America's Passed Time

Is it apple pie ?  Or Chevrolet ?  I always get confused.  There seems to be a bit of the baseball around as of late, and I have had a (poor man's) ringside  seat (or is that in boxing ?).       My little black and white 14 inch with the rabbit ears has been tuned to the local channel where "my" team is a big deal.  I have enjoyed watching them with the professional sports savvy and keen eye of the expert.  I wonder about baseball's infancy : what was Abner Doubleday thinking ?  Okay, here's some piles of cloth bundling that we scatter around this open field and then here's a stick and a much smaller ball.  One guy throws it, one chap hits with the actual stick , this guy runs and slides, this other fellow catches it.  What about the fatter men with big Hannibal Lecter masks and dark suits ?  There is major squatting and an inordinate amount of spitting (really - who has that much saliva, especially in the days of eschewing actual mouth cancer and swapping the Copenhagen for a wad of Bazooka... ).     Unbeknownst to even me, the radio broadcast of my local team seems to be a very distinct and ingrained part of my upbringing.  Even 40 years later, I swear it actually sounds like the very same announcer.  He must be, like, 112 years old.  I have realized that the sound of the Giants on the radio is a bit soothing to me, almost hypnotic.  My sister, Aunt, does not recall it the same way, which adds to our theory that everything and nothing are happening at the same  time.  Once served up, slices of childhood are so different for each...child.        I have terms running through my head, with the sound of the crowd in the background : high and inside, he was caught looking,  runs/hits/errors, benches cleared (new, an instant favorite), the one-two pitch, full count, it's a pitcher's game, the go-ahead run is on first, RBI,  check swing (a fave), slider, tying run on second,  the change-up pitch, 3 up/3 down, swing and a miss, he's outta there.  Don't get me started on groin pulls (does that ever happen to women ?)  And "bye bye baby", the ultimate old Giants call.  I also very much enjoy "the bags are loaded" ' (rich old ladies always come to mind, like Missus Howell on Gilligan's Island).  I tend to say that the bags are loaded even when there are "no men on".  I love any mention of the bags.     Baseball has been very very good to me.  Actually, that's a lie, but I like to say it in a vaguely Dominican accent.  Baseball is not like any other sport : the spitting (come on, already with that noise), the chewing (that old bitch of a Phillies coach chewed his gum so much and so cow-like , it damn near RUINED the National Anthem for me one night....old bitch...), the testicular adjustments (and constant re-adjustments - the ball handling is over the top), the tugging of the shirt sleeves at bat, the appearance of their butts (some are quite nice, most look pudgy and lumpy - I think it's the uniforms.)   For Christ's sake, they wear belts - so civilized...debonair.  It's kind of like firefighters-vs-cops - the former are more likely to be handsome and fit.  The latter, more bloated and Republican.  Baseball playahs = cute, football players = kinda gross.  I'm just saying.  Football offers a sometimes tighter butt, but you are left to wonder if they are commando under the skintight slacks... I prefer the mystery of baseball pants.  More women like (love) baseball than any other traditionally "male" sport.  It's the boys.  Football has too much bad press - men zoned out on the couch all Sunday long... piles of grunting fatties laying simultaneously on one ball...unseemly.         Baseball is so much more appealing, somehow.  My 88 year old mother is a Giants fan - is giddy over the Pennant - and is likely gearing up right now for Game One.  Baseball is right.  We get it, we like it, it makes its own kind of sense. It's the boys.  Imagine someone spitting and nut-fondling while in a mad chewing frenzy on, say, a golf course or something.  They'd lock his ass right up !  And with good reason.  We love our Giants.  I assume they love us, too.  Orange and Black : it's not just for Halloween anymore.           "Fear the Beard" Wilson,  Pablo "The Panda" Sandoval  Cody Effing Ross - say what ?   And, a moment of awed silence for our own, kinda freaky but so cute Tim "Fuck Yeah !" Lincecum.... Fuck yeah.

Fill 'Er Up, Then

So,

    I go to gas up on 19th and Santiago (which, at $2.99 is a steal compared to 29th and Taraval at a whopping $3.17 -don't they think we shop around ? )  I used to gas at the latter, as I could get Mentos for .79 - but Target (not Coscto, as you might assume) has the best Mentos price at .49.  Word.

   So I pull up behind some teeny tiny woman in a big-ass truck who seems to be buying gasoline for the first time.   How cute.  I can wait - I prefer to pull to the front pump and let someone pull behind me - it's more efficient - I don't cotton to gas pump leap-frog.

   Tiny Woman can't hardly reach the gas cap, and when she does, she does not seem to know what to make of it.  She swipes her card 12 times and looks confused.  She wrestles the nozzle (2 hands !) into the deal, and it slips out a couple of times.   Clank clank.  I give a hopefully-friendly shrug to the vehicle behind me "hey, do you see this, too ?"  She hits pay dirt, and fusses endlessly trying to "lock" the nozzle in place.  (Myself, I prefer to hold onto it manually and lean against the car casually like a teenaged boy filling up his Mustang with a packa smokes rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve.  Uber-causal.  I figure that gas pumping is a singular activity -  just do it.   You don't need to involve any other part of your life : pump the gas.  Don't catch up on correspondence or make sweet love to your Blackberry : pump the gas.  Plus, I like to play with the pump toward the end and see if I can get it to stop on a random number of my choice.

     I start to fiddle with my car - trying to figure out whether the peeling shit on the side is paint or fossilized rubber.  Suddenly, our Little Gas Gal pulls the nozzle out of her mega-truck -  still locked in place !  My hand to God - she wields that thing like an actual garden hose and she's spraying all of the neighborhood kids during a heat wave !  She fucking-well sprays the entire joint with GASOLINE.  It's like BP in the Gulf all over again.  This will go on for months - and I have a ringside seat !   I need to call Obama !

     I give her a look that I hope says a mix of "you've got to be kidding, look what you've done now, and I've never seen anything so pathetic in all of my 50 years on the planet".  She goes to  "explain" it to the Kiosk Worker - and I sidle through and say "$22 on #3, please."  I scurry (I am now pulled in front of the offshore-drilling site, and want to get out before the whole place blows) and (not for the first time, I've done this before, unlike some) prepare to pump my gas.  It gives me 25 cents worth, and shuts off.  I sputter, and assume that The Spill has shut down all pumping stations.  In the tri-state area.  I scurry (again) back to the Kiosk, where the Worker is overwhelmed and talking in 2 languages.  She surveys the spill ("..oooh, lady - that so much !") - runs to get buckets of absorbent pelleting, and orange cones.  Meanwhile, I stand at pump #3 while my $22 is registered in Pump #4.

    All I really wanted was a few gallons of goddamned gas.  I want service, dude. Harried Bilingual tells me "..I cannot - can you drive to #4 ?"  Yes, I can - but my gas cap is on the wrong side, so I it takes some maneuvering.  What's this ?  While I am turning the car all about, some old man just pulled into #4 where my money waits to be spun into gas ! 

    I approach his car - he looks wary.  I wave and try to look non-threatening - no dice.  I mime rolling down the window.  He has electric ones - so I mime pushing the window button.   After seeing that my threat level to him is a yellow, I explain the situation to, and he mumbles about "..the price of petrol", and backs up.

      I fill up, and go to get my change - and tell everyone in line what has occurred and that it is her first time ever pumping gas.  I allude to the place blowing shy high...  Then, the Kiosk Clerk (clearly "off book" on this one, and completely addled) asks ME (the obvious Fire Marshall in the group) : "Do you think if she starts up her car it will blow up because of all the gas ?"  I feel like the captain of a ship : all lives depend on me and my lightning-fast decision.  I say : "you're asking me ?  They call it an "ignition" for a reason : I suggest you ask a firefighter, not a customer."

          I just wanted a few gallons of the petrol.

Gullible - Moi ?

     So, I had a text-versation with my sainted sister, Aunt, yesterday morning that went a little something like this :
 Aunt : Everyone born before Jesus is in hell.
 Trudy : Really ?
 Trudy : Even Mary and Joseph ??
 Aunt :  And anne.
 Trudy :  Shit
 Aunt : They're fucked.
 Trudy : Does God know about this ?
 Aunt : Stephen Hawking needs 2 tell god and mary.
 Trudy : Oh - is this all his idea ?  Genius punk...

   So, now I am a bit irritated with Stephen Hawking.  Can't he stop yapping about the "big questions" for  just 5 seconds ?  We get it - your brain is as big as all outdoors.  Does this mean you can just willy-nilly damn entire generations to Hell ?  Seriously.  Get a job.
   Never one to let a potential rumor let too much grass grow under it, I am quite ready to start spreading this one.  I can see the headlines now : "Hawking Hastens Hordes to Hades !"  "Go To Hell - Oops, Too Late",  "Genius Gets Greedy - Gathers Generations For Gehenna !" .  You get the point.  This shit is SO on.   Fucking Hawking.  
    I don't know whether to head to The Internets, the cellular unit, the land line, smoke signals, hastily-crafted banners, letters to the editor...   As luck would have it, my day's plans are...redirected with a follow-up call from Aunt.  I immediately launch into my Hawking Rant, ready to skewer his smarter-than-thou prissy little attitude.  (Ed. note : Chief does a great imitation of Stephen Hawking asking a clown to twist him up a giraffe balloon animal.  Don't ask.  But it is magic.)
      Aunt then tells me this new rumor is, in fact, not true.  I deflate like an actual balloon (animal).  Can I count on nothing in this world ?   Is death and taxes it ?   I feel a steely resolve - I'm going to run it up the flagpole anyway - thousands out there are ready to salute anything.  (Just like a recent blurb on Perez Hilton that said that Lady GaGa's "Telephone" was actually first performed  by The Beatles - live filmed proof !  I urged Sparky to think, girl, think : cell phones and texting were not the typical Beatle experience.  But it's on Perez !!)
    Apparently, Aunt was watching TV, and blended 2 things together :  a) 30 Rock contained a song that  suggested that anyone born before Jesus is, in fact, is experiencing eternal damnation as we speak and b) there was a show on about Stephen Hawking.   Voila !  Stephen Hawking said that everyone born before Jesus is in hell.  (It's just arbitrary and punishing enough to actually be Catholic.)
   Cocky bastard (Hawking, not Jesus).
  I am now kind of disappointed, because I was really getting attached to this particular rumor.  It had legs.  We spread rumors like wildfire in my house - sometimes, one quick cycle around the dinner table results in the most absurd (but believable !) things.  Speed of light doesn't even touch it.  I guess, secretly, I love making stuff up and seeing who buys it.  You'd be surprised : the undisputed and reigning champ of this is the Older Daughter, Missy.  I get her each and every time.  Her most-often uttered word around me is "wait - really?"
   So Aunt tells me "you're so gullible !"  I am taken aback - : gullible - moi ?  I think not.  I am old and hardened and wizened and cranky and street-wise and salty -  I am not the one that's born every minute.  I always assumed that one had to get up pretty early in the morning to fool Trudy.   Then, I started to recall other times when I might have been considered "gullible", and only came up with two (2).  The first time shouldn't count, because I was just a kid and why would my Daddy lie to me : to wit, we had big steaks for dinner one night.  We were an Irish-Catholic family of 8,  and any dalliance with the higher-level beef was usually prefaced with "let company have the meat first."  My Mom used to lie to the butcher when she bought 7 pounds of hamburger to get us through a week of dinners by saying, eyes-rolling : "...oh, those darned teen-age parties..."
     So, Daddy is asked about the provenance of The Steaks, and he says "they fell off the back of a truck".  Immediately, my little-girl mind started clicking and whirring.  How cool that must have been !  What are the odds ?  I pictured drop-dead gorgeous steaks wrapped neatly (by a swarthy Italian man in a blood-spattered white apron) in pink butcher paper, plopping off the back of (I guess) a steak truck right in front of my Dad on the way home from work.  Then, he jumps out of his car, scoops this booty up, and comes home to feed his family.  A real  hunter/gatherer scenario.  Steak never tasted so good.  Meat with a story.
       UPDATE : there is no such thing as steaks that fall off the back of a truck.  I just found this out VERY RECENTLY when someone on TV referred to stolen or ill-gotten things as having "fallen off the back of a truck".  My whole life passed before my eyes, and I automatically questioned every supposed "reality" of the past 40 years.  Whaddya mean The Steak didn't fall off the back of a truck ?  This was one of my most treasured childhood memories !  Now, it is dust.  Stolen dust.  What the hell ?
My foundations, such as they are, have been shaken to their very core.  I am untethered, afloat, aimless.
My life is meaningless (er).
    The other supposedly "gullible" thing I can think of is when I believed Chief when he told me that his wedding ring (his father's) was especially meaningful because his father's first wife was named "Trudy".  She died tragically young, as the good are purported to do.  Again - what are the odds ?  I was so touched ...in the head !   I knew Chief and his family a full 10 years prior to our Union - knew everything about them and theirs.  Including that fact that there was no first wife, let alone one with my name.
     Life is a shell game, and there is bullshit under each shell.

Knee Deep in the Hoopla (aka Plumbing Redux ) 6/11/10

Goddammit.
   It is SO my life that the reality-defying BLACK SAND incident from yesterday seems like so much small change.  I long for dunes of BLACK SAND, at this point in time... the foolish man built his house upon the sand...
     So, today, we find our heroine dropping Sparky off for various and sundry fun and picnics (after DRESSING her re: she thinks that painting her nails just as she is getting ready to leave the house is an exercise in good timing "okay, now can you dig my bus fare out of my front pocket for me ?"  Sure, whatever - what shall I do next ?  Just pop a goddamned M&M in my mouth, and I'm good to go...
    Well, what I do next is have an innocent tinkle in the loo (The BLACK SAND Room).  I notice a characteristically slow flush, and am not too concerned.  Our unit is  razor-sensitive to even minuscule changes in barometric pressure, so we are very careful wif our bid-nass.  Looks like one of The Girls (their goddamned specialty) has clogged the bastard and not bothered to mention it to any goddamned person who can use a fecking plunger.  Goddammit.  Okay - after it re-fills a tad, I will plunge the actual depths.  Whatever.
     As I consider lunching, I hear a louder-than-usual watery noise emanating from The BLACK SAND Room.  Still not concerned : in addition to the Touchy Toilet, we have a leak in The Sink (new since yesterday !) , so I attribute the racket to the 2 (two) leaky fixtures.  Okay, okay - whatever (again and always "whatever" works best for me at this juncture of my ridiculous life.)  Let me see here...
     OH MY GOD !!  The BLACK SAND Room (no exaggeration) is 4 INCHES DEEP IN COURSING WATER !!  Coursing.  It doesn't really hit me (see "whatever") until I see that the carpeting in the hall is also soaked through.  And duck-squishy.  Oh my my...I instantly shut the bitch down, and frantically apply toweling, rugs, and dirty laundry to the Great Lake.   I am still not considering calling a plumber - such is my madness.  (And, NO - we NEVER call the landlord, much to my mother's disbelief.  The man is a nosy old bitch, and has only raised our rent $100 since 1986 : 'nuff said.  Okay, think think think..
     My "thinking" is interrupted by my own hysterical shouting as I race down to the basement.   Of course, it is leaking MADLY in the basement, what with rising things converging and all.   I frantically look for a lance or a spear so that I can puncture the ceiling as it buckles under The Weight of Water.
 I hate my life.  So I have just permanently damaged the fecking ceiling in the basement by insanely poking a hole in it as it begins to crumble and collapse on my tender head.   Can I get a "Goddammit "?
(All together now : "What. Ever.")  A basement that is now filled with water, and I am thisclose to not giving a shit.  About anything.  Ever again.
       Okay : chuck the spear and head back upstairs. I now have a good 5 foot stack (no lie) of towels and rugs and sopping clothing in the shower : I figure the shower is supposed to be wet, so I should be okay for now.  Plus, I just let the case of toilet paper and the bag of feminine protection products just stay put on the damned (ocean) floor - soak this up, bitches !  I made the mistake, however of "storing" 3 beach towels in the sink to use later on the hallway carpet puddling.  Oops - they just soaked up the sink leak !
      I do, however, possess some much-needed perspective : our plumbing problems go way back...we used to have the guy (Master Plumbing -  I call him The Pipe Whisperer - the best SF plumber you're not using) out here at lest 6 or 7 times a year to address....the flood of raw sewage in the basement.  (Aside : why always "raw" sewage - would you rather "cooked" ?)  Pipeage in SF (at least around these parts) contains (not copper) pipes in the sidewalk which are surrounded by ancient clay pipes, and then actual (black ?) sand gets in between these two (2) types of piping and then there is shit next to the washing machine.  The actual bottom line involves digging up the sidewalk, replacing the pipes with something from at least the last century, and not living on the edge all the damned time.  (Shit in the street - the City's fault, shit anywhere from the house to the curb, my fault.)  The BIG BIG fix here would also involve totally re-wiring the joint - we don't even have circuit breakers.  PG&E has labeled the domicile "a real hotbox".  Label this, you heartless killers...   (Plus, the leaky windows and the BLACK mold.)
     Aww, now I'm just being a whiny baby.  What else do you expect from someone who is wearing no pants (had to rip them off and throw them on the flood) and sitting at the computer DURING a household crisis ?  Shit - I've already speared the fecking ceiling - what else do you want from me ?
     I now feel a mixture of destructive, apathetic, violent, spent, sad, horrified, numb, - and just so totally over it.  Soulless, disgusted, fat (I guess The Flood of 2010 will be my cardio workout for the day), appalled, defeated, and sleepy.  Shocked, irritated, avoidant, and crazy.

         As ever.

Black Sink Moan (aka Choices) (6/10/10)

Okay, here's the situation.
   I awaken this morning to a bathroom sink with a wee-sized plunger on the rim.  Imagine my horror (as in "horror movie") when I see that the entire sink is lined an inch thick with BLACK SAND.  Yes, BLACK SAND, like on the beaches of Hawaii or something.
    I ask Sparky - "So what's with the BLACK SAND ?"  She doesn't even look up, and says : "I dunno, but the toilet works." (The same mental process she used when, at age 2 or 3, someone had the temerity to ask "Where does Santa live ?".  Her answer : "The North Pole, but I like Spikey better." (her cousin, Spike)  Teachers among you will know how high level this type of thinking is for that age...no one ever dared to ask a Baby Sparky a simple question like "Where's Sparky's nose ?" - she found it ridiculous, even as an infant.
    So, off to The Internets to research and come up with a BLACK SAND Plan that doesn't cost a visit from the christing plumber.  I have to refine my search (much like BLACK SAND beaches themselves) - for I am not interested in a fancy black sink or other sandy references.    Aha !!  Could it be a lifetime of eerily-morphed toothpaste, hair (s), and other sink effluvia ?  I try boiling water (after shoveling out pailsful of the BLACK SAND).  You guessed it : I now have a sink full of boiling water and the remnants of the BLACK SAND.
     Next stop is the Liquid Plumber store - historically cheaper than a human plumber, believe me.  I whap a couple a bottles of the drain hooch down the sink, and shut the door.  Here's hoping it works, as it is apparently time to move on to another issue not involving BLACK SAND.  Whew.... I think.
    You see, it seems as if Sparky is taking an online Trigonometry class this summer (huh ?), and it requires a browser or some noise that we don't have.  We have the "antiquated, Mom.." "Tiger", and need "Snow Leopard".  But : we are not allowed to...skip an animal, so we cannot add Snow Leopard to Tiger without first having "Leopard".  I know, right ?   We head out to the Apple Store after making an appointment at The Genius Bar (second time this week - don't ask, won't tell). We make the usual arrangements : Sparky photographs and unhooks the computer and puts it into a little tote bag.   I swear (as is customary) to not say a word at The Genius Bar, and go so far as to say that I'll pretend I don't speak English while we are in the store.  This is the only way I can get her to go with me to Apple for anything.  (You give birth to them and then they peck your eyes out...)
     We arrive at a bustling Apple Hub, the...core of said Apple being the afore-mentioned Genius Bar.  And I wonder why no one at my house is a Mac Genius  - Sparky is the closest so far.  (So, now I want a doctor, a physical therapist, a salad chef, an archivist, and a Mac Genius on board here in the house.)
  Our name comes up, and Sparky strides to The Bar, Mini-Mac in hand.  I trail behind her, trying to look sheepish and foreign - but mostly I think I skew a bit retarded.  She outlines the issue at hand, and The Genius looks (and acts) as if our computer is so old  (like, 5 years ?) that it is akin to doing math on an abacus or using 2 cans and a length of string for a cell phone.  What. Ever. Genius. Boy.
      We then receive the....BLACK SAND of computer assessments : your machine is so old, can you please just take it away before we call security.  Steve Jobs is on his way right now to laugh at you both. Ours is "the last in a generation" to not have "intel inside" (you just hummed the tune, didn't you.  I did too...at The Bar).  Not only will Snow Leopard not load ever, but don't even ask about Regular Leopard.
  Remembering that animal-skipping is n/a,  where to turn now ?  Shike.  Sparky then wonders aloud about...FIrefox (what the fuck happened to the felines ?)  but it may be a (gak) "Windows" product.
      This is where my English kicks in : "No Windows !!  Ever !  I don't even have windows in my
 house ! We can't see out !"  So, Sunny (no lie) our Genius, starts to surfin' the 'net and finds me  a USED MacPack browser, for, like a million dollars.  (My budget is  minus $100.)   As if.  I then start perspiring and fanning myself, and loudly question him about other animals : "...so, if we end up getting a new computer, how do I know that you're not going to surprise us with a Puma or and Ocelot or a Cheetah or a Black Panther (think Huey Newton - I was) in a few years, and we'll be back to square one ?!"   He informs me : no, Snow Leopard is "it".  I am nonplussed as hell : is he actually guaranteeing me that the buck stops at Snow Leopard ?  Mac - who makes an international incident and raises the alert level past orange for each and every upgrade is now just....stopping ?  Is Sunny high ?  I can't ask, as Sparky is chastising me with her eyes - I have forgotten that I am not supposed to speak English, and now must speak no more.  I guess.
       Feh.  The Choice now being Sparky's class requirements or a working sink.  I'm going for the sink.  Talk about Sophie's Choice... We have a semi-functional kitchen sink.  How did our forebears function when their second sink went out ?  We can so do this.  But I guess I better torch and blast and wash the dirty dishes therein - especially if we are to be spitting toothpaste and whatnot in there.  (What's that they say about a dog's mouth being cleaner than a kitchen sink ?  Or something.  I'd like to know why "dog's mouth" and "clean" even appear in the same sentence, when all the grimy bastards do is lap at their balls around the clock...)
    We Sanderses are good at...compromise in place of repairs.  Cheaper, easier, more clever.  To wit : our kitchen light is out (like, "electrician out"), so we simply dragged a living room light in there.  It  stands next to our toaster, and Bob's our uncle.   Broken doorbell ?   Telephone us or stand in the street and scream - there's more than one way to gain entry...   Who needs professionals ?  We have our wits.
      Then, Sparky points out that "if we just get a brand new computer, I bet of all of this Leopard Nonsense comes with it."  And actual monkeys might fly out of my butt.
       So, to all of you homeowners, renters, boarders, citizens of the world ,  I ask you : have you ever experienced (or even heard of) the BLACK SAND problem ?  If so, please let me know your findings ASAP and possible remedies that don't involve a plumber or a naturalist.

Chinese Cabs and Pub Crawls (9/07)

Disclaimer : I have no actual knowledge of any taxicab system in my city - legal or otherwise.  I have a rich imagination and a crowded head.  That is all.

      God bless the Irish - and He has, many times over.  Chinese Cabs and pub crawls seem to go hand in hand.  This is another thing that my beloved Irish community has taught me - the mysterious world of Chinese Cabs (CC) in SF.  It is amazing to me, and just indicative of how life is like...oh, I dunno..."Horton Hears a Who ".  You remember that puffball that Horton had and it was...nothing.  Just a puffball.  But, microscopically, there was, like, and entire universe thriving and shouting on it.  Close by me now, I see over 16 pounds of jelly beans (long story) and mounds of (clean) laundry and slouching bodies and the flickering shadows of some TV show which I felt like I had to publicly denounce to the offspring before settling in to watch with them.  Elsewhere in the world, simultaneously,  people are doing any number of odd things. Like riding in  Chinese Cab.
    In my dotage (or in an ongoing and relentless acid flashback) I think a lot about (don't laugh) living on an actual planet.  Like, I'll be driving around and think "Hey - all of this shit is happening on a planet in the universe and who are we to think there's nothing else and how do you just....put all of this on a "planet" ?  I know - totally high, right ?  Must be a case of early-onset something.  The other day, my sister Aunt watched something on the History Channel about alternate universes and she had to take to her bed at the very thought...
     So, I first learned of the existence of CC at a neighborhood Irish bar. I remember the night : we had just lost a key football game to our rivals (biggest/oldest high school rivalry west of the Mississippi), I was sick with a wicked cold, and had slinked (slunk ?) into my jammies and onto the couch.   My dear pal Lynnie O'Casey calls me, says she wants an evening away from hubby and the kids - meet me for a drink !   No way, says I - pajamas is the deal breaker, from which there is no return.  Or so I thought.  .Lynnie whimpered - and promised me the miracle of hot whiskey.  Off I braved.  What are friends for ?
      The pub is hopping.  Good thing I got dressed.  Lynnie's handsome rogue of a brother Billy  (a string of slightly-tipsy broken-hearted lassies follows behind our Billy) was present on this out-of-jammies night.  I then met 2 (two) men who are now two (2) of my favourite Irish boys in the world.  Long story unfortunately short - they put on a comedy show (aka a simple conversation) that I would have paid to see : the Irish are truly and unequivocally the funniest people to walk the planet..  I was awe-struck as they played off of one another with comedic brilliance this writer has never seen.
   Most assuredly, I did sip me hot whiskey (a new treat !).  I sweated like I never did, and instantly felt (drunk) better.  We stood outside the bar, my core body temperature hovering somewhere just over 600 degrees by this point. plus, Lynnie smokes, so we went out to lean against the bar and watch public transportation clank on by.  Classy dames.  I then notice a row of cars double-parked outside of the bar.
Lexuses (Lexi ?), high-end  Hondas.  BMW's.  Each car has an Asian guy with rolled-up shirtsleeves, leaning, smoking.  Lynnie says : "It's just the Chinese Cabs."  I stare at her.  Then, my two funny lads come outside.  I ask them about this situation, and they say (say this in your head in the thickest, most lilting Irish brogue you can muster) "Shore, and ye've nivver haired'a the Choinese Cabs, then ?  Gurl, are ye  feckin' livin' in loife ?!"
   I guess I' m not living in life, me buckos.  Live and learn, they call it  .CC is reportedly an illegal taxi system in town.  It used to be "$5 anywhere".   Now, it can be "$10 and up anywhere".  They love the Irish bars in town, it seems - and all of the inebriated Irishmen bound out of the bars and hop in, calling each and every Chinese driver "Patrick".  The CC's stay off of the main streets.  If the cops stop you, you are just friends. The cab drivers ask very few, if any, questions, and are a phone call away.  (On this particular night, there was multi-cultural tension in the air, as a CC driver had recently been shot and killed.)    Yikes.
     So, we set off on an actual pub crawl recently to celebrate a couple of Lynnie's sisters' birthdays (she has 11 siblings).  We all park near another Irish pub on the avenue for a road beer and to regroup.   (ed. note - it has to be beer on an evening like this - beer being more of a "distance drink".  Cocktails (or "high-balls" as me old Dad used to say) would make for a much shorter crawl.)  There are 5 of us present, and we ask the bartender to call us a cab so we can begin The Crawl in a timely manner.   She, of course, calls a Chinese Cab - and I am beyond excited that I get to ride in one !  I feel like Margaret Mead !  I am as giddy as a little school girl.  Never mind that the entire CC network knows all of the O'Casey  family by name.  We are so in.
   "Patrick" shows up in a Mercedes, and we all pile in.  There is a big guy in front, and me and Lynnie and 2 sisters are inexplicably crammed in the back - giggling and fussing and hanging over the front seat.
We then stop to collect another 2  O'Casey  sisters.  We ask the driver his name, and he replies "Licky".  I ask and ask, as I am aware of a possible speech pattern that doesn't aptly distinguish between the "R" and "L" sounds.  At the end of my giggling interrogation, I decide that his name really IS Licky.  Licky.  I don't inquire as to a surname at this point.
      We pile 2 more into the Cab (but how?) and guess what ?  Licky cannot drive to save his ever-loving soul.  He is positively ridonkulous. Plus, his insistence on back roads and side streets is irritating to all (7) of us.  As is his constant screaming in Chinese on his cell phone (likely more calls for cabs).  At one point, we have the emergency vehicle from hell right on our asses - and Licky is noticeably unruffled.  We then all begin screaming at him at the same time : "LICKY !!  For Christ's sake - pull this motherfucker over !!  Pull over !  To the right !  In America, it's to THE RIGHT !" (ed. note - we weren't being culturally insensitive here - the man actually started to pull to the left.  As if.)
     The Lickster is clueless and looks at us all with an indescribable expression.  Shit, dude.  You're the one running an illegal taxi service and going out of your way to ferry drunken Irishmen - you made your fecking bed, now drive in it !  And, while you're at it, pull this bitch over !
     Licky gets us to our destination Downtown in one piece - where the Crawl then starts in earnest.  It's crowded as fuck - and I think "Gah - I ain't 25 anymore - get these people offa me !"  Who is present, but a man who works at my kids' high school.  Talk about when world collide...  I introduce myself and inform him that what happens on the Pub Crawl, stays on the Pub Crawl.  I am hoping this stays true.
    Actually, I only make it to one more bar before I am ready to cease crawling.  Lightweight.  This new bar has a better jukebox (and a 10 foot Yeti) and we get there early enough to commandeer the rear of the establishment.  I am loath to buy a "round" - as there is now a well-worn cocktail napkin being passed around with about 16 scrawled drink orders on it.  Feh.   I have had my fill, I suppose, and I call Chief and suggest that he come and get me - I ain't doing a Chinese Cab by myself.  Licky notwithstanding.  My long-suffering Chief shows up at the Yeti bar, and calls me from outside.  It has apparently, unbeknownst to the loud party in the rear, become so crowded that no one else is being admitted.  We then all begin to scream hysterically, waving our cell phones and drinks until they relent and admit Chief.  He gains entry, and it is only his height that helps me to identify him.  Oh happy day.
    The evening may be over, but my education continues.  Unabated.
              Just another night in the town in a Chinese Cab.
                     Are ye feckin' livin' in loife ?

Why Always Me ?

  I have been told, over the years and by reliable sources, that "your life is so weird" and "how does this stuff always happen to you ?"  To that, all I can say is "I know" and "I don't know".
   I was talking to my dear sister and lifeline, Aunt, on the phone today, and I was forced to exclaim : "Shit - there's a big-ass Raggedy Ann outside my house !"  I spoke the truth : there, indeed WAS a Big Ass Raggedy Ann outside of my house, and Aunt commented on my weird life.
     I hopped to my post in the front window, and Raggedy (formerly alone) was being joined by women with parasols, old ladies in the irritating "purple hats" (just grow old gracefully and take off the fucking hat already).  A sea of pink, an ambulance, a cute table (initially, I almost ran across the street to stand in line as I was sure they were giving away those twisty newfangled CFL light bulbs...always thinking) and no less than 8 Porta-Potties (which Chief and I went to investigate last night under cloak of darkness).  Suddenly, a (CFL) lightbulb went off : must be a breast cancer event of some variety. That explains the potties, but doesn't quite explain the huge Raggedy Ann.  We're talking a large figure, either sex, full-on red clown wig (don't get me started) and a costume that is very authentic.
    Raggedy seems to be a greeter of sorts, a touchpoint, if you will.  And I will.  People are posing with Ann and everything.  I am thisclose to going over there to sniff around, but feel I would be disingenuous and work against finding The Cure if I am just a looky-loo.  Pinkly-clad femmes stream into the parking lot across the street.  It is a festive time.  Suddenly, I hear loud electronic crackling (what - losing more brain cells ?).  It is Raggedy Ann on a bullhorn and HE is shouting some instructions to the gathered.  Not getting enough undivided attention, I guess, (never mind the outfit) he then shouts : "Hey - don't ignore me - I have a bullhorn !  There's someone here in a leg cast !"   He then says : "Okay, everybody, let's give a big hand to Jessica !"  Before I realized it, I was standing in my living room, clapping for Jessica.  What the hell is wrong with me ?
  Is it me ?  Because sometimes it is.  I just feel like if there is weirdness out there, it will find me.  I am a freak magnet.  The planets line up just to confuse and surprise me.  There is so much more - the unicycle parade outside my house, the man covered in jelly on the L Taraval, calling the police for a 5150 escort for a dangerous mental patient (yes, Trudy used to be a therapist - insert gasp here) - and having a christing COP ON A HORSE show up for back-up, having an asshole bike messenger planted firmly under my front tire on Fell Street (sweet !), drunken strangers pissing their pants while talking to me...
Seriously, I could go on.  And on.  And likely will.
      Watch this space.  Things move pretty fast around here *.

*Also a movie quote.

Yo' Esse (2/08)

Or, for you English teachers -  yo', essay.
     It seems as if I have inadvertently joined a gang, and wanted to let you know in case you see me wif my homeys and I have to diss you to keep you safe.
    It was on Valentine's Day, and I was at my local Walgreen's, looking for love in all the wrong places. The very first thing I see is a card-carrying Norteno (or is he a Sureno - I'm still not sure what I've become...) .
He is walking up and down each aisle,  repeatedly pounding a Wiffle bat in the palm of his hand.  Y'know,  kind of like you would palm a bat semi-menacingly right before you pound someone straight into the ground...
     So, I swear : he is in each and every aisle, just walking and pounding.  He is also wearing a not-entirely unattractive (brand new !) hooded sweatshirt (insert pun re: hood wearing a hoodie here) with marijuana leaves (at least what I can glean from Google images and old "Reefer Madness" clips) in all colors of the rainbow.  I currently figure to be dead soon, and hope for at least a fighting chance, what with it only being a Wiffle bat.  Regardless of whether or not he's currently hopped up on the goofball - my ass is going down.  Downtown.  Lowdown.  To Chinatown.
    I then happen upon an acquaintance, and as we pass the time in the card aisle, speaking of costly cards, I part with "well, you can always make one."  Yo, dawg  - then my gang-banger friend looks intently at me and says : "Did you just say MAKE one !?   D'you think she'd like that ?"
OhGodohGodohGod, sir.  I said whatever you wanted to hear.   I have kids. I was active in the grape boycott.  I found a published photo of a deceased Che Guevara to be oddly attractive (aside: I really did... gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "dead sexy".)
    After I peed myself, I then went on to instruct him re: the making of a home-made Valentine, and even demonstrated how to make the perfect heart out of colored construction paper.  We went over it enough until I was sure he could go home (y) and make one without me.  This lesson will run on Telemundo during next week's "Sabado Gigante" - SAP setting, Espanol.   (Afterwards, Chief, my watchful mate, thinks I'm gonna get offed because "..what self-respecting gun-moll doesn't want bling and stuff ?!"  Plus, just teaching a gang member to fold and cut hearts : apparently dangerous.)
     So then I assure my new chum that womenfolk are virtually helpless in the face of a home-made anything.  My new pal then asks me if I think he should insert a poem : this, from a man who 5 minutes ago was going to beat me with a Wiffle bat until the gray matter showed.
Oh !  Bravo for a poem, says I .  Spot on !  So then he gets all reverent, actually closes his eyes, and says  "..every time I try to tell you, the words just come out wrong...".  Well, other than it sounding exactly like a Jim Croce song, I told him it was just beautiful.  He's all : "Y'think so ?  I just heard it on the
 radio !"  Let's hear it for Walgreen's Muzak and those it has inspired.
     We reviewed the hearts one more time  (each one, teach one), and then he clutches my arm (with some pressure, I might add) and says, dead serious : "If you ever need any help, you just come to me.  For ANYTHING.  Any time."   (But however will I contact him ?  Like a Batman sginal, only shine a cutout of a bandana or a bottle of Hennessey in the night sky ?)
     So, it seems to me that I am now a gang member - lucky enough to be "in" with an installation that did not involve homicide or other felonious acts of loyalty to da mean streets and its denizens (aka me).  I am holding on (tight) to this one gang favor for just the right time.  Or is that like saving money and then the world will end and I will have all this useless money, frantically casting about for a place to redeem this useless Gang Favor ?
    I'm thinking I should just act totally reckless (er)  in my day-to-day activities - knowing that I have full gang protection.  Kind of like those old ads where you have Cream of Wheat for breakfast, and then the steaming bowl follows you around all day long.  I am untouchable.
     That's how it feels.  Like I belong.  Like someone cares......or loves me.  When The Man is getting me down, I can roll (with) my own.  They understand me.  When things are crazy at home and at school and everyone's on my case.  I know there's some guys who will always be there for me.  Goddamn.
     It feels like....well, teen spirit.  Wait - that's what it smells like.    It feels like home.