Meow House Theatre

Yesterday I arrived home to find my mailbox stuffed with things I’ve recently bought off ebay, all clearly marked “DO NOT BEND” in big letters. The mailbox was filled to the brim and yes things were bent.

I went inside the entry to my interior door and what should be laid gently upon the mat? Why, not something fragile and delicate, but rather the latest Hanes Underwear catalogue. Because, obviously, preserving the pristine flattened state of a 30% off coupon on granny drawers is certainly more important than not bending items marked “DO NOT BEND.”

P.S. I FUCKING HATE STUPID PEOPLE. Please go and die now.

P.P.S.  I swear I am not a bitter old complaining grandma type all the time.  I have to find something cheery to write about soon.  I’ll work on it.  Look here, I’m fake-cheery all day long at work, what more do you people want from me?

I drove past this place today that I see a lot and it reminded me that I’ve been meaning to write about it.

So I live in Boston and real estate is pretty expensive here. Commercial real estate can go for a LOT of money per square foot in this area. So why do I keep seeing stores that have a curiously deserted vibe to them? For instance today I passed a store called something like “Good Feet.” And underneath it said “The Arch Support Store.” That’s all.they.sell. Arch supports. This is not a tiny little dusty place either; it’s about the size of a CVS. Fairly big in other words. And all they have is arch supports and I think bunion stretchers or toe straighteners or whatever it is that knobby feet require. Thankfully I have been spared any hereditary or shoe-induced foot problems and so don’t know much about them, except for this one time I had a corn between my pinky and my next toe that caused me no end of grief and on which someone stepped once, hard, and caused me to experience the most horrific pain of my life, like a lightning bolt smashing into my brain. I don’t think anything could compete with that pain and I have had a large rock embedded in my head and had cluster headaches that caused me to seriously consider axeing the top of my head open to make it stop. (It seemed to briefly make sense at the time of the headache.) Nothing compared with the pain of having that corn stepped on. You know in cartoons when they fall off the cliff and see stars upon hitting splat on the ground? That’s more true than you might think possible. Bright shiny swirly stars, which start after a few seconds of a nuclear-bomb-blast of white light that blots all perception of the world from your brain, except for the motherfuckingly astounding pain that has shot up from your foot up the leg through the chest and to your cerebral cortex. That thing hurt me for about 10 years, until it got massively infected and I went to the doctor finally and he had to lance it and well it gets really disgusting here so I will spare you.

Back to these fishy retail establishments. It gets better. This arch-support store is right next door to a ham store. Yes, ham. That’s all they sell. Ham. And not a variety of ham, it’s all ONE kind of ham. One flavor, one variety.

I’ve been driving past these places for years and have never seen a car in either lot, yet they continue on.

Down the street is a small “shopping plaza” with, get this, TWO pool stores (people buy pools in stores?), a wood-stove-pellet store, and best of all, a pool CUE store. Yes a store whose entire purpose is to sell pool cues. Bit specialized, don’t you think? And I can’t figure out where the entrance to this the lot is. It appears to have no access from the main road. ???

These places certainly beat out the Irish store I used to pass by a lot. I had seen that place for years too and so one Sunday I thought I’d go in and see if they had any brown bread, and what should be on the shelves but only a few packets of Hob Nobs and a box of Barry’s. A box discolored by the sun, it had been there so long. I think there were some moldy old jars of Marmite in there too, not sure. I was given “the eye” by the various people “working” inside, far far too many people to possibly fill their timesheet with actual work at such a small store. I think I found a copy of the Irish Voice and then got the hell out. I have no idea what was going on in there. They stayed in business for years too. I think the last time I passed by though it had been replaced by an alternative bookstore, whatever that means. Someone must have bought the Barry’s and Hob Nobs and so they could finally close.

Edit:  I never, EVER, used to misspell words, or make typos that I didn’t notice.  I don’t know what is wrong with me lately.

Hey all you google-ers out there. FYI I am not that person in Texas who also uses the name “meowhouse” and who apparently has thousands upon thousands of people angry with her for 1) running a kitten-breeding operation; and 2) selling FIP-infected kittens. THAT IS NOT ME. Yes I have cats but I live in a whole other state and I find the breeding of domesticated pets to be disgusting, and I wish it were illegal. ….. I should edit this to say that I have known some very fine purebreds whom I loved very much, but they came from people who bred 1-2 litters per year from a small number of parents. They weren’t money-making operations but done out of love for the breed and a wish to let other people experience that. But generally, there are too many homeless animals in the world to justify large-scale breeding operations.

So if you think I’m her/him, you are wrong. Keep going down the list of google results and you’ll find that other person who dares to use MY super-sekrit-disguise Internet nick.

Did you know that if your sink is clogged and you can’t find your snake, you can unbend a wire coat hanger, make a little U-shaped hook at the end, stick it down the drain, and then pull up a big disgusting slimy “thing” that will make you totally gag until you are able to fling it in the trash bin and cover it up with paper towels? Then you can go look at pictures of flowers or kittens or fluffy bunnies until the memory of that revolting grayish dripping not-completely- identifiable “thing” is blotted from your brain, so that maybe you can keep some breakfast down?

Well now you know! Don’t say I never gave you any valuable home-maintenance tips.

Nine Inch Nails pre-sale tickets for Worcester start at 5:00 PM today so nobody bother me at that time! I can’t hear you I can’t see you I don’t want to talk to you, and I plan to be “on a conference call” for the duration of my login so that nobody even thinks of interrupting me. I’d actually prefer to go to Mohegan and will hopefully get tickets for that too.

Very useful, these “conference calls.” Another good trick is to be in a real crashing-bore of a meeting and arrange with someone else outside to page you “urgently” so that you have to leave. Barring that, bring a dull pin to stick in your leg to keep yourself awake during the endless droning. It works really well.

Edit: the “conference call” was a smashing success. Two GA floor. The “special entrance” information to follow. (”Special” to me and the eleventy-million other people on the mailing list.) Mohegan pre-sale in a week.

I can’t find a copy of it online anywhere but I’m pretty sure I just saw a McDonald’s commercial in which a black man repeatedly refers to his mother as his “mammy.”   I believe he and his female companion are dining–of all the things McDonald’s sells as food–on fried chicken strips during said commercial.

Is the whole thing inappropriate and vaguely racist or is it just me?

The Apple Store is opening in Boston on Thursday. I think it’s supposed to be the largest in the world so far. I will not go, I will not go, I will not go.

Well maybe I will go just to take some pictures of other people salivating. I will keep my own spit hidden away. And I will leave Amex at home.

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I finished up some nice pictures of a singer named Jacquelyn Wells this weekend. Man it was tough to get some good ones. With a band, or a regular singer or guitarist, they tend to move around a lot. Even a singer who doesn’t play anything and is just standing there moves around to a certain extent, in between verses or in between songs at the very least. But someone playing the piano has to stay put and that makes it really hard to get something other than 200 shots of her sitting at the piano! Thankfully she was very photogenic so at least that part was easy. These are a few that I liked; the whole set is here.

I heard a very funny story yesterday. I don’t really want to publish the names of the people involved so I’ll make this a blind item just like the tabloids do, or the ones who are afraid of being sued do anyway. If you can figure out, email me and maybe you’ll win a fabulous prize!

Anyhoo, I was talking to someone about a certain song sung by a very famous musician/singer (let’s call him “Gillette Nuevo”), and my friend told me that his ex-girlfriend is also the ex-girlfriend of this other famous rock star (let’s call him “Norman Dungarees”). And some years back when they were dating, Gillette used to be hanging around with Norman (and this ex-girlfriend) all the time, and apparently he was a real prick. (Which makes me a little sad because he doesn’t seem like he would be, not that I have any firsthand knowledge of this person. Maybe he’s changed since then.) Anyway, Gillette had a cell phone, which was slightly uncommon back all those years ago, and he used to leave it lying around all the time while hanging with Norman and engaging in his aforementioned prickedness, so people nearby & about would take it and post the number all over AOL–the big chatroom pre-widespread-Internet-access phenom of the day–and Gillette would get all these nutty calls 24/7 from frantic panting girls and I think the gist of it was that he would keep changing his number but he could never stop the annoyance of the calls and it was driving him crazy trying to figure out how they kept getting his new number.

I laughed and laughed at that. Sorry but that’s funny. Passive-aggressive payback, it’s cowardly but it feels so good. Maybe his frustration about this came out in one of his depressing songs. I’ll have to listen to some with an ear to discerning the hidden meaning. See if I can hear something underneath all the background noise.

I’d assume at some point he wised up and stopped leaving his phone around.

Okay I have a marvelous prize in mind for anyone who can guess! Well not really but it will give you a triumphant feeling of satisfaction knowing you figured it out.

Update: I have received three guesses so far. It’s not Shane (god no; only guessed because I’ve mentioned him recently); Billy Idol (sneering a lot doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a prick otherwise); and Gene Simmons. The last one is a good guess but wrong. Frankly I think I’ve practically given it away already but those are very wrong, so maybe I haven’t.

Update: Elvis??? How old do you think I am? NO neither one of these people are Elvis!

Update:  Nope, not Eric Clapton and George Harrison.   The actual people are rather a bit younger.  And not English (or British).  Well one of them isn’t anyway; not sure about the other.

Edited: now with picture!

While walking down past the bus station yesterday I once again was accosted by this guy I see all the time. Before I even get to the actual point of this story, I must ask: why do people walk up to people who are OBVIOUSLY wearing iPod headphones and start talking to them? I mean, just start talking away and not take any notice whatsoever of the fact that this person has effectively blocked their ears to normal conversation? Do they not understand what headphones are? Do they think those little white (or blue, in my case) wire things hanging out from someone’s head are part of their natural body? I can see someone saying, ‘Hey, sorry, can I ask you something?” and then going on, but not to just starting talking as if there is no impediment to an immediate two-way conversation right in front of their face. It’s like walking up to a blind person with a guide dog and asking if he can help you out with directions and here is the map, can you tell me how to get to this street right here?

Anyway, this guy walks up to me, me with my obvious “don’t talk to me unless it’s important” headphones on and asks for money. I know; you are wondering how I know he was asking for money when I just said I can’t hear people who walk up to me when I’m listening to music. Well I know he was asking for money because this same guy has asked me for money about 100 times in the past year. It’s always the same story: “I just need two dollars to get the bus back to Manchester and someone stole my wallet, can you help me out?”

So. One, I know he cannot have been robbed 99 times up to yesterday and yet still hasn’t figured out that he ought to solve this problem by keeping his money in his pants. And second, *I* easily recognize this guy by this point. We’re practically old friends with all the times he’s come up to me. So WHY DOESN’T HE RECOGNIZE ME??? I don’t get it. Does he not have any memory of our previous encounters? Or does he, and he thinks *I* don’t remember him and his previous dozens of attempts to scam-sob-story money out of me? Aside from the fact that he ought to know me upside down and backwards by this time, the fact is, I have more than two feet of very noticeable red hair hanging out of my head. Very long, very red, red hair. I can see forgetting what I look like but honestly it’s pretty hard to forget my hair. It’s really long and it’s really red, okay? It’s actually a detriment to remaining anonymous in a lot of situations. (Sometimes it definitely helps things out though, don’t get me wrong.) I mean I like it a lot and wouldn’t change it but it has its downsides if I want to just blend in. I don’t understand how this guy can either not remember it and me from the week before, or think I don’t remember him and so he can just try his same old tired line again. Maybe he thinks it’s going to work one day? Maybe I’ll suddenly realize this poor young man has been stranded in Boston for a year for want of two dollars to Manchester? And feel terrible about this and so give it to him?

I keep meaning to point out to him that he’s already asked me a hundred times and I’m not going to suddenly change my position on things, but I always forget until I’m already a few steps away. Maybe he also remembers right at that moment oh right it’s that redhead lady, I keep forgetting she always turns me down.

I had the yearly luncheon today with the managing directors where we go over what is going on with the philanthropic arm and while waiting for the elevator, we were discussing how there is yet another movie being filmed outside.  Someone wondered how they are getting all these permits to shut the street down and I said I didn’t think all of the films had permits; and I have talked to some of the business owners and they told me they have not been compensated at all even though their business for the day is being blocked by snot-nosed PAs who tell people they “can’t” walk down the street.  I said that for one movie some little child probably just out of nappies had tried to tell me–order me just about–not to pass down the street–they weren’t even filming at the time–and I asked if they had a permit to close it and when he hemmed and hawed, I said, “Well I sure as fuck am walking down the street then.”  Meaning, I said that to the PA some months back and I repeated it, complete with “fuck,” to the MDs.  Three sets of that taken-aback look that you get when someone does something they shouldn’t but you really don’t know how to address it.
Whoopsie!

I was perfectly respectable for the rest of the day.  Hopefully they have all thought maybe they misheard me.

I’m planning to save up all my spam for a week or so and then write a melodious and lyrical post using only phrases from it. I’ve recently deleted it all otherwise I could begin on this chef d’œuvre right now, but my gmail is currently holding some promising possibilities from the intriguingly named Catalina Feliciano, Replica Watches, Replica Pens, Polly Sumner, Maynard Miner, and Ahmad K. Poole. Oh and then there’s one where the name is all in Korean characters but when you float the cursor over it changes to “Barry Hang.” The message is all in Korean too, except for a list of mixed Asian-Western names such as Lucy Tsing or Sophia Peng, so I can only wonder what it is that Barry wishes to cure me of, whether penile disfunction or hopeless datelessness. I bet all those names are a list of beautiful girls in my ZIP code who want to meet me. Too bad I’m not really interested in meeting girls. My loss I guess.

I went up to get some rings resized (again) and then went to get a sandwich and after leaving the shop I was putting my earphones back in. I had one in and was pulling the other one from its storage place when a man dressed in a very nice suit was coming my way, and when he passed by me he said a little under his breath, “I’ll be that earphone.” He didn’t really look straight at me that I could tell and he just kept walking, and I did one of those “WTF” things you do when someone says something you don’t understand or aren’t sure you heard right and which makes no sense in any context that can possibly rush through your head right at that moment.

Then I continued putting my other earphone in–the one I had been about to pull out when he walked by–and it hit me: said earphones had been residing down my shirt sort of in my bra and I had grabbed the second one out right when he got close to me. (Down the shirt is a handy place to keep them when you have to get them out of your ears temporarily, like I did when I was talking to the sandwich lady.) This whole exchange only took about 2 seconds to transpire but by the time I got it and started laughing the man was long gone. Well he sure had a nice suit. Armani maybe. Definitely Italian.

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I took some new gig pictures of a Boston band called A Dark In The Light and they have used them for the front page of their myspace. Here are a couple that I really like:

The rest of the set is part of my flickr page so please go and look at some so that I don’t feel like a failure with no views. You can look at others too! There’s probably something in there that would interest you. All kinds of goodies. XD

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Nine Inch Nails has provided a download to an entire new album on their site, nin.com, for free. Trent Reznor said: “Thank you for your continued and loyal support over the years–this one’s on me.” Also the pre-sale dates for their upcoming tour are posted, so if you are a fan and want to go you should sign up so that you get in on that. They’re playing at Mohegan and Worcester and I hope to go to one of those.

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Re the rings being resized: one of them I had had made smaller before but it was still a little too big, or maybe my fingers got skinnier. The other one needed to be made bigger. So I went to that jewelry repairman I discovered recently and he did both of them and wouldn’t take any money. He’s a really nice guy and if you need some jewelry fixed up, go see him. His name is Visham and he’s at The Repair Shop, 339 Washington Street, Boston, MA 02108, 617-980-9486. Call first during the summer because he might have his Gone Fishin’ sign up. He’s located inside (in the basement) of a sort-of jewelry consolidation place: it’s a long narrow store with about 10 different jewelry places inside. It (the upstairs shop, not Visham’s place) has a little bit of a … how shall I put this … a gangsta vibe to it? Not the people working there, who seem to be an assortment of average-looking men and women of various nationalities, but the jewelry on display would make Puff Daddy (before he turned into Sean Coombs again) proud. You’ve never seen so much big gaudy gold and diamonds piled on top of each other as in that place. They’ve got rings that would make the Pope ashamed at the austereness of his own. Great giant necklaces of enormous shiny stones of indeterminate origin, embossed gold emblems on chains as big as those on your snow tires, huge initials on the end of golden ropes that would prevent you from ever forgetting your name or at least what letter it starts with. So when I was leaving the repair area, I went upstairs and there was some kind of “altercation” going on between a couple of customers. (I had nothing whatsoever to do with this; I don’t always be the one who causes trouble.) A great tall man with a partially shaved head and a spike through an area of his face you’d not think a spike would fit was yelling at some other guy to “not fucking do that in here or I’ll break your fucking face.” Joy, I had to walk through this disagreement in decorum in order to leave. Which I wanted to do in case there was a shootout, but which I also did not want to do in case there was a shootout. I suppose I could have gone back downstairs. But apparently the yellee left right then and the yeller took his posse out and I followed and got far far away as fast as I could.

Shortly thereafter is when I ran into Italian Suit Man who wished to reside in dark cozy confines of my low-cut shirt.

I’m going to have to leave work early because of my knee.  The sensation of my jeans rubbing on the hideous grayish-reddish-black oozing scrape is making me ill in the stomach.  I couldn’t even get to sleep last night because of the weight of the covers on it.  And I can’t really bend the knee either so I couldn’t turn and sleep on my side and keep the covers away.  All this has left me very sleepy today.

My Internet modem chose this morning to seek the next level of nirvana, and thus I will have no Internet at home all weekend.  I’ll have to go to Starbucks and pay their thievery wireless charges unless I can find a free hotspot somewhere.  Verizon wanted to send a tech out and asked, “So they can show up sometime on Monday between 8 AM and 5 PM.  Will you be home?”  Um no I have to go to work like normal people do–and you need a 9 hour window??  So after proposing several other days, and my repeating that I generally am expected at work every day, the representative said she would just send me a new modem.  To arrive on Monday.  No I cannot pick it up somewhere so that I have it tonight.  It would make too much sense to allow that.

So I’ll be pretty much disconnected for the next three days.  Well I suppose I have a lot of work I could get done.  I still have a ton of photographs to process from some gigs I shot.  Or I could watch television.  I have a heap of magazines to get through and I have a couple of movies from Netflix that are waiting for me too.  But it’s going to be really strange living like people did, like *I* did, for the majority of my life, without a computer connection to the outside.

If my microwave and CD changer break down at the same time as this Internet thing, I may have to be briefly hospitalized from the stress.