The Perils of Pauline

It was Friday, and I was heading for my usual and customary take-home meal from Taco Gringo. Two Sanchos w/ no lettuce and medium sauce, and an order of Mexican Rice. Sometimes I get a Pepsi to go with it, but that's my order every time out. So yeah, I'm heading east on Vine, and find this chilling scene once I get to Spring Street. Had to take a detour, due to the street being blocked off.

I didn't know what to think at the time, but heard about it on the news, after I'd returned home from my circuitous drive to Taco Gringo. It was a murder, but they didn't give the victim's name.

Found this out later, from a phone message. Turns out, it's someone I know. Hadn't seen her in some years, but we did run in at least intersecting circles for awhile in there. I gave her a couple guitar lessons back when, to do with jazz improv, and we played together in a band- her on bass and me on guitar. It was fronted by a local singer, who used to do a variety of stuff from jazz to country. I told my wife at the time that her engagement ring was paid for by "lotsa choruses of Delta Dawn".

So that's my connection. Again, someone I hadn't seen or thought of in years, but now that I remember, a very nice person, pleasant to be with. Sorry to see you go, Pauline. I had fun playing gigs with you, even if we did have to play endless choruses of Delta Dawn.

Just My Fuckin' Luck

Of course, my real destiny is not a major babe like Zooey Deschanel(or even a contender babe like the Zooey who works at my favorite pharmacy/convenience store-see previous blog), but a Door Number Three item like this one.

Just kidding. Thank you kindly, I'll wait for a Zooey. Or at least someone less than equadistant on the Zooey/trailertrash continuum. Above pic courtesy(or perhaps discourtesy)of the People of Wal-Mart website. The ground level zero of trailertrash.

Strangely enough, Just My Fuckin' Luck is an actual tune, a musical composition. Supposed to be a nice tune at that. It's in the Woody Herman library, and if I ever hear that band again, I'm going to request it. Well, privately with whatever band member is unfortunate enough to be at hand.

You understand it's not the girth I'm talking about -even though that in itself is a deterrent for me, not being into big women- but rather the lack of couth (for lack of a better word)to wear such a dirtbag-tasteless t-shirt out in public.The only thing more outrageous than this that I've witnessed was a cashier in a local Denny's wearing a t-shirt reading Happiness is a Tight Pussy. I think he even made a comment about the food as we were paying him for it, "I can't believe you ate this shit", or something to that effect.

But I digress. The chick wearing the t-shirt in this picture has every right to live in this world that you and I do. She has a soul, and a divine purpose- a karmic mission to live out in this lifetime. I just hope, in this world, that I'm not standing behind her when her upload is complete..

Code Name: Zooey

Okay, there's this girl I see at least a couple times in the workweek. She works, at least for the time being, at a pharmacy/convenience store a couple blocks from my office. I'm part of a "walking group" at work, a peripatetic posse that pounds the pavement twice a day in search of cardiovascular fitness, and we stop by the pharmacy more often than not for "health products"(vitamin drinks, protein bars, that kinda stuff). She's usually there.

I'll call her Zooey. Not really her name, and she doesn't look quite as good as the Zooey pictured here, but the same basic idea. Dark hair, blue eyes, very young, very cute. And very friendly, at least to me.

Over the past couple months, I've gotten to know Zooey just a little bit. I know where she's from, and I know she's discontented with her job. Then again, it's the kind of job you have when you're her age, though retail can be a kind of quicksand you can get stuck in. I understand her motivation to want to dig herself out.

I don't know how old Zooey is, but I know she's under 21, since she has to get someone else to ring out the beer I buy there occasionally. My guess is 18 or 19. Yours truly just turned 56 last month, which makes him 37 or 38 years her senior- roughly three times her age! I'm probably older than her Dad. This young woman could be my friggin' Granddaughter, for chrissakes!

But young cute girls are still young cute girls, and you never stop appreciating them, no matter how damned old you get yourself. Or flirting with them just a little bit. I don't know that I actually flirt with Zooey, but it is very friendly between us. She seems to light up when I come in there, and I too get something of a buzz from her attention.

Now I know that Zooey is not romantically interested in me, and I'm really not romantically interested in her- even though she is very cute, and I find her attractive. Besides, along with the age difference are other huge disparities as far as our interests. I'm sure our tastes in music, books, movies and other things are worlds apart. This would be evident the first time she wanted to watch American Idol or Minute to Win It, or whatever other kind of pap 18-year-olds get into.

Still, it's a nice fantasy. I have never been with a woman way younger than myself. If there's an age difference, they always seem to be older. So it would fulfill a stoopid unrealized dream I've always had- well, since I became old enough to be the "older man". But I know better, at least intellectually. I have a pretty good idea how it'd end, and of some of the repercussions of dating someone one-third your age.

So I'll try and keep myself in check here. Continue to go in to the pharmacy for my health items like the vitamin drinks and protein bars, and my "non-health" items like beer. And continue to enjoy the buzz I get from seeing her. Even though someone else has to ring out my beer.

wake n' bake weekend

Feels pretty damn good too! All I know is I woke up today feeling a little more peaceful than usual- and for one who's genetically predisposed toward just the opposite frame of mind, that's an extra bonus. Saturday is generally my wake n' bake day of the week, and this past one served admirably as far as getting a few kinks out of my system. That plus a good night's sleep prompted me to just keep doin' what I'm doin'(or not doin', as the case may be), to declare this a wake n' bake weekend!

Wake n' bake weekend. I suppose you could set it to music, perhaps to the tune of Rock n' Roll High School. So I'm havin' me a wake n' bake weekend, only without the music of the Ramones. And certainly without that stoopid movie. Well okay I've never seen it in its entirety, but what I did see was abysmally dumb. Wake n' bake nonetheless.

Unlike its original connotation, wake n' bake doesn't necessarily have to have anything to do with consumption of substances. A wake n' bake day is one in which you never get out of your bathrobe. You will hopefully enjoy the hell out of the day, but never 'address' it.

So you can have a perfectly dandy wake n' bake day just drinking coffee. But one's substance of choice definitely enhances the experience. Or so I'm told. Well, if you'll excuse me I have a wake n' bake weekend (sans The Ramones and PJ Soles)to get back to.

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My brother tells me Rock n' Roll High School is not too bad. So maybe I'll suspend judgment until I've seen it from start to finish. I may conclude that it is abysmally dumb, but at least I'll have seen it. I did like "I wanna be sedated" by the Ramones, though I liked Devo better as far as bands of that era. And PJ Soles was real cute in Stripes. So much for disclaimers. But I hate to talk sheis about people or things--except maybe those fucking Chipmunks!

But I digress.

The Orifice

It's a head-massager. The contraption on my head, that is. Given to all of us in the office by one of our co-workers. A quiet, demure(and attractive)lady who works about 10 feet in front of me. She recently treated a few of us to lunch, and more recently, treated all of us to this wonderful head-gear. So I'm finding she has a magnanimous side to her as well. Back in May, when I started, I told her she was muy bonita(in espanol since she is of Hispanic descent)and she told me I needed stronger glasses. How do you say, "you're too modest" in Spanish?

Another co-worker said the head apparatus kept Martians from reading his thoughts. Hmm. Perhaps this was a problem he was having- but apparently one which, thanks to the wonderful pate protector, has now been eliminated from his life, wiped clean from his plate. May not save him against Venusians or Neptunians though. Or Plutonians, for that matter.

Well, that's some of the kind of fun we have in what I've grown to describe as the local orifice. This is, I guess, a follow-up blog on my progress(or perhaps regress)since rejoining the ranks. It took a little while to re-acclimate myself, especially since there's essentially a whole new crew I'm working with. And since(which should perhaps be most important)they had to figure out what to do with me as far as my job duties. But all is well. Unlike some other choices I've made in my life, deciding to come back was one I don't regret.

So I'm relearning some things, and learning a few more anew. I mentioned in the first blog that we remember things comprehensively, as a total mood or feeling that characterized at least part of our experience, while the actual experience was in fact full of changes and uncertainties(and problems). Somehow in the remembrance, our minds gloss over that stuff. Maybe it's self-preservation, maybe it'd drive us nuts to remember all the crap, or maybe the real stuff is the feeling behind the experience rather than the grisly details.

What's going on now in the office is a climate of uncertainty(speaking of uncertainties)concerning a new computer system we're grappling with. A learning process for everyone on board. Much gnashing of teeth, as it were, around the office right now..So after all the changes I've had in the past four months coming back, here's yet another one- but at least one we all share.

One nice thing about where I work, though(and this was a big motivation in coming back)is that there's always a sense of humor. Sometimes gallows humor, but laughage nonetheless. Laughage. I guess that'd be somehow quantifiable laughter. In increments of yuk. But I get my minimum daily requirement. And then some.

And it's still a bunch of misfits as far as the personalities, a melange of eccentricities. You can't not fit in with a room full of square pegs. Another part of the learning experience, besides the new computer system and whatever the hell it is that I do there, is learning the new folks' moves(which of course are themselves subject to change), and of course them learning mine.

It's not yet like I never left, and won't be for some time to come. But I'm back.