morewords

may 8, 2007

Carl

It's a sad day to realize at practically 30 years of age I
am not responsible enough for the the care and feeding of
a goldfish.

I want a pet. Preferrably a puppy, but I'm never home and
that wouldn't be fair to the puppy. Much to my mother's
horror, I've sought alternatives such as rabbits or
possibly a tarantula. You can have a tarantula FedExed to
your house and they come in colors like pink! Sadly, I
wasn't too keen on having a bog in my apartment and having
to feed it crickets.

Begrudingly I conceded that a fish would suffice for the
pet emptiness that hanuts me. Although you can't
necessarily pet a fish or take it for a walk, it is alive,
it swims, and I could probably tell it all my woes. Plus
fish seem sort of soothing. I even picked out a name for
my would be fish.

Carl.

I scampered off to Petco eager to introduce Carl to my
world. The really cool fish with moustaches were really
expensive and required complex accessories. In my mind,
Carl is a no-frills fish. All I want is a bowl and a fish.
Perhaps a toy scuba man to keep him company while I'm away
at work.

I locate the Betta fish which seem to match my needs. The
selection is colorful, but it's not exactly a species that
I would consider spry. I read the instructions on the
starter bowl. Not only would I have to feed Carl in
carefully measured amounts on certain days, but I would
also have to keep him away from direct sunlight and
regulate his water to simulate the gentle seas of the
Carribean. This is much too much for me.

Essentially, Carl's life is in my hands, and I will most
likely inadvertantly kill him within 24 hours. I couldn't
live with such guilt. Fish have souls. It's like when I
took Snip Jr. on a walk around the corner to the office
supply store. Too many variables could occur. None of it
good. What if she only looked one way when crossing the
street? It's just too much responsibility.

I left Carl on his little Betta fish display. I'm
sacrificing my happiness for the greater good that he
lives a long and fulfilling life. It's the right thing to
do. Maybe I'll try again in a couple of weeks.

june 5, 2007

Real Men Don't Wear Pinky Rings

I'm reasonably attractive, allegedly mentally stable,
unmarried, and childless. Because Of these factors, I tend
to attract a certain kind of man. Not the ones considered
good-looking, successful, and personable, but rather the
ones who are balding, portly, and way past their prime. A
legend in their own mind if you will.

These past couple of days have brought me to Las Vegas for a
very decidedly non-Vegas vacation. I'm alone. There's an
expense account. However, it's just not as fun as one might
imagine it to be. There's work to be done and responsibility
at ungodly early hours. Any Vegas visitor knows that there's
no sun in Vegas especially the ones that engage in behavior
that is required to remain only in the state of Nevada. It's
not sleeping all day and partying all night that keeps me
away from the sun, but good old fashioned work at the
convetion center.

The hair, nail, and spa people are in town and god damn
it...they need toothpaste! At least that's what I'm being
paid to tell them. After 27 hours of manning the booth and
giving my perky spiel about a whiter, brighter smile, I'm
ready to call it quits and indulge in my last decadent
dinner. A man in an ill-fitting suit approaches me and
inquires about the toothpaste. I give him a sample and the
lowdown and expect him to move along. Instead he lingers
near my table and calls me by my first name. Even though I'm
wearing a name badge, it is still quite jarring to have a
complete stranger refer to me by my first name. I don't like
it. He asks perfunctory questions about the products and
company history. I politely answer him, and he continues to
disturb me by taking incredibly long awkward pauses in
between his queries. It's definitely odd. I try not to judge
a book by it's cover. He could be the sale of the century.
One never knows.

The portly man in the ill-fitting pin stripe suit complete
with a wash and wear dress shirt and an ugly striped tie
that was obviously a christmas or birthday present, now
begins to flaunt his fabulousness. Between more long
silences, he tells me that he is an entertainment lawyer
with top notch celebrity clients in LA by way of New York.
Just so you know and I know, he represents everyone in
Hollywood and has a very crazy life. Very intense. So why is
this attorney at a spa trade show in Las Vegas?

The long pauses continue until he reiterates that he is an
entertainment lawyer that handles all the celebs.
Including....Steven Seagall! Now I don't know about you, but
when I think celebrity a pudgy 2-bit has been that can't say
"syphillis" without lisping, fallen martial art star isn't
exactly the first person that comes to mind. This man has no
idea that I've had a sit down conversation with Bono, so
obviously talking to the man who represents the flailing
career of the star of "Under Seige" doesn't exactly get me
all hot and bothered.

This man is offically Cree-Pee! He still attempts to
maintain the slight air of purchasing mass quantities of
toothpaste, but I think he has ulterior motives. I think it
was the "I'm the type of guy your mother warned me about"
shattered the professional mystique. To really cap off this
horrifying five minutes of my day, I glance down and notice
his incredibly tacky blue plastice pinky ring with a picture
of either the Virgin Mary or some other patron saint etched
inside. Classy! If you're going to wear a pinky ring at
least have it pimped and sparkly. this just means that Eric
Jerome Dickey was right. He writes in "Cheaters" that "a man
who wears a pinky ring is a man you should stay far far away
from.

Except if you're Joe Pesci. Joe Pesci knows how to wear a
pinky ring.

august 7, 2007

my friend james

To paraphrase Amy Winehouse, "They tried to shut down
this story, but I said No! No! No!"

This weekend my employment adventures brought me to San
Francisco. Why? Because we promised you a Mercedes Benz
that's why. For those not in the know, Mercedes Benz
has come out with a new C drive model. To launch this
new car, Mercedes is embarking on a huge 10 city tour
complete with marketing partners like the pricey
toothpaste I hawk and the W hotels. Since I make
toothpaste sexy, I helped kick off the first event in
San Francisco.

It may sound incredibly exciting, but the reality is
it's rather tedious and exhausting. Imagine spending 12
hours in a room listening to the same presentation over
and over again by a man who is much too perky for his
own good.

Knowing that 12 hours of my Saturday will be spent in a
production studio rather than being out and about in
the Bay area fills me with a sense of dread and
despair. Anyone involved with the inner workings of the
event shares the mutual feeling. Misery loves company
so bonds are quickly formed.

Immediately I learn the importance of making friends
with the caterer. It's not the VIPs at this event that
are worth knowing. It's the ones who give you first
dibs on the beef tenderloin canapes and access to the
backroom with all the really good food and warm
chocolate chip cookies.

I am friendly to all the worker bees, and every so
often one will pass by my table for a brief chat or
grumble about how long the day is. One seemingly
middle-aged, ponytailed, Native American with a rather
snarky edge and an "I don't give a shit" attitude
reminded me of the tearing Indian in that old 70's PSA
about littering except this dude was a little bitter
but still friendly enough.

Saturday came and went, and Sunday was another 12 hour
day. The Miele cappucino machine experienced technical
difficulties, and there was a 20 minute wait for
coffee. My new ponytailed friend was going on a coffee
run and offered to bring me back a cup. He returned
with a venti Americano, and I was the envy of the
entire coffee-less gallery room. Once again it pays to
smile.

My ponytailed friend's visits to my area increase.
Since he always has a fun comment or complaint I
welcome the company. Little by little as the day wore
on, my friend would reveal small snippets of his life
including a meeting with Ladybird Johnson and a brief
stint as a bartender out in Alameda. These little
stories help to pass the time ever so slightly. He
continued to speak about random things like helping out
one of his co-workers, owning an oil well, his distaste
for the word "dude". and how a six month stint in
Alaska can reap $65,000. I was mildly curious and
admired his work ethic.Hard work pays off. The drawback
is that it usually requires, you know, hard work and
lots of it.

He went on about the pros and cons of Alaska. As an
aside, if one is looking for a husband, Alaska is prime
land for animal husbandry. Anyway, his work in Alaska
is quite intesnse, and he's never been able to bring a
partner along with him because his friends and
associates are not up for the job. See the
pre-requisite is the correct response to one simple
question.

"Could you kill someone if you had to?"

It's not enough for the answer to be yes. It has to be
an immediate, unequivcal, instantaneous yes. I fail the
test.

My new friend also mentions how he's working on his
second book which impresses me greatly. I imagine all
the perspective Mercedes Benz buyers who have walked
through the room silently scoffing at the lowly
janitor. It just proves you should never judge a book
by its cover. Since I support all my friends in their
artistic endeavors, I ask the title so I could click on
Amazon. He would only reveal that it's quite graphic,
so I naturally assume it's some nasty smut a la "Dirty
Anal Kelly" that I'll have to make a mental note to ask
the Porn Guy about once I return home. I was wrong. The
book is about the criminal mind of pedophilia, child
rape, and other unspeakable acts.

The day is long and busy. I turn on the charm as I
smile and hand out my toothpaste samples while mentally
counting the hours left until I can crash in my room. I
was pre-occupied with my dreams of room service that my
new friend's revelations are the farthest from my mind.
The day is a blur between the drama of Tony the
mechanic and the theft of the Sirius radio baseball
hats. Fiji water is also a sponsor at this event, so I
also amuse myself by testing how many bottles of water
I can drink in a day. I managed about 8.

Finally, the end of the day draws near. My ponytailed
friend returns to engage me in one final chat. He tells
me some more colorful stories, and I remark that he's
led quite the life. He agrees and offers me his address
to keep in touch. I dig for a pen and paper.

As he starts to write his information down, I inquire
again about his first book. He still refuses to give me
the title because its candid, graphic nature he feels
is not appropriate for women and young adults. I hold
my tongue as he continues on about his interest in the
criminal mind.

Charles Mason he reveals is not only amazing but a
friend as they spent quality time together back on the
compound. He drops some more select tidbits about
serving 7 years in San Qunetin with a good chunk of
them on Death Row. He emphasizes about his intense
problem with authority. Words escape me, so I simply
smile and agree. I can't quite tell if he's full of
shit or the real deal.

Something tells me this is for real. It's not his beady
eyes or articulated manner, but his teeth. These are
the teeth of someone who's lived life and killed many a
man in the most torturous way possible. Some teeth are
missing. Others are sharp, jagged and overlapping. It's
apparent when one has a thirst for blood that regular
dental checkups are not a priority. These are the teeth
that once made an appearance on an episode of Law &
Order SVU.

As our conversation draws to a close, and he finishes
his siloquoy of how the Zodiac Killer is his hero for
his 30 year murderous crime spree and never being
caught. I realize that I've spent about 26 hours
working along side this man, and I have no clue what
his name is. Nor does he know mine. Formal
introductions never took place.

He interrupts my thoughts by handing me back my pad
with his name and address. My mysterious friend's name
is revelaed to be James.

Or is it?

He mentions how he never gives out his real name. The
mail goes to the same address regardless of his
location, but the names on the letters are always
different. Why? Only because the FBI may still be
looking for him. We shake hands and exchange pleasant
goodbyes.

And that's the tale of my friend James.

Truth or fiction?

He never did find out my name.

august 28, 2007

Petty Thievery

His name was Ernie. The minute our eyes locked from across the crowded
room, I knew instantly I would make him mine. I was well aware that he
was already spoken for, but I just didn't care. I felt a force stronger
than anything I had ever experienced. It felt so right. It didn't
matter if his place was currently with another. I don't know if it was
his piercing dark eyes or his snappy outfit. Perhaps it was his uncanny
devotion to pigeons. I just knew we were meant to be together.

I knew my timing had to be perfect. If anyone caught on to my scheme
they would click their tongues with disapproval. I knew better than
that. It was all about the timing. I waited patiently until it was just
the two of us alone together in the same room. Like a cheetah on the
hunt for prey, I pounced into action. I stuffed little Nico Torres'
doll of Ernie from Sesame Street into my tiny backpack and never looked
back. Thus began my sporadic kleptomania of insignificant items.

The Ernie incident happened at age 16. By 17 I moved on to more
practical items like that small bottle of Tabasco sauce from the Ft.
Lee Diner. Damn shame that bouncer confiscated it at that rave. It
certainly came in handy during my shish kabob phase.

As the years have gone by, my petty thievery collection has continued
to grow. A brick, a domino from a horrible Cuban restaurant, an ashtray
from a London hotel, a decorative stone from the $3000 a night
Presidential suite at the W Times Square hotel, a rock from the Howe
Caverns gift shop, a lifetime supply of Fiji water that had to be left
behind because of the airline restrictions, and probably a few others
that I can't remember.

I have no defense or an explanation as to why. It just happens. If it
is small, incredibly insignificant and will never be missed, these
petty objects just happen to find their way into my apartment. Crazy!
Well, everyone has their little quirks. This just happens to be mine.
Rest assured if I am invited over, I will not run off with your
favorite spatula. It doesn't work like that.