Oil and Water

I wonder if anyone reads this blog anymore? Kind of like that lost intergalactic tugboat in Alien that just floats through the nebula, crew asleep, there but who cares? I come back here every once in a while when I want to reminisce over the glorious rambling wreck my life has been up to this point. I gave up facebook a few days ago. Just too bloody old, you know? And I'm an addictive sort of personality, so I would spend time I should be studying or planning my future dicking around chatting with people or playing poker (which I've managed to become somewhat decent at.) I actually went back and looked over swarthandloathing today because of something else. I was going through my papers from 2005 as I have some unfinished business with the IRS to clear up (don't ask), and I found a printout of an email from 3/3/2005. I must have hidden it from myself, because I knew that one day I would try to destroy all vestiges of this person from my life in some sort of ex-post attempt to separate my heart from my mind. And of course, I did. I threw out the pictures, I erased the emails, and just generally tried to push her out of my mind. Not in anger or bitterness, just wanted to clear out the vestiges of holding on to something that amounts to nothing. Healthy thing to do, right? Live for today, not in the past, yeah? Well, that's going how it's going. Probably like a drug addict that was forced into rehab. And maybe it just stuck because their drug dealer wouldn't sell to them anymore. Of course, maybe the drug dealer was really just being kind. But who knows. I'm glad I found the email though. The art of letter writing is oft lamented as dead, and this was a really good one. It's funny and witty, a little sad, but mostly full of celebration of what was. People always tell me I should have been a writer. Maybe she should have too. The references are ones only we would understand, there's a healthy degree of narcissism, (it took me like 8 tries trying to spell narcissism without spellcheck lighting up like the traction control warning on an AMG Mercedes), and there's a great fluidity to it. I think I've had a pretty good adult life, to tell you the truth. The highs I've felt far outnumbered in quality and quantity the lows. (Not that I haven't had more than my fair share, but I'm a glass half full kind of guy). There aren't a whole slew of things I really stay up at night wishing they'd gone differently. And maybe this is one of them. It's the kind of wonder that ranges from regret and longing to fond acceptance. It's a weird kind of thing.I don't know that either of us could have done that much independently to make it different or that even if we had the outcome would have been any different. But I wonder. Just can't help myself. I wonder if she regrets the very end sometimes. I almost regret it for her, because the way it transpired was something I still feel was eminently fucked up. Not necessarily the outcome, but how it was done. I have little family, and sometimes fractured relationships with them. So I put a great deal into my friendships. And I think that really kind of compromised the friendship because it was at the end of the day, intentionally or not, mean. And it put me in the position of wondering whether there was ever a real friendship there or not. Maybe no, maybe so, I don't know. But it left a bad taste in my mouth I wish wasn't there. So as I read through it, It reminded me of a time before that, and it was uncomplex and nice. The thesis was the same, but I walked away from that feeling happy instead of sad. Maybe we should have quit while we were ahead.

Fuck Imus, Fuck Sharpton, and Fuck Black Leadership

Fuck em both. And Fuck Michael Richards and Paris Hilton as well. Fuck Don Imus for basically making an offensive personal attack against a Rutgers team that did absolutely nothing wrong to him. Fuck Al Sharpton for using what at the end of the day is a minor slight to further his own agenda. And Fuck Black Leadership because it doesn't exist. Whether Imus recognizes it or not, the characterization of the word "nappy" as being specifically black, and thus unattractive is one of the lasting legacies of white superiority and basically an affirmation that if you don't have straiht hair and white skin, you are inferior. Black people have curly, kinky hair. To use the word nappy is to buy into that belief. Touse the word ho, well, I don't even have to go down the history of that. And now for part 2. Fuck al Sharpton and the vacuum of Black Leadership. Were Imus's comments offensive? Yes. Do they do one iota of harm or good to the black race outside of personal offense? Not a chance. This is another example of Sharpton's reclkess opportunism and insistence on fighting this fight of mock outrage and weakness. Sharpton and his ilk love to see black people "victimized" so they can yell, feign indignance and outrage, and draw attention to themselves. The reality of the situation is that the problem is not that white people say racist things and (probably a much higher percentage) hold racist views. The problem is the core weakness of the black community. We are unacceptably susceptible and sensitive to this type of shit because we have no real power. And for the most part, our lack of power (economic, political, moral) stems from our own failings. The greatest gain that black people could achieve would not come from white people ceasing to make racist comments, it would come from us improving ourselves. Where's the outrage at the 21% 4-year graduation rate for Detroit Public high schools? Or the 50% unemployment rate of black men in New York? Or the incarceration rate of blacks nationwide? The fact that we as a community accept these travesties is the real outrage. Do you really think Asians or Jews would accept this? These are the problems that keep us as a people downtrodden. And as long as our "leaders"' energy is focused on being outraged at external slights, they're not going to be focused on the internal problems that no one else but us is going to fix. Why isn't Sharpton out campaigning to get working class and middle class blacks to contribute to political campaigns, especially when a Black man has a decent shot at president? Why isn't he going after the people who use the most anti-black slurs and commit the most anti-black hate crimes? That would be other blacks. Unfortunately, the vestiges of the civil rights movement refuse to let go of the wrongs that others do to us and concentrate on what really ails us. Which is the wrongs we do to each other. So, yes, fuck Don Imus. But until we stop fucking ourselves, he's just the tail end of the gangbang.

New Black College Movie Idea!

So wth the success of "Stomp the yard, " debuting at no. 1 this weekend, I see the potential in the Black College Movie genre. I mean first, Drumline, and now this movie have phenomenal success. Hmmmmmm. Anyone else smell money? So here's my pitch. tell me what you think!

"Throw Some D's on That Bitch!: The Movie"

A retarded brother named Flavell from the southside of Birmingham (Jaleel White) becomes the first member of his family to go to college after he spills chicken grease all over the test, getting all the right answers! When retard-hating Dean Watts (Samuel L. Jackson) cancels Flavell's scholarship, he and his weed-smoking midget roommate Shroom (midget from Road Trip) go on a road trip to steal the world's first set of 40" spinners, and turn Shroom's Caprice into a donk fresh enough to win the $100,000 Car Show King Competition and stay in school. And get the girl (Christinia Milian)! But will local hoodlum Black Mike (Rick Ross) get to them first?

Come on, you know you like it! It's got everything you could want in a black movie: Urkel, a retard, a midget, Christina Milian, some sort of ethnic competition, rappers turned actors, and cool cars. Who wouldn't want to see this movie!??

New Black College Movie Idea!

So wth the success of "Stomp the yard, " debuting at no. 1 this weekend, I see the potential in the Black College Movie genre. I mean first, Drumline, and now this movie have phenomenal success. Hmmmmmm. Anyone else smell money? So here's my pitch. tell me what you think!

"Throw Some D's on That Bitch!: The Movie"

A retarded brother named Flavell from the southside of Birmingham (Jaleel White) becomes the first member of his family to go to college after he spills chicken grease all over the test, getting all the right answers! When retard-hating Dean Watts (Samuel L. Jackson) cancels Flavell's scholarship, he and his weed-smoking midget roommate Shroom (midget from Road Trip) go on a road trip to steal the world's first set of 40" spinners, and turn Shroom's Caprice into a donk fresh enough to win the $100,000 Car Show King Competition and stay in school. And get the girl (Christinia Milian)! But will local hoodlum Black Mike (Rick Ross) get to them first?

Come on, you know you like it! It's got everything you could want in a black movie: Urkel, a retard, a midget, Christina Milian, some sort of ethnic competition, rappers turned actors, and cool cars. Who wouldn't want to see this movie!??

What does Grown and Sexy mean?

So since Jay-Z came out with "Excuse Me Miss," The term "Grown and Sexy" has been thrown around more than Karrine Stephens backstage at the BET awards. If you're throwing a party, it's for the Grown and Sexy. If you got a car that's a sedan but not a lowrider or a Donk, it's grown and sexy. You went and bought a shirt that's not a XXXXXLT whit tee, you guessed it, grown and sexy. Grown and Sexy has kind of turned into our generation's "Whoomp, there it is." Ironically enough, the most frequent overusers of this phrase seem to be 23 year olds whose parents still pay their car insurance. When I go to these grown and sexy parties, all I see are people in overdone tacky outfits who are trying to look too hard like they're balling. So since I clearly don't understand the accepted social definition of Grown and Sexy, I'll provide my own list of Grown man shit:

1. I don't have to drink Moet out of the bottle at the club. I don't even like Moet. It's too sweet for my taste. And I don't feel the need to pay triple the liquor store rate to do what looked cool in rap videos in '93. As a High school Sophomore, that looked like the life, now the shit looks ridiculous. Especially, if you drive away from the club in a Kia. Get a table, get some pretty girls, and you usually don't have to pay extra to get some glasses. If I'm going to drink out of the bottle, it'll be at home with some Veuve Cliquot and I'll be pouring the rest down the small of some cute girl's back.

2. I reserve the right to slap the shit out of people who think they're being cultured by calling Moet "Mo-way." That's not how it's pronounced. I know words in French ending in -et typically are pronounced "ay" This is an exception. You sound so stupid, it's not funny.

3. I've learned how to bribe people. I don't have to stand outside milling around the entrance of some spot trying to lie to the doorman about who I know and how much I'm going to spend inside the club. I'm not going to get pissed when there are a hundred other people waiting for the valet to return their car. I just slip the appropriate bill in dude's hand in some kind of convoluted dap as I quietly mention that I'll take care of him. I can always make more money. I don't want one more second of my life than neccesary wasted waiting for some shit.

4. If you don't want to talk to me, I'm not gonna get mad. My little display of "fuck you bitch" or "You ain't that cute anyway" I realize is not going to get me any closer to what I want, so I'll just refrain. I don't know why you're not interested. Frankly, I don't care that much. Whatever the reason, that reason might have vanished or been locked up for a few months next time I see you, so I'm not going to cut down my success ratio with you and the rest of the girls who are watching by showing my ass.

5. If after I buy you a drink, you try to order one for your homegirl too, I'm not gonna get mad and call you a gold-digger. I'm just going to motion to my bartender that you're not on my tab, and keep it moving. I do reserve the right to talk about your triflin' ass to whoever will listen, however.

6. If the shit says black tie, I'll wear a black tie. Not one of them extra short, fat-knotted pink and yellow Murakami Louis Vuitton ones. Save that shit for the BET awards. This is not reflective of minority events however, because at an African American black tie event, you're almost guaranteed never to be the worst dressed person there. I once went to a BET holiday party and I shit you not, one dude had a leather tuxedo and a rhinestone tie on.

7. I still sag my shit, but if I lift my shirt all the way, you shouldn't be able to see any leg-skin between my drawers and my belt loop. That's just ridiculous.

8. I don't wear sunglasses on inside unless I'm high. That shit looks stupid.

9. I'm not gonna spend a lot of time talking shit and bucking up because one of us brushed past the other a litle too hard. Either one of us should apologize and the other accept it, or someone needs to take a swing. All them words are wasted energy that could be used toward finding a threesome to cap off the night.

10. I tip appropriately. I might want to come back one day

11. I find out the bartender's name early in the evening and hook them up a little extra up front. A lot easier to grab a drink that way then by pounding on the counter and yelling, "Slim, what's up wit my Hennessy."

12. I ain't paying sixty to get in. That could go to my Scottrade account or a good steak. I'll just come back next week with my little "get in free before 11:00" email printout and party with the same exact people for the freesky.

13. More than three buttons on a suit is never appropriate. A square toe two inches wide with a suit is never appropriate. If Slim Thug has a blue Impala the same color as that suit and shoe combination, it's not appropriate.

14. I don't yell "Balllin'" and do the little jump shot dance because I got table service. Warren Buffett is ballin'. I'm just paying a little extra for the convenience of not having to fight through the crowd to get a drink from the bar every time I want one.

15. That .75 carats of flawed fucked up ice in your watch bezel ain't fooling no one. Either save up for the real shit or just get a moderatley priced tasteful watch. All your ass is doing is contributing to the misery of one more African in Sierra Leone.

16. My business has revenues, a tax ID, and a business plan. You ain't the CEO of shit if all you have is a cool un-trademarked name and a website with "coming soon" plastered all over it.

17. I give money to my alma mater, savings account, and candidate that I want to win. Money talks, bullshit walks. And complaining about how bad politicians are or how they need to build some new dorms is bullshit. Do your part to make it better.

18. I don't try and act sophisticated by telling people that you should eat red wine with meat and white with fish. Drink whatever the hell you like.

19. If no one's paying y'all to appear in their ads, magazines, fashion shows, etc., I will not refer to you or your homegirls as models. You're recreational picture-takers. If someone is paying you, I give you all the credit in the world because most girls never even get close.

20. I don't have to lie to get ass. I'll show you what I got and you make up your own mind. If I tell you what's what and you're not down, cool. Saves me the stalker experience two months from now. My tires are twenty-inch Z-rated Run-flat Goodyears. I do not know how much they cost and I do not plan to prematurely find out because I fooled you into fucking and now you're vindictive. And handy with a boxcutter.

So’s I didn’t really have any plans for New Year’s, so I says to myself, Why not go to Miami? I’ve never been, I like the beach, and oh yeah, my favorite sports team in the whole freakin’ world is playing in a bowl game. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I went to South Beach not to hang out with Celebrities at Jamie Foxx’s Delano party (though I did go to a karaoke party he was hosting. I didn’t see anyone famous there but there were gold-digger galore there.), or to check out the naked ladies sunbathing on Nikki beach, or even to get a tan. I went to go to the Orange bowl. Those of you that know me know that I have been obsessed with the Florida State football team since I was knee-high to mini-me. I don’t play with anyone else on NCAA 2000-2006 for Playstation 2. My Saturdays September through December are reserved for TV time for me and my Noles. I’m not entirely sure why, I mean I didn’t go to Florida state, I don’t even really know anyone that went to Florida State. Hell, I’d never even been to Florida before last year. but I have my suspicions. I think it has to do firsthand with the uniquely African-American brand of football they play. By that, I do mean mad niggerish.I mean trick plays, juking defenders out of their socks and going five wide on fourth down. Second is their unique cast of characters both on the field and on the sidelines. Think Deion Sanders, Bobby Bowden, Laveurnaeus Coles, and of course, Peter “I’m fina Sco’” Warrick. There’s Adrian Washington, who waas booted off the team for cashing fraudulent checks. There was the Peter Warrick shopping spree fiasco. There was Coles beating up his stepmother. There’s an air of criminality and recklessness which you just gotta love about the noles. Deion Sanders played with a jheri curl. Bobby Bowden is just a redneck. Listen to the man talk But what I really love about the Noles is the frustration. The heartbreaking Wide Rights, the miscues and bad calls which snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. And then there’s the pageantry. There’s Chief Osceola ramming his flaming spear into the midfield emblem to start the game. There’s the tomahawk chop. And there’s that infuriating fight song. You know, Oh oh oh-oh-oh! Oh-oh-oh oh oh-oh-oh! Even the real Indians are into it. That’s like the one team the actual tribes seemed to take pride in being associated with. Unlike the Redskins. The game was everything I ever dreamed of from a Florida State Bowl Championship game. First, there was the arrival. My friend, KK, who was staying at an extremely frou-frou hotel, managed to procure the service of such hotel’s Bentley for the game. Now I’ve been accused of being a little flashy in the past. Kids, this one takes the cake. We pulled up to the stadium in a Cobalt Blue Bentley Arnage with Florida State flags flying from the window. You want to see your team’s fans go crazy. Do that shit just once. The epitome of class mixed with the mark of unabashed readnecked niggerdom. Then there was the game itself. There were the flashes of breakout athleticism: A Willie Reid touchdown kickoff return and a 57-yard Lorenzo Booker reception. There were consistent and pointless penalties and undiscipleined play: I swear to you there was not one offensive series in which a yellow flag did not fly. There was stupidity: A missed point after and a safety caused by an intentional grounding call. There was praying. I did a lot of it, and I gotta give God credit, he answered all of them but one. And I knew that last one was a stretch, so I’m not even mad. I tomahawk chopped after a Willie Reid touchdown return. I sang that aggredious song along with the rest of the quarter of the stadium that were also clad in Garnet and gold. You could hear that goddamn song from a mile away from ?Joe Robbe stadium after he kickoff return. I see why the rest of the world hates Florida state fans. Unfortunately, somehow, we only made up about ¼ of the stadium. Don’t ask me how this happened, but 75% of that stadium must have been Penn /State fans. Now I ain’t no big city geographer, but it would occur to me that Tallahassee, Florida, is closer to Miami, Florida than is State College, PA. But then, maybe the folks from the tally-ho knew what would happen. We didn’t know how long it would take but we knew how. Know how long it took? 5 hours. A three overtime game. Never seen it, and damn sure never seen anything like it live. If you haven’t been to a top 25 NCAA football matchup, I suggest you try it. It was so much fun, so dramatic, and so emotional, I accepted the fact that we lost. It was as God intended, a mighty and heroic game to be decided by a missed field goal. Not wide right, not wide left, but slam into the upright. And as we walked down the circular exits, winding like twisted ribbons, we saw the Cobalt Bentley waiting for us. There were no flags flying. Our chauffeur had taken them off to give to me to keep as a token of the game. And so we left, the dignified retreat of the vanquished, and not the glorious parade of the victors. But win or lose, goddamn did we have a good time.

Cigarettes with Alec Baldwin

So Monkey the Grouch and I ventured off to the Kennedy Center the other night to attend the annual Kennedy Center Honors. For those of you who may not be familiar with the Kennedy Center honors, it is a very important event, and if you go to it, you must be very important. This year, they honored Tina Turner, Robert Redford, Tony Bennett, Julia Harris, and Suzanne Pharell. Just going to the event envelops you with the fine veneer of tasteful wealth and you begin to smell of leather bound books and fine mahogany wood paneling. As I am still very much the unwashed underclass, I'm sure I still smelled of budweiser, menthol cigarettes and Drakkar Noir. As it were, the Grouch was there to cover the event for the NY Times so I got to bask in the glow of being quasi-media. Since she only had event tickets for one, I was given the honor of hanging out in the green room. As it was sold to me, I would be relaxing in the green room, enjoying witty repartee with Paul Newman, while Beyonce made sly come-hither glances from the fully stocked open bar, while we watched the proceedings on a thousand-inch plasma and sipped coctails of Louis XIII mixed with Dodo blood. in poit of fact, I was actually relegated to the "teal" room, which was something of a glorified hallway between the green room and the entrance to the main hall. The walls were stark white and dirty. The overcrammed chairs were of the plastic folding variety, not the rich alligator leather I had envisioned. There was no open bar. Only a cooler of budweiser and diet coke and some cheap Cabernet. There were no celebrities in the teal room. only sweating hack string wrtiters from crap like the Washington Times and some city's Picayune. We ate cheetos out of plastic cups and watched the proceedings on a 13 inch TV with rabbit ears. The scent of desparation and peasantry was everywhere. On the plus side, Tom Brokaw stopped trhough and was very gracious. Glenn Close stood in the back and watched the screen with us for quite a while. at a certain point, I'd had enough of being crammed in to this white slavers' Amistad and went outside to indulge my second favorite passion, nicotine. Who should come out to join me but Alec Baldwin. see , for the point of this story, Alec and I had a cigarette together. The truth of the matter is we did not speak or acknowledge each other, but when I tell my grankids this shit, I'll make it see as if we got along famously. Alec was the big swinging dick of the foyer until Paul Newman came along, at which point, even the glorious Baldwin turned into a fawning sycophant. Paul Newman's funny as shit by the way. I hope to be half as cool when I'm 80. So, here are some excerpts of conversationsd I would have liked to have that night but didn't get the chance or the opportunity:

Me: Hey
John Kerry: Hey
Me: So, um, yeah, sucks about the whole election thing. I supported you, you know.
JK: Yeah? Thanks. That means a lot to me. Your people don't usually vote.
Me: Excuse me?
JK: Well, I mean, they don't.
Me; What? How dare you...
JK: Did you vote?
Me: Hunh?
JK: Like I figured.
Me: Look here, nigga, I live in DC. Ain't but three republicans there. I gave your campaign 50 dollars. And y'all wasted 25 of it sending me mail to give more.
JK: 50 dollars? 50 dollars? I wipe my ass with 50 dollar bills. Get your weight up, dog.
Me: I'm saying, can I have it back?
JK: What?
Me: Nigga, you lost. I want my money back.
JK: Git the hell on. Theresa, you hear what this motherfucker said?
Me: so that's a no?
JK: Yep
Me: so what I gotta do to get a table at the DNC national convention
JK: Like 30 to 40 grand, cocksucker. Beat it.

Me: Hi
Tina Knowles: Well, hey sugar!
Me: Um, you look very nice, ma'am.
TK: Oh, thank you, baby. Look at you with your little Tuxedo. Just a perfect gentlemen!
Me: (sheepishly) Gee. Thanks.
TK: Is that a clip-on bow tie?
Me: uhh, huh?
TK: That is a clip-on bow tie.
Me, uh, well...
TK: Shit, boy, get yo'self together. Jay-Z wouldn't wear no clip-on bow tie. Now he's a real man. Clip-on. what are you, twelve, nigga?
Me: Well, that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. (edging closer) Look, I don't mean to hate, but you know old boy used to sell crack, right? I'm just saying, I don't know if that's the kind of guy you want your daughter associating with.

awkward silence

Me: I mean I'm not trying to throw salt in nobody's game here. I'm just saying, I ain't never sold no crack.
TK: you know I have another daughter who might work for you. She's not as pretty and she already got a kid. She might like a fucknigga like you.
Me: Um, I thought Solange was married.
TK: Nigga please. You know that shit only worked that way out cause Matthew put a Desert Eagle in that nigga's mouth. I told my babies not to go raw, I told them.
Me: By the way your tits look great.
TK: Oh, thank you , baby. They're real and they're spectacular.
Me: Yes they are.
TK: Lookit here, boy. I got a couple of minutes and there's an empty changing room over there. What it do?
Me: Sheeit. what it don't?
TK: Cool. You lick ass?
Me: I can get one of Beyonce's used thongs?
TK: You do it right, I'll get you the one she's wearing now.
Me: Well homey that's all you had to say.

Me: So yeah.
W: Yeah.
Me: You know you fucking up right?
W: Yeah.
Me: Why you always gotta lie, dog?
W: Sometimes for the superfication of our great nation, some falsity is required.
Me: What the fuck you just say?
W: It's important we get the terrorists abroad before they come to our homeland.
Me: Do you even believe that shit? What's up with my gas, dude? That shit is like 60 to fill my tank.
W: All Americans will have to make sacrifices in the war on terror.
Me: I hate you.
W: I know.
Me: Hit this shit, nigga.
W: cough, cough, choke. What is this? It's splentastic
Me: That's that yurple, nigga. Jenna gave it ot me.
W: She's a fine American
Me: That bitch gave me the clap too, dog. That shid wudn't cool.
W: I apologize for her diseasery.
Me: It's cool. Ain't you gotta roll out?
W: Yeah, let me hit that shit one more time.
Me: Keep it. You need it more than I do.
W: You're a patriot.
Me: Whatever dog. Get the fuck outta here.
W: I won't forget your kindheartedhood. There'll be a lucrative oil contract in your mailbox on Monday.

Me: Hi
Paul Newman: Hi there
Me: Sir, you make an outstanding salad dressing
Paul Newman: Thanks. Every batch is made with at least two ounces of my toenail shavings.
Me: That's fucking disgusting
PN: Maybe so, but it's tangy and delicious. How you like a little Newman in your mouth, bitch? Want to know what I put in my Newman's Own Alfredo Sauce?
Me: Security!

The Sun will Rise Tomorrow

I enjoy waking up to the smell of a fresh brewed pot of Starbucks Kenyan coffee. Or head. Good head in the morning is a great way to meet the sunrise. Maybe even a fine terry cloth robe and some orange juice. And The New York Times, of course. Such a fine paper. And such wonderful people who work there (wink wink). What I don't neccesarily enjoy being woken up bu is a six-foot two fireman storming through my door at 6:45 AM. But I suppose that's just the type of day it was meant to be. Lately, my life has been so insane that it almost seemed like a fitting start to the morn.

As some of you already know, I quit my job a couple days before Thanksgiving. I'd been thinking about it for a while, and finally, I guess I'd just had enough. I'm sure they had too, so it all worked out. I didn't really have anything else to do or anthing lined up. Most of my cash is tied up in various investments or wastes of money, depending on how you look at them. But, as it stands, right now, I'm "technically" unemployed. Not a bad place to be, all things said. When I actually did resign, I did so with a cocktail of euphoric freedom and mind-numbing fear. Much more the former, to be sure, but small bouts of the latter. After all, I do have a crushing mortgage, an unfinished final unit, and I just bought an automotive conveyance that's thirstier than a Morehouse freshman during registration week. Her name is Beulah. Big-Butt Black Beulah Beauxchamps. From Biloxi. Some people insist on calling her Bertha, but this is of no consequence.

Right about the same time I acquired Beulah, I also acquired a new friend. Well, not really a new new friend but kind of. This was someone whom I'd had brief contact wih on that vast cesspool of chicanery and filth, the internet, and then had the strange fortune to run into her as she viewed one of the apartments I had for rent. Months pass, and out of the blue, she invites me out for drinks. And here we stand, two weeks later, madly in something. I know I love her, but I don't know exactly how I love her. I know she loves me and I constantly worry that I'll let her down. But maybe I should let that burden go and let it do what it do. Baby.

About the same time as I began my whirlwind courtship of Monkey the Grouch, I found out that my tenants were purchasing a co-op, and so as not to break their lease, I let them find subletters. They found them, and they seem like very nice people. They're two young ladies with two very fat cats. Actually, let me restate. One's a young lady (I believe). And the other's a he-she. Now I don't have a problem with this per se. If you feel that gender reassignment is for you, who am I to take money out of your plastic surgeon's pocket? And he (she) is very nice and polite. Nonetheless, it is a very disconcerting sight to see a former man moving a couch up the stairs, both buffed arms and Double D tits profusely sweating. especially when they espouse their desire for some popeye's chicken and a beer after all that exertion.

It was their apartment that was the cause of the six fire truck parade pulling up outside my building this morning and Fireman Joe barging into my home. Their antiquated boiler had apparently caught on fire and burned itself to a nice little crisp. Fortunately, it didn't do any damage to my wonderful designer kitchen, but they're out of heat, hot water, and a stove until this gets fixed, so this should be an interesting test of their patience. Firemen, it seems, lilke cops, are social people, and enjoy doing everything in great numbers, including inspecting stuff, and generally hanging out in apartments after there are fires. I was againforced to laugh when they asked if the landlord was available. The girls (hell, why not, I'm sure it makes them feel great) sent them over to my unit, which is right across. Of course, chief fireman Pat asks if I can get the landlord. When I informed him that I was the landlord, he seemed mildly surprised. Not as surprised as I was to see him at 6:45 in the morning, but surprised nonetheless.

I think this might be God's way of saying that i should stop being stubborn and take that job I'm being offered with its huge increase in salary. I'd been fighting it for a while, but hey, i can always resign if it doesn't work out, right? Either way, the sun'll rise tomorrow.Hopefully without Fireman Joe's delightful presence.