B flat or A. I may also try to record a whistle track for it but I’m not sure about that yet.

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Oh I bought a bottle of wine last night, chosen only because I liked the label. It was called “Tin Roof.” I have to take a picture of it before I open it.

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And because I’m a crazy cat lady, I will announce that it was this one’s birthday on Monday and we had our own little kitty party. She’s 7 years old–pretty good for a cat who had a few days to live when I found her.

Edit:  I am SURE that I edited this a long time ago to say “Sunday” instead of “Saturday.” It annoys me that it didn’t take.

I want to remind everyone to watch John Oliver’s special on Comedy Central on April 20. Because John is a funny funny man, and because he’s a super-nice guy to take the time to talk to vague acquaintances upon seeing them unexpectedly, and because I am going to be appearing in the show.

Disclaimer: John does not know I was in it. Well he probably knows but surely doesn’t care. Okay well to be totally honest about it, I wasn’t actually “in” it but I was in the audience in the front row and I have been told that they got some shots of me in there. So technically I am not lying: I am in a TV show with John Oliver. I am just not credited for it. Mere unimportant details such as that do not overly concern me.

Funny this post should follow one about ex-Hitler Youth Pope Benny. I swear there is no earthly connection.
No, I just wanted to share this: I just went to the bathroom and what should I see on the front of my underwear but a series of three holes that bore an amazing resemblance to this picture. It’s Munch in my pants! See how the guy’s right eye isa little bit bigger than his left? Well the hole on the left (so that’s the right of the “face” of my hole-y underwear) is bigger too.I believe this is call for selling them on ebay. The underwear. It’s only a few steps from here to seeing Jesus in a Cheeto.

I’d wash them first. There’s probably less money in that but I’m doing it for art. And salvation.

I’ve just bought the most lovely pairs of jeans, one by Ralph Lauren and one by the unfortunately named “Baby Phat.” I loathe that word, “phat.” It sounds like something unpleasant occurring in digestive system which makes you not want to leave the house. I suppose it’s supposed to be “hip.” They ought to come up with a clothing line called “Phat Hip” but then everyone would read it wrong and thus nobody would buy it.

Anyhoo, I do love the jeans. Yes I admit it, my last pair of jeans was what are called “Mom Jeans”: high on the waist and with straight legs. What can I say, I bought them a long time ago and they were still serviceable, and since I mostly wear shirts untucked it didn’t matter that the waist was above my belly button. But those straight legs did bother me. It’s hard to get them over boots, even just low boots, which is mostly what I wear unless I want to look nice. So yesterday while waiting for my lovely new triskele ring that I plan to have reside permanently on my pinkie to be resized I wandered over to Macy’s and tried to spend as much money on clothes in 1/2 hour as humanly possible, or at least as can be done in a department store chain.

And these jeans fit so well! I was born in the wrong century, apparently, to most clothing designers, since I have an ass. And a chest. And my shape is not that of an adolescent boy. Every time I try on jeans it’s yet another depressing day of not being able to find something that fits the butt and yet also fits the hips & waist. Either they fit the waist (which these days is not the actual waist, but lower than that) and are too small in the butt, or they fit the butt and have a gaping maw in the back where the waist is too big. Or they sort of fit all over but I’m left with muffin top. I’d rather wear mom jeans than have muffin top. Brrrrh. So girls, if you are not a pedophile’s dream of a body type, try out Ralph Lauren and Baby Phat. The rest of you can shop in the girl’s department.

Men are lucky. They can just buy Levis. From the used-clothing store. You guys have it easy.

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Today’s Boston Globe lead picture: “Pope Benedict XVI’s arrival in Maryland yesteday marked the first time President Bush has traveled to the airport to greet a visiting leader.”

Oh for chrissakes. It fucking figures. Of all the people to do it for, it has to be HIM. Ol’ Benny doesn’t look frail to me; couldn’t he have just changed out of his ruby slippers hopped over to the limo stand?

This song is an allegory. It might be the best cover of someone else’s song ever. It’s a crime that Christy Moore is not more well known in this country. His voice makes me cry every time I watch it.

And I’m paying for this Web site so I guess I can post whatever I want.

First, I snapped the handle off another brush. While brushing my hair. This is the second one this year and about the 30th in my life. The handle breaks off where it narrows down near where the bristles start. It’s not from trying to pull it through tangles, either. I’m just brushing straight down and then near the end the handle snaps. I don’t know, is there such a thing as too much hairbrush torque?

Second, some strange man accosted me this morning and offered to cut off my hair. This likely would be strange all by itself but what made it really bizarre was that this was in the train station, not a salon, and he was carrying scissors at the time. I declined and then found an official-looking person to report him to. The request is not the worrisome part but that he’s carrying scissors while doing it. Maybe the next person he won’t ask first, right?

In related news I have had to cut my fingernails on the left hand because I can’t play the guitar with them so long. Dolly Parton apparently manages with her talons but I’m not sure how. I’m not even sure how she can play at all with having to prop the guitar so far away from her torso because of her natural attributes in the frontal regions. I suppose she has gotten used to it all. Anyway, my fingernails: I haven’t cut the right hand yet to match so I’m a little lopsided right now.

Today I need to go find a jeweler and see if he can make a ring smaller. It’s a five and I think 4-1/2 would have been better. I don’t want him to have to cut it and re-solder though. This is the danger of buying rings without trying them on in person. Right now I’ve got a piece of tape wrapped on to the underside but that’s not the best solution and it’s rather unattractive. But, if I don’t do something this ring is going to pop off. It already has once. And it’s brand-new and I really don’t want to lose it; it’s a really pretty sterling carved triskele with more carving on the sides. I don’t think exchanging it will work as the maker only does it in whole sizes and I’m pretty sure a 4 will be too small.

Maybe I should just let myself become much fatter, because then the ring will fit fine. Decisions, decisions.

I would like to point out that I have made seven posts since April 4, five today alone I think; and of the seven, four of them are incredibly short (for me). I am feeling like I’m doing that “twitter” thing, which is some kind of cell phone bloggy update thing that I don’t understand the point of. I guess you send messages to heaps of people you don’t know and it comes through to their phones? I don’t understand how that wouldn’t be annoying but maybe that’s not really how it works. Hell, I only learned how to send a text message a few months ago. That area of technological advancement just passed me by for some reason.

To the person(s) who said they would have to leave me if I didn’t start posting more, I blame you for all this.

Be back soon!

P.S. I’m going to do my darndest to get a free subscription to “A, The Abortion Magazine.” Then I’ll read it openly on the train and secretly photograph people trying to nonchalantly look at me when they think I don’t notice them.

And another thing: one of the searches that gets a lot of hits to me is some combination of: chloroform, gerbils, redhead, and “how to pronounce dextromethorphan.”

I have never in my life written about chloroforming redheaded gerbils and/or drugging them with cough medicine. It sounds terribly messy, doesn’t it?  I would not choose to be involved in whatever hideous practices are related to such activities.  I don’t understand why I get so many hits off these words.

I’m the eighth link on google for “photos of shane macgowan.”  Huh.  I don’t have that many of them.

(I discovered this from looking at my flickr stats.  Not from googling the words “photos of shane macgowan.”  Because I know that would be weird.  Not that it’s weird to do it, but weird for me to, since I already have photos.  Oh never mind.)

There is an actual publication called:

“A, The Abortion Magazine”

I don’t think anything is wrong with the magazine’s topic but that name just doesn’t seem like a very good marketing strategy to me. It vaguely reminds of “O, The Oprah Magazine” and while they might be trying to generate thoughtful mainstream conversation about reproductive rights, all the name makes me think of is some fluff to pick up in the checkout line. With slick photos. I’m sure that’s not what is in there but the thought is making me ill. Just in time for lunch, jolly good.

I’m pretty sure there’s also “W, The Wart Removal Magazine” out there somewhere, and “AT, The Abscessed Tooth Magazine.” I’m trying to find links.

(No I don’t really equate the topic of “A” with warts or abscessed teeth. Please save your indignation for someone in Congress.)