Out = Through
A tough few days.
My father has been making me crazy. Lots of 'do this, do that," and ne'er a thank you to be heard.
And then there's work.
I know! A rare thing I'm griping about work, right?
Well, a few weeks ago, we had these meetings. Every guy in the shop, in groups of five, sat down with the vice president. He opened by explaining that his job was to be "the communicator," and these meetings were to keep the lines of communication open. We did a couple of motivational exercises, rededicating ourselves to excellence or something. Then we reviewed some copies of material obtained from the American Association of Cabinet Makers or something. Lots of stuff about productivity. And about average salaries industry-wide. I learned that I'm making ten cents more than the average hardware guy makes. And we closed with glad handing all around.
I've heard that brontosauri, with their walnut sized brains, had difficulty with sensory stimuli. (Yo! Two latinate nouns successfully rendered in the plural in one sentence!) So if you jump on the tail of a brontosaurus, it would take a few hours before the signal reached its brain and registered.
And I had a brontosaurus experience.
About a week later, I'm putting drawer slides into base cabinets when it dawns on me. What that meeting was "about" was we're not getting raises this year. By industry standards, we're already doing fine.
I ran this idea by a few of my co-workers, and the universal reply was, "No kidding, Dutch."
Now, that really burns me up. Y'see, I try really hard. I do my best to stay focused all day long, to exceed expectations, to work hard all day long, be a good guy to work with, help out co workers when I can, and when asked to go the extra yard--or seven--I'll say 'yes' if I can. And why do I do this? Wellll... because I get a lot of satisfaction out of being a good worker. But of course the other reason is I'd like recognition. And in an employment relationship, that recognition comes by way of your paycheck. So without that incentive provided... ...well, I'm pretty much being taken advantage of, huh?
Okay. So that thought has been percolating for a little while. Add to that my low grade frustrations with my dad.
So yesterday, after lunch, I went out on a service call. Our installer needed some help installing a hood. Namely, that thing with the blowers and vents that goes over a range. Service calls: always exciting! I was definitely up for it.
Well, the hood turned out to be a huge stainless steel affair. The designer was on hand, because there were some problems with the measurements: it was five inches longer than the manufacturer said it was. And at one point, the designer let it be known how much the hood costs.
The hood costs $23,000.
Now, that number sort of hit me. Y'see, the night before I had been getting stuff together to file my income taxes. In 2004, I made less than $23,000. That hood costs more than I make in a year.
Okay. So it all sort of collapsed in on me. Father, low pay, no future.
And the thought crossed my mind for the umpteenth time, "George Bush and I made the same mistake; we went in without an exit strategy."
So... what? Run away from home, maybe?
So as I was spiraling down to that dark place, a thought came to my head. I think I'll attribute this to Master Wolf, my spirit guide. The thought was, "Be where you are."
Right. Be where you are.
Today at work, I was still kinda peevish. But, it's just a solid fact that I enjoy my work. Just the business of it. Busy all day, working with my hands, seeing progress. It's good for me. Therapeutic.
And my partner and I have been having some great discussions while we work. He being a fundamentalist Christian, there are a lot of possibilities. Today, we continued to two thousand year discussion on Faith and Works. And the whole question of salvation. And what gets you into hell.
And, I'm headed to LA this weekend. Spending the weekend with Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer. I'm bringing my whip. He'll have his knives. So it should be a good weekend.
And today.
Today was the first nice day of the year. For the past couple of of nights, I've been hearing the spring peepers. The dafodils and crocuses my dad planted years ago are all coming up. And today I was outside of Starbucks in Doylestown, enjoying my latte and a cigar and the passing boys. It rocked.
Not out of it yet, but I'm getting there.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Monday, March 28, 2005
From Russia, With Liubya
See... This is why I love the Russians. Diabolique sent me the link for this. It's from the English language version of Pravda, the paper of record in the Russian Republic.
Notice the interjection of black humor at the end. Russians love black humor. Anyway, the Russians have discovered something that many (if not most) dear friends of mine have known for quite some time...
Whipping Therapy Cures Depression And Suicide Crises
03/26/2005 13:06
The effect is astounding: a patient starts seeing only bright colors in the surrounding world
Russian scientists from the city of Novosibirsk, Siberia, made a sensational report at the international conference devoted to new methods of treatment and rehabilitation in narcology. The report was called "Methods of painful impact to treat addictive behavior."
Siberian scientists believe that addiction to alcohol and narcotics, as well as depression, suicidal thoughts and psychosomatic diseases occur when an individual loses his or her interest in life. The absence of the will to live is caused with decreasing production of endorphins - the substance, which is known as the hormone of happiness. If a depressed individual receives a physical punishment, whipping that is, it will stir up endorphin receptors, activate the "production of happiness" and eventually remove depressive feelings.
Russian scientists recommend the following course of the whipping therapy: 30 sessions of 60 whips on the buttocks in every procedure. A group of drug addicts volunteered to test the new method of treatment: the results can be described as good and excellent.
Doctor of Biological Sciences, Sergei Speransky, is a very well known figure in Novosibirsk. The doctor became one of the authors of the shocking whipping therapy. The professor used the self-flagellation method to cure his own depression; he also recovered from two heart attacks with the help of physical tortures too.
"The whipping therapy becomes much more efficient when a patients receives the punishment from a person of the opposite sex. The effect is astounding: the patient starts seeing only bright colors in the surrounding world, the heartache disappears, although it will take a certain time for the buttocks to heal, of course," Sergei Speransky told the Izvestia newspaper.
The whipping therapy has not become a new discovery in the history of medicine. Tibetan monks widely used it for medical purposes too. Soviet specialists used a special method of torturing therapy at mental hospitals. They made injections of brimstone and peach oil mixture to inspire mentally unbalanced patience with a will to live. A patient would suffer from horrible pain in the body after such an injection, but he or she would change their attitude to life for the better afterwards.
"People might probably think of me as a masochist," Dr. Speransky said. "But I can assure you that I am not a classic masochist at all," he added.
The revolutionary method may take the Russian healthcare to a whole new level. The method is cheap and highly efficient, as its authors assure. Why not using something more efficient, a rack, for example?
I'll leave the link as well. Here it is. There's a swell picture of a whip accompanying the piece.
See... This is why I love the Russians. Diabolique sent me the link for this. It's from the English language version of Pravda, the paper of record in the Russian Republic.
Notice the interjection of black humor at the end. Russians love black humor. Anyway, the Russians have discovered something that many (if not most) dear friends of mine have known for quite some time...
Whipping Therapy Cures Depression And Suicide Crises
03/26/2005 13:06
The effect is astounding: a patient starts seeing only bright colors in the surrounding world
Russian scientists from the city of Novosibirsk, Siberia, made a sensational report at the international conference devoted to new methods of treatment and rehabilitation in narcology. The report was called "Methods of painful impact to treat addictive behavior."
Siberian scientists believe that addiction to alcohol and narcotics, as well as depression, suicidal thoughts and psychosomatic diseases occur when an individual loses his or her interest in life. The absence of the will to live is caused with decreasing production of endorphins - the substance, which is known as the hormone of happiness. If a depressed individual receives a physical punishment, whipping that is, it will stir up endorphin receptors, activate the "production of happiness" and eventually remove depressive feelings.
Russian scientists recommend the following course of the whipping therapy: 30 sessions of 60 whips on the buttocks in every procedure. A group of drug addicts volunteered to test the new method of treatment: the results can be described as good and excellent.
Doctor of Biological Sciences, Sergei Speransky, is a very well known figure in Novosibirsk. The doctor became one of the authors of the shocking whipping therapy. The professor used the self-flagellation method to cure his own depression; he also recovered from two heart attacks with the help of physical tortures too.
"The whipping therapy becomes much more efficient when a patients receives the punishment from a person of the opposite sex. The effect is astounding: the patient starts seeing only bright colors in the surrounding world, the heartache disappears, although it will take a certain time for the buttocks to heal, of course," Sergei Speransky told the Izvestia newspaper.
The whipping therapy has not become a new discovery in the history of medicine. Tibetan monks widely used it for medical purposes too. Soviet specialists used a special method of torturing therapy at mental hospitals. They made injections of brimstone and peach oil mixture to inspire mentally unbalanced patience with a will to live. A patient would suffer from horrible pain in the body after such an injection, but he or she would change their attitude to life for the better afterwards.
"People might probably think of me as a masochist," Dr. Speransky said. "But I can assure you that I am not a classic masochist at all," he added.
The revolutionary method may take the Russian healthcare to a whole new level. The method is cheap and highly efficient, as its authors assure. Why not using something more efficient, a rack, for example?
I'll leave the link as well. Here it is. There's a swell picture of a whip accompanying the piece.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Where's The Hammond Organ?
This weekend's movie rental was The Mod Squad. The one with Claire Danes, Omar Epps, and... uh... other people.
The reviews were really really bad. A universal pan.
Funny thing. I thought the movie was pretty much as I remember the original. Ponderous, poorly written, basically one reaction shot after another, punctuated by the occasional "Groovey!" and "Right On!". And I think the movie did it all justice.
Instead of giving the updated Pete a kinda punk/tweeker vibe, I think they should have made him a homo.
Oh. And Julie didn't get held hostage. Duh! Julie always gets held hostage.
This weekend's movie rental was The Mod Squad. The one with Claire Danes, Omar Epps, and... uh... other people.
The reviews were really really bad. A universal pan.
Funny thing. I thought the movie was pretty much as I remember the original. Ponderous, poorly written, basically one reaction shot after another, punctuated by the occasional "Groovey!" and "Right On!". And I think the movie did it all justice.
Instead of giving the updated Pete a kinda punk/tweeker vibe, I think they should have made him a homo.
Oh. And Julie didn't get held hostage. Duh! Julie always gets held hostage.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Awwww...
Y'know what I find totally endearing?
When people are saying something like "I sent you an email" or "you can do a web search," and to illustrate they hold their hands out in front of them and make typing motions.
This colossal guy at my gym did that tonight, by way of giving me information about a local personal trainer he highly recommends. Local personal trainer works out of his home, and only charges $40 per session. So I might check in. P'raps he can help me break through my 190 lb. ceiling.
But man... That typing thing.
I love that.
Y'know what I find totally endearing?
When people are saying something like "I sent you an email" or "you can do a web search," and to illustrate they hold their hands out in front of them and make typing motions.
This colossal guy at my gym did that tonight, by way of giving me information about a local personal trainer he highly recommends. Local personal trainer works out of his home, and only charges $40 per session. So I might check in. P'raps he can help me break through my 190 lb. ceiling.
But man... That typing thing.
I love that.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Ugliness
Oh man. The Terri Schaivo situation is just soooo appauling. Imagine having the President and Congress barging into your intimate business.
(Oh that's right. If you're a homo like me, they do that all the time.)
And speaking of homos, the parents' spokesman, a Roman Catholic priest, is so obviously of the "Does this pulpit make my ass look big?" variety.
Sheesh.
Which gave me an interesting thought today.
What if Pope John Paul II should suffer a stroke of some kind, become debilitated, and end up hooked up to a feeding tube for the next few decades. The Pope has made his feelings about such a situation pretty well known. ("Life is sacred...") And from what I hear, he's also made it know that popes don't retire. They go out with their silk slippers on.
Interestin'.
Oh man. The Terri Schaivo situation is just soooo appauling. Imagine having the President and Congress barging into your intimate business.
(Oh that's right. If you're a homo like me, they do that all the time.)
And speaking of homos, the parents' spokesman, a Roman Catholic priest, is so obviously of the "Does this pulpit make my ass look big?" variety.
Sheesh.
Which gave me an interesting thought today.
What if Pope John Paul II should suffer a stroke of some kind, become debilitated, and end up hooked up to a feeding tube for the next few decades. The Pope has made his feelings about such a situation pretty well known. ("Life is sacred...") And from what I hear, he's also made it know that popes don't retire. They go out with their silk slippers on.
Interestin'.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Not Hideous. Fabulous!
At work today, I was all giggly. We were working on a section of a much larger job. A huge job, in fact. This section was the cabinetry going into what simple folks call a 'bathroom.' In a vestibule of sorts in this bathroom were the two items we were assembling: the "make-up station" and the "wet bar."
Now, I thought that was a gas!
"Each morning I wake up
Take a shot as I put on my make up,
And I have a vodka tonic or two..."
Can you say, "Rich, Drunk, Homely?"
So I'm getting big laughs around the shop about the wet bar/make-up station combo. Then, I shared the news with Spray Room Girl, who is now Designer Girl, working in the front office. (Which I, in my irrepressible way, refer to as the "Big House.")
"Oh right," said Designer Girl, "She has a monk."
"'Scuse me?"
"She's totally crazy. She has a monk. She made a room in her penthouse for her monk. She brings him everywhere she goes. He advises her. He'll dangle these beads over door samples and that's how she made all her design decisions. Right now, we can't reach her because she's in Tibet."
"Wow..."
"And her place is unbelievable. In her bathroom, she has this enormous dome in the ceiling that she's having inlaid with gold leaf. And her bedroom has these three foot wide red and gold stripes. She has a flat screened tv and a fireplace in every room. Including her closet. She's given her contractor over $300,000 in change orders alone."
Oh. My. God.
Suddenly, I was seeing Mrs. Wet Bar/Make Up Station in a whole new light. A sort of rose colored hue. I mean, I was putting the hardware on cabinets for Auntie Mame!
Can't beat that!
I mean, why not? When you're sitting in your bathtub the size of an above ground pool in front of a roaring fire, what better accompaniment to chanting prayers with your saffron-robed monk than a nice Cosmo?
I wonder if the monk is a good bartender?
At work today, I was all giggly. We were working on a section of a much larger job. A huge job, in fact. This section was the cabinetry going into what simple folks call a 'bathroom.' In a vestibule of sorts in this bathroom were the two items we were assembling: the "make-up station" and the "wet bar."
Now, I thought that was a gas!
"Each morning I wake up
Take a shot as I put on my make up,
And I have a vodka tonic or two..."
Can you say, "Rich, Drunk, Homely?"
So I'm getting big laughs around the shop about the wet bar/make-up station combo. Then, I shared the news with Spray Room Girl, who is now Designer Girl, working in the front office. (Which I, in my irrepressible way, refer to as the "Big House.")
"Oh right," said Designer Girl, "She has a monk."
"'Scuse me?"
"She's totally crazy. She has a monk. She made a room in her penthouse for her monk. She brings him everywhere she goes. He advises her. He'll dangle these beads over door samples and that's how she made all her design decisions. Right now, we can't reach her because she's in Tibet."
"Wow..."
"And her place is unbelievable. In her bathroom, she has this enormous dome in the ceiling that she's having inlaid with gold leaf. And her bedroom has these three foot wide red and gold stripes. She has a flat screened tv and a fireplace in every room. Including her closet. She's given her contractor over $300,000 in change orders alone."
Oh. My. God.
Suddenly, I was seeing Mrs. Wet Bar/Make Up Station in a whole new light. A sort of rose colored hue. I mean, I was putting the hardware on cabinets for Auntie Mame!
Can't beat that!
I mean, why not? When you're sitting in your bathtub the size of an above ground pool in front of a roaring fire, what better accompaniment to chanting prayers with your saffron-robed monk than a nice Cosmo?
I wonder if the monk is a good bartender?
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Spread Your Wings, Fletcher Gull!
So today at work, Buddhist Boy comes up to me and says, "Dutch, did you ever read Jonathan Livingston Seagull?
Hit me like a ton of bricks.
Wow.
"When I was in the fourth grade, I had a Jonathan Livingston Seagull lunch box," I answered.
And I did.
I sure did read Jonathan Livingston Seagull. And it rocked my 9-year-old world.
To be sure, when I was in college, Mr. English Major/Philosophy Minor, I got all sneery about the book. (I remember in one pan it was referred to as "a cotton candy Christ for the Me Generation.") But perhaps age and experience have mellowed me.
So after work, I went to the book store in Doylestown. They didn't have JLS on the shelves, but they ordered it for me. It should be here in a couple of days.
I'm looking forward to catching up with Jonathan. Like running into an old friend.
So today at work, Buddhist Boy comes up to me and says, "Dutch, did you ever read Jonathan Livingston Seagull?
Hit me like a ton of bricks.
Wow.
"When I was in the fourth grade, I had a Jonathan Livingston Seagull lunch box," I answered.
And I did.
I sure did read Jonathan Livingston Seagull. And it rocked my 9-year-old world.
To be sure, when I was in college, Mr. English Major/Philosophy Minor, I got all sneery about the book. (I remember in one pan it was referred to as "a cotton candy Christ for the Me Generation.") But perhaps age and experience have mellowed me.
So after work, I went to the book store in Doylestown. They didn't have JLS on the shelves, but they ordered it for me. It should be here in a couple of days.
I'm looking forward to catching up with Jonathan. Like running into an old friend.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Bad Finger
Y'know what I hate?
[ *world weary sigh* No. Why don't you tell us what you hate. ]
Okay! I will!
When guys on line, mostly skinhead types, put up pics of themselves giving the camera the finger.
I hate that!
What are they trying to convey?
"Oh, check me out. I'm Mr. Badass! You don't like it? They Fck You!"
Well, y'know what? Quit it! Act your age!
I totally don't get that.
Am I supposed to be like, Oh wow! What an awesome dude! Lookit how he's giving me the finger?
Well, I'm just not.
Am I supposed to send them some witty IM along the lines of "Ya wanna?"
Well I'm not.
What I usually do is close out of the bozo's profile, and say, "Noooo, fck you!" as I do it.
Anyway.
That's a thing I hate.
Oh.
Sorry.
Maybe you were expecting some high minded posting?
Another time.
Just do me a favor? Dont' send me a pic of yourself giving the camera the finger to retaliate? Okie doke?
Y'know what I hate?
[ *world weary sigh* No. Why don't you tell us what you hate. ]
Okay! I will!
When guys on line, mostly skinhead types, put up pics of themselves giving the camera the finger.
I hate that!
What are they trying to convey?
"Oh, check me out. I'm Mr. Badass! You don't like it? They Fck You!"
Well, y'know what? Quit it! Act your age!
I totally don't get that.
Am I supposed to be like, Oh wow! What an awesome dude! Lookit how he's giving me the finger?
Well, I'm just not.
Am I supposed to send them some witty IM along the lines of "Ya wanna?"
Well I'm not.
What I usually do is close out of the bozo's profile, and say, "Noooo, fck you!" as I do it.
Anyway.
That's a thing I hate.
Oh.
Sorry.
Maybe you were expecting some high minded posting?
Another time.
Just do me a favor? Dont' send me a pic of yourself giving the camera the finger to retaliate? Okie doke?
Monday, March 07, 2005
Published!
The current president of GMSMA requested that I pose in the buff to show off my ink for that august organization's publication, Newslink.
Let's see a show of hands... How many of you thought for one second that I'd say no?
Ergo, if'n you are a member of GMSMA, more photos of me in the buff are gracing your mailbox about now.
If'n, sadly, you're not, you'll just have to track down a member to get a look at them. However, I can reprint here the text of the piece I wrote to accompany the photos. (Which, by the way, made the cover. My second Newslink cover.)
So, without further ado, I give you Tattoo Journey.
I was in college when I saw the movie La Bamba, in which Lou Diamond Phillips portrayed Richie Valens, who died in the same plane crash that ended the life of Buddy Holly. One scene in the movie that jumped out at me was when Richie/Lou wakes up after a tequila fueled night in Mexico to discover that he now has a tattoo on his right arm.
I knew right then and there I was going to get a tattoo.
Something about that seemed profoundly masculine, accepting whatever life throws at you with grace and forebearance, taking it, sucking it up. Those were qualities that the boy I was hoped the man I would become would have.
This was before tattoos hit big. None of my friends had tattoos. No movie stars had tattoos. Madonna didn’t have any tattoos. Professional athletes didn’t have tattoos. When I told people about wanting to have a tattoo, I was cautioned that it would “hold me back.” (“Before we offer you a corporate vice-presidency, Mr. Kramer, we need you to take off your shirt so we can examine your arms and torso.”)
A couple of years later, I decided enough time had gone by. I would be inked. Tattooing was still illegal in New York City, so I took a train down to Philadelphia. The plan was that I’d go out, get drunk, stumble into a tattoo parlor, stand in line with sailors and marines, and get my first tattoo. It didn’t go as planned. I found out that when the bars closed, so did the tattoo parlors. And so the deed was done not on a beery, bleary Saturday night, but on a clear and sober Sunday morning. I went in, picked a design off the wall, and an hour later walked out with my first tattoo. It was the head of a wolf, over a legend reading “Stand Alone.” The design had read “Lone Wolf,” but I thought this was a little hackneyed.
I knew then there would be more. But it took me almost fifteen years to come up with a design I could commit to. My cherry had been busted, and the next time around, I wanted it to be meaningful.
I would daydream about what images had meaning for me. For the most part, they spoke to me of things and people I love. My sister, whips, welding, words like ‘Conviction.’ And this lead me to think about love. Sweet sweet love. So much more than hearts and roses. When you open your heart to love, at the same time, you’re binding yourself to the heartache that will inevitably follow. Fervent passion grows cold. Frail creatures that we are, we break our vows and promises. Your beloved will surely sicken and die. Your heart will be broken, and the more you love, the more painful it will be. But the important thing is to make sure your heart does not grow cold. When love knocks on your door, be ready to open it and welcome love across your threshold. Especially when it’s crazy, passionate, stupid, inconvenient, and you fear it will overwhelm you completely.
At some point, I thought about Jacob Marley. In Dickens’ Christmas Carol, he was Ebenezer Scrooge’s equally miserly partner, who appears in spectral form to warn Scrooge to change his ways. In the afterlife, he is weighed down with chains, explaining that they were forged, link by link, by his stinginess in when he walked the earth.
Chains have different associations for me. After whipping, my favorite scene to do is chain bondage. I’m all thumbs with rope. The results are laughable. But something wonderful happens when I lay my chains on a man. I have over two hundred pounds at this point, and I patiently work to put them all on the helpless, struggling man who has submitted to me. There is a romance to steel chain that I just don’t find in rope.
So it would be chains. Chains of love. If love binds us all together, let those bonds be of eternal steel.
Once I found an artist to do the work--no mean feat--the journey began. I would sit in my jeep, take a few deep breaths, steel myself with a latté from the local Starbucks, and head to the studio of Joe Rose, the only tattoo artist I had met who got truly excited when he I explained what I was after. Inevitably, Joe would make me wait. Walk-ins were his bread and butter, and he couldn’t turn them away. So I’d chain smoke to calm my nerves while he inked Chinese characters onto teenagers.
The work took about fifteen sessions, stretching from May through December. During this time, I broke my ankle playing softball, whipped two wonderful men, was declared Employee of the Month at the woodshop where I work, visited San Francisco for the first time, and turned forty. Whatever was happening to me, I would come, bear whatever portion of my flesh we would be working on, and put everything else aside.
And it hurt. Oh man, did it hurt. I wanted to start at my right ankle, and end at my left wrist, but I gave Joe discretion in how we got there. If there was a sensitive part of my body that he missed, I can’t guess what it would be. My shin bone, kneecap, inner thigh, pelvis, spine, rib cage, collar bone, armpit, elbow... I started to wonder what was going on. Was the man a sadist? (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m a sadist myself.)
One night, I just couldn’t get it together. I wasn’t processing the pain. It was agony. I didn’t know if I could take it. In fact, I was sure I couldn’t. I was howling away, holding back the tears.
Joe let up on the needle. He put his hand on my chest, looked me in the eyes, and asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah I’m okay,” I answered, but not very convincingly.
Joe smiled. “You know what? You’re earning it.”
And then he went back to work.
But then and there, it all made sense to me. I was earning it. The best things in life come hard. Often at the cost of some of your blood. But a man takes it. No complaints. No whining. Just suck it up. Because you’re earning it.
And now, the journey is over. A scene that endured for eight months.
I’m really happy with the results. I’ll strip and show it off at the least provocation. And the best part is, I earned it.
The current president of GMSMA requested that I pose in the buff to show off my ink for that august organization's publication, Newslink.
Let's see a show of hands... How many of you thought for one second that I'd say no?
Ergo, if'n you are a member of GMSMA, more photos of me in the buff are gracing your mailbox about now.
If'n, sadly, you're not, you'll just have to track down a member to get a look at them. However, I can reprint here the text of the piece I wrote to accompany the photos. (Which, by the way, made the cover. My second Newslink cover.)
So, without further ado, I give you Tattoo Journey.
I was in college when I saw the movie La Bamba, in which Lou Diamond Phillips portrayed Richie Valens, who died in the same plane crash that ended the life of Buddy Holly. One scene in the movie that jumped out at me was when Richie/Lou wakes up after a tequila fueled night in Mexico to discover that he now has a tattoo on his right arm.
I knew right then and there I was going to get a tattoo.
Something about that seemed profoundly masculine, accepting whatever life throws at you with grace and forebearance, taking it, sucking it up. Those were qualities that the boy I was hoped the man I would become would have.
This was before tattoos hit big. None of my friends had tattoos. No movie stars had tattoos. Madonna didn’t have any tattoos. Professional athletes didn’t have tattoos. When I told people about wanting to have a tattoo, I was cautioned that it would “hold me back.” (“Before we offer you a corporate vice-presidency, Mr. Kramer, we need you to take off your shirt so we can examine your arms and torso.”)
A couple of years later, I decided enough time had gone by. I would be inked. Tattooing was still illegal in New York City, so I took a train down to Philadelphia. The plan was that I’d go out, get drunk, stumble into a tattoo parlor, stand in line with sailors and marines, and get my first tattoo. It didn’t go as planned. I found out that when the bars closed, so did the tattoo parlors. And so the deed was done not on a beery, bleary Saturday night, but on a clear and sober Sunday morning. I went in, picked a design off the wall, and an hour later walked out with my first tattoo. It was the head of a wolf, over a legend reading “Stand Alone.” The design had read “Lone Wolf,” but I thought this was a little hackneyed.
I knew then there would be more. But it took me almost fifteen years to come up with a design I could commit to. My cherry had been busted, and the next time around, I wanted it to be meaningful.
I would daydream about what images had meaning for me. For the most part, they spoke to me of things and people I love. My sister, whips, welding, words like ‘Conviction.’ And this lead me to think about love. Sweet sweet love. So much more than hearts and roses. When you open your heart to love, at the same time, you’re binding yourself to the heartache that will inevitably follow. Fervent passion grows cold. Frail creatures that we are, we break our vows and promises. Your beloved will surely sicken and die. Your heart will be broken, and the more you love, the more painful it will be. But the important thing is to make sure your heart does not grow cold. When love knocks on your door, be ready to open it and welcome love across your threshold. Especially when it’s crazy, passionate, stupid, inconvenient, and you fear it will overwhelm you completely.
At some point, I thought about Jacob Marley. In Dickens’ Christmas Carol, he was Ebenezer Scrooge’s equally miserly partner, who appears in spectral form to warn Scrooge to change his ways. In the afterlife, he is weighed down with chains, explaining that they were forged, link by link, by his stinginess in when he walked the earth.
Chains have different associations for me. After whipping, my favorite scene to do is chain bondage. I’m all thumbs with rope. The results are laughable. But something wonderful happens when I lay my chains on a man. I have over two hundred pounds at this point, and I patiently work to put them all on the helpless, struggling man who has submitted to me. There is a romance to steel chain that I just don’t find in rope.
So it would be chains. Chains of love. If love binds us all together, let those bonds be of eternal steel.
Once I found an artist to do the work--no mean feat--the journey began. I would sit in my jeep, take a few deep breaths, steel myself with a latté from the local Starbucks, and head to the studio of Joe Rose, the only tattoo artist I had met who got truly excited when he I explained what I was after. Inevitably, Joe would make me wait. Walk-ins were his bread and butter, and he couldn’t turn them away. So I’d chain smoke to calm my nerves while he inked Chinese characters onto teenagers.
The work took about fifteen sessions, stretching from May through December. During this time, I broke my ankle playing softball, whipped two wonderful men, was declared Employee of the Month at the woodshop where I work, visited San Francisco for the first time, and turned forty. Whatever was happening to me, I would come, bear whatever portion of my flesh we would be working on, and put everything else aside.
And it hurt. Oh man, did it hurt. I wanted to start at my right ankle, and end at my left wrist, but I gave Joe discretion in how we got there. If there was a sensitive part of my body that he missed, I can’t guess what it would be. My shin bone, kneecap, inner thigh, pelvis, spine, rib cage, collar bone, armpit, elbow... I started to wonder what was going on. Was the man a sadist? (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m a sadist myself.)
One night, I just couldn’t get it together. I wasn’t processing the pain. It was agony. I didn’t know if I could take it. In fact, I was sure I couldn’t. I was howling away, holding back the tears.
Joe let up on the needle. He put his hand on my chest, looked me in the eyes, and asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah I’m okay,” I answered, but not very convincingly.
Joe smiled. “You know what? You’re earning it.”
And then he went back to work.
But then and there, it all made sense to me. I was earning it. The best things in life come hard. Often at the cost of some of your blood. But a man takes it. No complaints. No whining. Just suck it up. Because you’re earning it.
And now, the journey is over. A scene that endured for eight months.
I’m really happy with the results. I’ll strip and show it off at the least provocation. And the best part is, I earned it.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Want
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
Want
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
...feeling weak... ...strength almost gone... ...can't resist... ...a meme
Here's a cool one from ThorNYC. It's listing ten things that I've done that you probably haven't. So here goes.
1. Savored the sublime pleasures of the Sandunovskii Banya in the heart of Moscow.
2. Stayed up all night watching a nine-hour-long CHiPS marathon on cable.
3. Crafted legislation that secured a basic level of care for New Yorkers living with HIV/AIDS and steered it to passage by the New York City Council and saw to it that Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani was forced to sign it into law.
4. Did the Wild Thing in the middle of a parking lot in dowtown Milwaukee.
5. Wore your deceased stepmother's panties to her funeral.
6. Had a really enjoyable date with a serial killer.
7. Went swimming on the Jersey shore in November and March.
8. Had all the African-American women on your block declare that yours were the best biscuits they've ever tasted.
9. Talked a priest into wearing nothing but a sarong for three days.
10. Had the privilege of owning a dog as sweet and wonderful as mine.
There. And so much more to come.
Here's a cool one from ThorNYC. It's listing ten things that I've done that you probably haven't. So here goes.
1. Savored the sublime pleasures of the Sandunovskii Banya in the heart of Moscow.
2. Stayed up all night watching a nine-hour-long CHiPS marathon on cable.
3. Crafted legislation that secured a basic level of care for New Yorkers living with HIV/AIDS and steered it to passage by the New York City Council and saw to it that Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani was forced to sign it into law.
4. Did the Wild Thing in the middle of a parking lot in dowtown Milwaukee.
5. Wore your deceased stepmother's panties to her funeral.
6. Had a really enjoyable date with a serial killer.
7. Went swimming on the Jersey shore in November and March.
8. Had all the African-American women on your block declare that yours were the best biscuits they've ever tasted.
9. Talked a priest into wearing nothing but a sarong for three days.
10. Had the privilege of owning a dog as sweet and wonderful as mine.
There. And so much more to come.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Peevish
Am I ever. I'll tell the world I'm peevish.
For one thing, I drove my stepmother's white Ford Taurus to work today. It's just so mortifying being behind the wheel of that car. Like walking into a business meeting wearing a bathing suit. (Oh. Wait. No. I've done that. And I totally pulled it off.) And of course, this is the car that left me stranded at the side of a highway on Christmas Eve with an 87 year old woman as my only passenger. That car. I hate that car.
And, talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face, I transferred none of my gear from the jeep to the Taurus. So, I didn't have a Luna Bar ("Complete Nutrition for Women... and me!") to eat at our 9:30 break, I didn't have a book to read when I got to Starbucks, and I didn't have my gym stuff with me so I could go and get out some of this frustration.
And, of course, the battery died on this car. When I stopped for gas. So luckily the sweet pup attendant gave me a jump.
Then there was Starbucks.
A very bad thing has happened at Starbucks. I suddenly realized at work today that I am dealing with yet another Psychic Vampire.
Wuzzat?
The phrase comes from Anton Lavey's Satanic Bible. I never read it, but my college roommate did. And he passed on to me the concept. Here's how they work...
You: Hey! How's it going?
PV: (mournfully, but with a brave smile) Y'know, things are pretty terrible right now?
You: Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that! What's going on?
And the litany begins. Work, relationships, health, money, whatever. And you listen. You commiserate. You give a hug.
But here's the thing. Every interaction you have with a PS, it's always the same story. And that's a story of woe. And they're all about, "gosh thank you so much for listening to all this, it really means so much to me." And you get to feel good about yourself for a little while. You were there for him or her. You're a good friend.
Y'see, psychic vampires feed on the better parts of your nature. Your empathy. Your compassion. And they will drain you dry. For them, it's all about the attention. It's the way they get people to notice them.
And yet another one has latched onto me. I guess I should have seen it coming. But I didn't. I thought the woman was just flirting with me. And so I let it be known that I was a homo. But then, she pounced. She "mentions" in a kind of off hand way, that her husband left her. That she has cancer. That she left a well paying job to pursue being an artist and it's not working out.
So now, I think I'm going to be subjected to her every blessed time I go to Starbucks.
Thank the Lord I had the foresight to Let It Be Known that I am absorbed in my book, and please don't disturb me while I'm reading.
Even The est Guy (annoying in his own right, saying things like, "Well why have you chosen to be peevish today?") knows enough not to interrupt while I'm engrossed.
But puh-leeeeze, God, c'mon... Don't take away my Starbucks.
This problem, I hope, will vanish with warm weather. When I'll be able to sit on the porch, chatting with the other blue collar guys, and smoking cigars. (Cigar smoke is to psychic vampires as garlic is to the Dracula kind.)
And, I'll hopefully have my jeep in good running order by that time, too.
Till then, I'm peevish.
Am I ever. I'll tell the world I'm peevish.
For one thing, I drove my stepmother's white Ford Taurus to work today. It's just so mortifying being behind the wheel of that car. Like walking into a business meeting wearing a bathing suit. (Oh. Wait. No. I've done that. And I totally pulled it off.) And of course, this is the car that left me stranded at the side of a highway on Christmas Eve with an 87 year old woman as my only passenger. That car. I hate that car.
And, talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face, I transferred none of my gear from the jeep to the Taurus. So, I didn't have a Luna Bar ("Complete Nutrition for Women... and me!") to eat at our 9:30 break, I didn't have a book to read when I got to Starbucks, and I didn't have my gym stuff with me so I could go and get out some of this frustration.
And, of course, the battery died on this car. When I stopped for gas. So luckily the sweet pup attendant gave me a jump.
Then there was Starbucks.
A very bad thing has happened at Starbucks. I suddenly realized at work today that I am dealing with yet another Psychic Vampire.
Wuzzat?
The phrase comes from Anton Lavey's Satanic Bible. I never read it, but my college roommate did. And he passed on to me the concept. Here's how they work...
You: Hey! How's it going?
PV: (mournfully, but with a brave smile) Y'know, things are pretty terrible right now?
You: Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that! What's going on?
And the litany begins. Work, relationships, health, money, whatever. And you listen. You commiserate. You give a hug.
But here's the thing. Every interaction you have with a PS, it's always the same story. And that's a story of woe. And they're all about, "gosh thank you so much for listening to all this, it really means so much to me." And you get to feel good about yourself for a little while. You were there for him or her. You're a good friend.
Y'see, psychic vampires feed on the better parts of your nature. Your empathy. Your compassion. And they will drain you dry. For them, it's all about the attention. It's the way they get people to notice them.
And yet another one has latched onto me. I guess I should have seen it coming. But I didn't. I thought the woman was just flirting with me. And so I let it be known that I was a homo. But then, she pounced. She "mentions" in a kind of off hand way, that her husband left her. That she has cancer. That she left a well paying job to pursue being an artist and it's not working out.
So now, I think I'm going to be subjected to her every blessed time I go to Starbucks.
Thank the Lord I had the foresight to Let It Be Known that I am absorbed in my book, and please don't disturb me while I'm reading.
Even The est Guy (annoying in his own right, saying things like, "Well why have you chosen to be peevish today?") knows enough not to interrupt while I'm engrossed.
But puh-leeeeze, God, c'mon... Don't take away my Starbucks.
This problem, I hope, will vanish with warm weather. When I'll be able to sit on the porch, chatting with the other blue collar guys, and smoking cigars. (Cigar smoke is to psychic vampires as garlic is to the Dracula kind.)
And, I'll hopefully have my jeep in good running order by that time, too.
Till then, I'm peevish.
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