Oblivion and *penis

I saw my friend outside of the bar, taking a break from drinking to smoke cigarettes.  I hadn’t seen him in a while.

‘Hey you.  You drinking these days?’  He says.

‘Nah,’ I told him.

We used to stay in the bar until daylight — what a waste of time.  We even ate our dinner at the bar counter.

My friend’s an ex-cop.  He’s pretty tough.  He looked out for me when we drank together, way back when you could smoke in bars.

‘You were so bad ass,’ I said when I saw him.  When I got drunk he’d bring me home and be a gentleman about it.  At some point we were “romantically” involved.  Some “romantic involvement” I remember, some I don’t.  Shame.  But anyway — I miss that lifestyle when I want to glamorize it, because I’m an asshole.  It was pathetic, going around in circles, obsessed with drinking.

I wasn’t there to experience what should have been good times because I’d be drunk, blacked out.  Sorry to be a drama queen, but I’m lucky I got away from it with my life.

This video from the movie Shamus reminded me of then.  I would be in the Burt Reynolds’ role, minus the penis and mustache – though, sometimes I think it’d be nice to have a penis.

By posting the video, maybe I am glamorizing the lifestyle, because Burt Reynolds is a sexy bastard, but when I actually imagine myself in this position, it’s sad – especially when it happens more than once.  Like, grow the hell up!

After a night of cavorting, Shamus gets up — no shower — just puts his funky ass clothes back on…ah, memories.  Check out the way he looks at the shoe – haha!

* “PENIS” was just a cheap trick to get your attention I’m afraid. 

Angst and Evolution

Armageddon was pretty uneventful this year — other than the fact that I’m suffering from the need of an apicoectomy.  That’s a dental procedure.  It hurts like holy hell, which is why I didn’t get it when I was supposed to.  That’s why I’m in trouble now for waiting so long.

So…happy Armageddon to me — know what’m sayin’?  At least I got to listen to our favorite Armageddon holiday song .  It’s really hardcore, so only those who are interested in adding it to their holiday selection, please, enjoy:

As expected on this holiday of Armageddon, I experienced a small degree of existential angst, which I’d say wasn’t eventful.  That’s what this day’s about anyway.  Angst comes, and she goes — that’s what they told me in Harlem Hospital the day I was born.  It was during the Welcome-to-the-World speech that they gave to all the newborns back in 1962 – haha!

Harlem Hospital used to be the best place to go for gun shot wounds because they happened with frequency then.  So they were better prepared for it.  Harlem was very different during that period.

Ever see Cotton Comes to Harlem?  Well, that’d give you an idea.  Maybe.  My mom grew up there, not far from Frankie Lymon of Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers.  My dad lived on Convent Avenue, though he wasn’t born and raised in Harlem like my mother.

The Harlem area was originally inhabited by the Manhattan Native people.  The Dutch came later and called it Haarlem (Haaaaaaahhhhrlem!).  Fast forward to the Great Migration when Blacks came there from the south, then there was the Harlem Renaissance era.  My grandparents migrated to Harlem from the south during the later period of migration.  The depressed era in Harlem happened after the Renaissance.

Now the era in Harlem is the one that’s too rich for me to live in!  Haha!  You should see some of those brownstones, they’re palaces.  Nothing stays the same in this world.  Not even me.

I’ve come out of my angst to a period of excitement and wide possibilities.  See how that worked?  Evolution.  Cool.

No mama, I don’t want to go to hell!

Does anyone know if I could have unwittingly made a pact with the devil by singing a snippet of a refrain in a death metal song produced by Satanists?  I just wondered.

Quite a few years back I bought albums by Deicide and Morbid Angel.  A few years later, I was influenced by what people said about vibrations and such, bad ones, so I got superstitious and threw them away.  And silly me I didn’t know they were Satanists.

On my Pandora radio station the few songs they play by Satanists I really like.  Without me knowing who the artists are at first — if I hear the song from another room, I’m thinking wow that song’s tight!  And it turns out to be devil worshippers.  I guess that’s the way the devil works — his shit is always tight.  For those who don’t know, he’s all about appearances and the corporeal.

I’m not a devil worshipper.  I happen to have an unconventional relationship with God–it’s personal.  I’m an observer of life and all its elements.  I like to face them.  When I was nine I wrote a story examining the mystery of death and God and Satan.  This is just me.

They had this monk in Italy who sang metal.  He was old as shit too.  Reminded me of me.

So I don’t like the devil.  I just hoped I didn’t make an unwitting pact because I sang to this Deicide song that has a very infectious chorus.  I’ll bet most people would have a hard time not singing this one.  The chorus sounds like little demons waving their hands to and fro in the air while singing.  It’s so cute.  I used to do my leg lifts to it before I threw it out.  But it comes on my Pandora from time to time.  I still sing the chorus though.  I guess I realize in the back of my mind that if I had made a pact with the devil, my life would be a hell of a lot better than this.  Doesn’t the devil give you everything you want?  Hahaha!

Buck Wild

I get buck wild, telling you the things that one should not tell.  The things I blab about people find embarrassing, disgraceful even – or just maybe they’re simply discreet and self-respecting.  Hey, I’m just an open person.  It isn’t about showing off or about me thinking I’m unique because my experiences aren’t unusual.  I’m just stupid enough to run my mouth in public – all I ask is that you respect that.  People may think that I have no shame.

Oh but yes I do.  There are few things that even I wouldn’t open up my big fat mouth for — now, now – that isn’t nice.  These things are very few.  Since I tell you in my blog what’s going on with me, and now I can’t, I have to speak around this issue as it’s therapeutic – ha – for me, and hopefully it inspires a twinge of mystery — ha ha ha!

Just wish me luck on my journey into hell.  Thank you.

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The Life

My father and I went to a funeral where the minister berated us.  He told us all that we only came to church for funerals and holidays.  He shouted bible passages at us and said little about the dearly departed.  My father sat two rows behind me.  I had floated around saying hello to people and was sitting next to a long-lost cousin when the service started.  Did the…minister just say that we were going to…hell?  I had to look back to see dad’s reaction.  He raised a brow in suppressed glee with a hint of a smile.  I looked back again and saw him gleaming.

I didn’t cry at my father’s funeral. At my father’s funeral there was just a headshot of him that my step mother blew up.  Dad had been cremated.  The life behind his eyes leapt out at us from the photo.

People got up to pay tribute to dad — one advertised his business between the tribute.  Why not pitch a sale to all of the grieving potential customers?  I looked at dad’s gleaming eyes in the photo and stifled laughter.  What would dad say to this?  Dad had a sly sense of humor but would also have compassion for the absurd need of this poor soul.

I also don’t know how he would have liked the song that a lady from the church had sung.  For my taste it was too sweet and generic.  But as you know I’m a weirdo.   I looked at dad’s picture during the song.  While he would have appreciated it, he gleamed impishly at me from the photo.   I would have chosen “Spill the Wine” by Eric Burdon and War.  The fantastical lyrics remind me of him.  The group also had a grimy sensibility like my dad.  My sister cried during this lady’s sentimental song.  My sister and I were the first ones out of the church after the funeral.  “I can’t be-lieve you cried during that song,” I said.  She looked at me with her tear-streaked face and we burst out laughing, standing at the top of the church steps.

While dad was in a coma I cried walking down the street – in the middle of talking to people.  I always thought that if my father died, I would just drop dead.  How would I live?  No one would ever love me like this again.  I used to hear him in my inner-ear while he was still alive, just calling “Sandee.  Sandee.”  There was a black hole now.

I had prayed while he was in a coma.  I guess it worked because after the initial mourning, I felt spiritually revitalized.  They say people born under the sign of Scorpio experience renewal upon death.  Interesting, because it happened to me.  Aside from that, one day the thought came to me, If dad died, it can’t be a bad thing.

The Power of Christ Compels You!

Inspired by Sara and La La, I wanted to share hope, in my case about being older and in possession of myself.  But I’d rather talk about when I was possessed.

Yesterday I snarled at people if I didn’t like their looks or if they looked at me too long.  It wasn’t me.  It was Satan.  Just as I was about to post on the glory of goodness he took possession.  That’s how he rolls.  Satan battled God for the soul of The Sword-Chinned Bitch.

I insulted people’s looks OUT LOUD and giggled like a troll.  Oh, my!  What a big round head you have, hehehehehe!  How unfortunate, hehehehe!  Showing ass crack on a Saturday afternoon.  Splendiferous!  What a nasty view of cellulite you’ve just given me — tehehehe.  I enjoyed it ever so much.  I wanted that speeding motorcycle to explode into the wall.  I wished hard for it to happen. I grinned imagining the carnage. If I wasn’t snarling, I giggled at the evil things that I had said.  I tried to unsnarl my face but it didn’t work.  This isn’t my normal behavior; my head usually doesn’t spin 360 degrees.

To age is fine, but, there are hormonal side effects that kick in especially when you don’t get sleep.

In the Exorcist, priests throw holy water on the possessed girl and chant fervently “The power of Christ compels you!”  By the bye, I’ve done this to wild coworkers and it does calm them. I went home, took a bath in holy water and now I’m back to my old Sword-Chinned Bitchedy goodness — hallelujah!  The demon has left the building, and I’ve got some pretty damn good holy things to tell you!

Holly Golightly and Sandee Godarkly Go to Hell

Truman Capote’s Holly Golightly had the ‘mean reds’, which sounds like a bitch!  The mean reds was like having the blues, but they were red, and mean.  That’s really fucked up!  Having the mean reds must be like you’re actually in hell!

I didn’t have the mean reds.  I had, what — the toasted teals, the burnt burgundies, the peach pits.  This was two weeks ago and I’m glad to be on the other side, sort of. It was hormonally induced but it was based on real issues.

While the funk is ebbing out, I’m suffering from the tail end of it.  Getting a bad hair style from my hairdresser was not something that should have happened at this time. I’m so full of shit — ‘Years ago, this would really have been monumental.  But I’m more mature now’, I told people.  ‘It’s only hair,’ I said.  Bullshit!  This morning after washing my hair, I cried.  Yes, I cried.  I hate my hair!!!!  Can’t I have anything on this planet!??!!!

What I imagined making me feel better was drinking a bottle of Jack Daniels and watching Henry:  A Portrait of a Serial Killer.  My grandma would tell me to count my blessings and get over it.  Grandma, you’re the best!  You know, she’s right.  So I’ll just watch the movie sober and count my blessings — here they are two blessings:

My blessings:

1. Mme. Weebles is very thoughtful.  Knowing how much cake means to me, she gave me the picture of a cake that she made for my sidebar.  This made me happy.  I love the pink frosting to balance off the white frosting on the other two cakes up there.  Mme. Weebles is the best!
2. I got compliments on my hair today and I think they were genuine, and not just to make me feel better about looking like Ronald McDonald on crack.

That’s all folks!

The 7th Circle of Hell

 

I’m the one who should be relegated to the 9^th circle of hell — oh, I meant the 7^th circle.  This region of hell is for those who perpetrate violence against old people.  After two days of tirade against the old lady who charges me with forcing her down a flight of steps with my help, I have shed my defenses.  I went through the stages of feelings and came out on the other end, which includes the understanding of where she might be coming from.  This means putting myself in her shoes (orthopedic).  She’s merely being proactive, yes, in gathering information regarding this farce.  No?  Well, God forbid, some slowly developing crack in her ass should develop as we both landed on our asses when we fell – no, no, another crack — I assume that she has one crack already.  This would be very expensive to repair.  So she might have to sue the organization for medical coverage.  Yeah, that’s, it probably.

Seriously, I hope she’s okay.  It can be dangerous to fall when you’re old.  A lot of old people go rapidly down hill after falling – oh God I’m scared now.  What if she, should…  A-anyway, this incident was educational.  I learned about the dangers of helping a stranger, and I learned how my own self-centered fear had me imagining this poor woman in a boiling pot of oil.

Mama’s Getting Fat

I must cut back on cake.  Maybe I’ll start eating Cumberland Sausages like Dotty Head Banger.  The jeans that I buy that flatter an old woman’s shape can only work but so much to do the trick…

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I would be visiting my lovely sister and her family in MA tomorrow.  They are not Luddites like me.  They have a nice modern camera.  I want them to take pictures of me so that I can see truthfully how big my ass is.

There’s a strange mechanism in the brain that clicks in when you’re at home.  The mechanism is for survival.  It controls the image in your mirror at home, displaying you in a way that’s not so fat, so that you feel more confident when you go outside.  But in the bathroom at work, you look in the full length mirror and say, “What the hell is this shit?!”

This has been a vain post by Sandee Harris.

The Properties of a Buffoon

 

I wonder.  Does a person go to hell for laughing and being insensitive about people’s infirmities?  You can use your imaginations regarding the particular infirmities.  But I did, today — now I’m scared.  And I’m a wee bit concerned about bad karma too.  Granted – one of the ‘infirm’ people I believe deserved it – in his rendition of what he thought to be an alpha male, he actually demonstrated the properties of a buffoon. Believe me I have a long history with this person and his buffoonery – I’m not excusing the possibility that I might have been insensitive.  I didn’t laugh in his face – I laughed when I got home, far far away from him.  Damn, I wish I could irreverently relay what the fuck actually happened – I do a pretty damn good impression of this person and his infirmity.

To be fair and understanding of my position – my ninety year old grandma laughs at the people in her senior home all the time.  They’re all infirm.  Oh, but I know, I’m not her.  Right?  Plus she’s a little senile and I’m not (I don’t think).

Okay, well, the other person that I’m referring to I didn’t laugh at.  She actually was old, and her ‘infirmity’ interrupted my morning bus ride to work dammit.  Please have sympathy for me as it was early, I hadn’t slept the night before, and for Christ’s sake, I was going to work!  Bad karma, I imagine, would involve me contracting these very infirmities…