The Norm of Evil

I told my neighbor once that I want to be Kathleen when I grow up. “Oh really!” He said, looking at me sideways. Though we love her, she has a reputation for being — mean. Kathleen’s old, 87, and lives two floors down from me. She never married and rides her bike everyday. I gave her the bike helmet my dad bought me fifteen years ago. I was too vain to wear it. She still uses it. She’s feisty, independent and has a foul-mouth. She’s pretty with a pixie cut, sharply-defined chin and clear eyes. Kathleen came from Ireland in the ‘50s and has a slight brogue. When I’m running to and from like most people, she’s ambling along the street with Molly Malone, the tiny dog she named after a prostitute. “Oh hurry, hurry, hurry! — It’ll be the death of you, dear!” She’ll screech after me, her way of expressing the slight she feels when “we youngins” don’t have time to shoot the shit with her.

Her voice sweeps up in cadence at the end of her biting observations. I found her “observations” at one time quaint and refreshing. “Ooohhh what a little cunt that one is!” She’d say referring to the old French woman Hélène who lived in this building. I sort of agreed with that observation, but later decided that Kathleen had too many “observations” about people and that perhaps I didn’t want to be like her. She was too damn mean.

On her way to church, she told me about the woman she took to emergency one night. “Oh, Sandee she’s ab-solutely looney tunes! I picked her up and she was dripping in jewels as if she were going to the ball – when we were just going to the fucking emergency room.” The woman happened to have just walked by. Kathleen more or less talked about her in front of her face. “That’s not nice, Kathleen,” I said.

Another time she said she hated the banality, “Have a nice day.” I told her that we could use it as a euphemism for “fuck off and die.” So then I’d see her while I was rushing in and out the way she hates and I’d say in passing “Have a nice daaay!”

Yesterday she had the sweetest demeanor. I hadn’t seen her in a while. I hugged her. I know she needs love. She just gets on my nerves with that negativity shit – to the point where I avoided her last summer. She said, “I don’t know why I’m so happy all the time now.” There was a trembling vulnerability about her. We talked. “I was even humming earlier – that’s not me — for God’s sake Sandee, I think I’m going senile!” She said. Before I finished laughing she asked if I had planned to freeze my eggs, switching the subject quickly the way old people do often because of the ticking clock. “I hate eggs,” I told her. “These eggs.” She pointed to her stomach. “Hell no. I hate kids – I mean I don’t hate kids, I just never thought I needed any,” I said. Perhaps she was advising me on the regrets of not seizing time.

As we departed, she told me that I was the second person who’d hugged her that day. Finally, she said she got a diagnosis from the doctor. She had dyscrasia, she explained. But she said she felt healthier than a horse. “I’m ill,” she said, however. She didn’t look the least bit. I told her to please call or come up anytime – she has my keys. “Get a second opinion,” I advised. She was so pretty, small and delicate, possibly the side-effect of the news. It was a definite departure from her norm of evil.

Muy Liberating

Since I have no privacy on Facebook and even in my own blog where anyone can come see what I’ve written, I can safely comment in other blogger’s comments sections, where I can say things I can’t talk about on my own fb page and in my own blog.  I need to be open in my blog and Facebook account because I’m selling a book.  It wouldn’t make sense for me to not advertise them.

But in other blogger’s comments sections, I can say I think the maintenance man’s cute and I want to sex him, or that I hate this one, and that this one stinks and has quite a large head, or that I stink because I haven’t taken a shower in four days.  It’s muy liberating to be able to do this.

So I want to give a shout out to all my lovely bloggers who have hosted my plaints in their comments.

All I need to worry about is someone super stalking me, by following all the blogs that I follow – holy shit I’d be fucked right about then.

Don’t bang it so hard

I shaved my head again.  But when listening to death metal sometimes, I think, gee, it’d be nice to have some damn hair.  I had head-banging hair a few years ago, albeit not the long, straight kind – I like saying ‘albeit’ — hehehe. The last time I went to a concert was in ’09.  I loved seeing head bangers whipping their hair around.  I got into it, and two days later – whip-lash.  I couldn’t believe it – such pain from that shit.

The cool thing about banging my head at the concert was that my hair was such that I didn’t need to keep fixing it.  It was relaxed and wavy.  There’s no affectation to banging my head because I’m possessed, I’m not doing it, the music is.

Sometimes when I’m playing chess or blogging on my computer and a song I love comes on that impels me to move around like a maniac, I have to make sure that I don’t hit my head on the edge of my desk.  It would be embarrassing to die this way or even to knock myself out.  I’m intense when I like a piece of music.  Don’t’ get me to standing up thrashing around.  It’s damn dangerous.

I’m cool with being near bald now though.  It works the same for head-banging only I don’t get hair in the eyes, nose or mouth.  While it’s sexy to have hair doing it, I never want to become a cliché.  When I went to the Obituary concert, I refused to wear all black and black eye-liner, etc.  My friend didn’t either, thank goodness.  I do like dressing that way once in a while, but subtly.  I was death metal even before I knew what it was, so I don’t have to try.  I’m born this way.  It was inevitable that I would gravitate to it.  This cute guy I knew called me ‘Rock ‘n Roll’.  I’ve also been called Tasmanian devil and a human doing (as opposed to being).  So you can see why this kind of music would appeal to me – it’s compatible to my inner-vibration and to my tendency to muse delicately on death and all of its aspects and manifestations – what the fuck did I just say?!

I realize after all these years that I should probably not try too hard to do anything because I tend to have too much concentrated energy, which causes imbalance.  If I tried to be rock ‘n roll it might not work.  Rock ‘n roll, hard rock and heavy metal led me to hardcore, and I’m still in allegiance to it.

So what I want to do generally is ride the wave.  But sometimes old habits emerge and I thrash at the waves, pulling myself under, as the common metaphor goes.  Here’s another one:  As long as I don’t bang my head too hard I won’t get whip-lash.

It’s my blog and I’ll say what I waaaant!

Ahhh…  Young people.  They’re energetic with wide eyes, velvet skin, and taste dee-licious.  They have the pabulum of hope, feeding them along a journey of dreams.

They are meant to breed then.  Their parts are unused, well-oiled, with the aroma of moss and dew.  They don’t stink.  They don’t have bad breath, seepage, fart issues – oh don’t even ask what seepage is.

Think of a new car – that new car smell with all the parts working, ready to go!  My parents married young.  My mama was seventeen.  I’ll bet my 21 year old daddy was quite the howling wolf chasing after mama.  They were healthy, creamy.

Old women having babies – more power to you.  To be fair there’s technology, but me, I’d have a heart attack running after a two year old.  I’d be dead by the time it was in junior high.

While it’s not wise for teens to breed, I believe it’s probably the time when you’ll get the most energetic and pleasant smelling mother.  I remember mama flipping around, rolling, and singing songs, everyday!  She had so much energy left over that she taught me how to read when I was just three.

We were kids together, mama, daddy, baby brother.  We all played ring around the rosies – ha!  Problem is that when my brother and I became adolescents we all had fist fights – nah just jivin’!

I think women are meant to breed at 16 – yeah I said it!  This is why they don’t smell and have so much energy.  They are rosebuds admired for their vibrant color and emollience.  And boys the same.  They are firm and smell like spearmint and fresh cut grass.  They are strong and can chase girls for 32 miles.  I know this to be true from my own experiences in the last century.  They are fiercely attracted to each other because of these qualities for the purpose of populating the planet.

I say all this to say, what?  I don’t even know.  But I’m not drunk!  My conclusion doesn’t have jack shit to do with breeding.  It’s just that — as an old woman – and this is just for, me, crazy Sandee – while I’m still horny, I don’t know if it’s meant for me to be fucking anymore.  I look fine for fifty — I’ve been hit on by a few youngsters.  But I’m in this weird stage in the past couple of days where I’m thinking sex is unnatural for me now.  Oh I’ve got stamina and I’m in shape.  But there are tingly things happening in my body and I have fibroids.  I think that nature maybe dries us out and makes us wrinkled because it’s saying your cootchie time’s up, unless you’re already married to another old person.

Please pay me no mind tonight — I’m sorry.  And in case you’re wondering – I don’t have bad breath and I don’t stink.  But I do have farting issues.

Lust, Dementia and Depends

The gnarled branches of a majestic, ancient tree with veined leaves telling tales of — shit!  I wanted to say this, poetically, like Unfettered BS or Boomie Bol in their renderings – I wanted to be classy, but I just can’t do it.  I was trying not to tell you straight up and crass the tale of ancient old ass people damned near fucking at the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale.  “Look at ‘em — look!  They do this every damn day,” my ninety year old grandma said as we were leaving the TV room.  I turn around and holy shit, these two, gray bird, lovey doveys were a gnarled intertwined, unabashed hump-fest, tonguing away, arthritic hands pawing, ripping at each other from their chairs, with their walkers just inches away I tell you.

Vantastic, I say!  I told you I wanted to recruit 90 year olds for my “outer-limits” porno movie.  Well I think I found my leads.

My first installment will be called “Lust, Dementia, Decay and Depends.”

The Vomitus of my Mind

Bloggers speak of writer’s block.  It happens, especially when you have spouses, children, mortgages, cats, dogs, ferrets, migraines, sex lives, warrants.  While I do have a job, hobbies and a social life, I don’t have that other stuff, just the occasional mouse running around my apartment that I like to feed.  Soon I anticipate more going on so who knows how often I’ll be in here.

But up ‘til now, of course the fuck I’ve been able to post regularly!  What else have I got going on…sigh…

So you are it, friends!  Until that next piece of –  I mean – until that next fine, fine person comes along – who’m I kiddn’, I’m pushing the envelope, I’m old as shit, my day is done, my coins are tossed, the jig is up, well is dried, cookies fried –

— Friends, I’ve seen it all, I’ve tasted wine, and not forgotten.  I’ve loved, I’ve lived I’ve laughed, I’ve danced the dance and tweaked my consciousness.  I’ve felt, I’ve licked, I’ve spat, I’ve chewed, I’ve ea-ten off, of every sur-face, but now, more o-d-ious, more hi-de-ous, is I just vo-mi-ted in Word Press. 

it’s nice to share pictures in the blogosphere with frieeeeeeeeeennds…

This Luddite figured out how to scan pictures into her computer – watch out now!  Oh God what’s next?  Maybe I’ll use my stagnating twitter account.

Yes they are low quality images, but you don’t mind because you understand that I am handicapped when it comes to technology.  These pictures go back between 7 and 17 years ago.  The ones on the left are a montage that I sent with my manuscript a while back because I was too cheap to spend money on a head shot — no that’s a lie — I didn’t have any goddamned money!   It might have been a mistake to send them this.   I’m quite sure it’s why they didn’t publish my work.

At the top left is me as Roy Orbison at Niagara Falls – we had a kick-ass time!  I wore those clothes everyday.

The NY State ID will be renewed in two years.  By that time, I’ll have an old lady picture to replace it.  Shit, I thought I was old then.  Bahaha!  Fuck that!  I’ll be 50 in November and I’m damn proud to be a woman of a certain age.  Bahaha!

At the bottom left is a Polaroid taken by a man on 125^th Street in Harlem.  The motherfucker just started snapping pictures of me out of the blue.  I told him to hand them over as I didn’t want my head photo shopped onto a naked body.

Me Mummy took the picture of me at bottom right in the family graveyard in Cross roads Virginia.  I’m between Grandma Z and her sister Auntie Connie.  I’d like to get my filmmaker brother out there to do a zombie movie with me as the star zombie.  It’s creepy around those parts.

[Sing along now!] It’s fun to share pictures, share pictures, share pictures, it’s nice to share pictures in the blogosphere with frieeeeeeeeeeeeeennds…

So long!

Non-nictitating Pork Sandwich

“You’re making fun of me because I’m deformed?”

“You’re trying to wink at me but your nictitating muscles aren’t functioning properly.”

“You’re a hateful person.”

“You smell of man funk covered over in cheap cologne.  But, not to worry, when you get that facial thing healed you’ll be restored to your former state of average handsomeness, and all the half-ass bitches will continue falling all over you — unless you keel over from eating too many hamburgers first.”

“You’re not a very nice person.  Not the person I used to think you were.”

“And who did you think that I was?  Someone who’d follow you to Best Western for a five minute fuck?  Frankly I think that’s all you’re worth — if that.  I think you’re a pork sandwich.”

“You stupid bitch!  Sam says you’re an alcoholic!  I can see that now — you MUST be drinking!”

“Darling I haven’t had a drink in years.  I swear you boys are such gossips.  What else did he tell you about me?”

“Do you REALLY want to know?”

“Oh brother!  I thought it was well known that I would have him wreck me anywhere, anytime, any place with any implement.  What?!”

“You really stink!”

“And you really can’t nictitate.”

Don’t get involved in other people’s fights on the bus

An old man got on the bus demanding that a woman in front, in the old people seats give up her kid’s seat for him.  “Can I have that seat?”  He said, pointing to her kid.  The bus was a can of Granadaisa Sardines.  It was hot and I stood in back of the bus, sweating like a bitch on fire.  People were still getting on the bus, squeezing past other passengers and their baggage.  People were twisting around to see what was going on.  From the back I could hear the man because he was yelling.  The woman yelled back, “No!”  “What?!”  The old man said.  “I said no!”  She said back.  He yelled even louder, “I want that seat!”

The woman wouldn’t budge, so a nice lady, who also had no business sitting in the old people seats, gave him hers.  He sat down and screamed to the nice woman who had given him her seat, “I’m sorry.  I just had to sit down.  She should have given me her seat.  I’m sorry.”  He said to the mean woman with the brat then, “You’ll get old and I hope they don’t give you a seat!”

I hate when people who have no business sitting in those seats refuse to get up when old people get on.  Jesus!  It’s printed right on the seats to please let old and handicapped people sit there.  People don’t go to charm school anymore.  They don’t have manners.

An acquaintance of mine was on the bus.  I frowned at him and pointed to the commotion. “That man’s right, those people have no business sitting there.  He’s right!  I hate that!  I hate that!”  I said.  I wagged my finger and shook my head.  I was sweaty and probably looked like a maniac.  My acquaintance’s face was red.  He seemed overwhelmed with the commotion, with the crowded bus, with the heat, with me wagging my finger at him and sweating.  I even riled myself up so much that I got an acid reflux attack.  This was fucked up because I wanted to be on time – I hate being late for work.   The only remedy for the excruciating acid reflux pain was for me to get off the bus a mile and a half before my stop to buy a bottle of water to stop the pain.  So that’s what I did.

The lesson:  I was dumb to get upset over a stranger’s conflict.  I was already imbalanced as this was supposed to be my day off, I was running late, I was uncomfortable and hot, and as usual, had slept very little.  This incident was an easy target for displaced frustration.  God forbid I should have been sitting in the front where I could have caused more of a ruckus being an instigator!

So in the sunlight of the spirit I forgive the stupid bitch who was a peasant raised by wolves.  The poor thing just didn’t know any better.  What does a wolf know?  I should accept people’s shortcomings like the bible says — judge not lest ye be judged – something like this.  She probably didn’t go to charm school.  I didn’t either, but I didn’t have to.  I read “How to Win Friends and Influence People,” which has stuff about manners and what not in there.

Twittering for Luddites

I’m one of these.  If not for my father telling me to “get with the program” in 1987, I never would have gotten an answering machine.  My dear totally-my-hero-Dad from beyond the grave even had power to force me to get with the program.  After his death in 2003, I was forced to get call waiting, years after it had been introduced to the public.   After his death so many people called, and at that same time I was looking for a job, so I couldn’t have my lines tied up.  So, from beyond the grave, my Daddy forced me to “get with the program,” and get call waiting.   Think I’m bad? Yesterday, I swear, I talked to a lady who still has a rotary phone.

So here we are in 2012, and I’m finally blogging, way after the idea of blogging began. But fuck that twattering, what is it — that twittering bullshit.  I find this blogging medium serves just as well for twittering:  that time of month. so hungry, want sugar, fuck food!

Follow me.