The Man in the Van

Boycott China

2012-02-10T14:43:00.001-05:00

Has anyone seen the latest videos of Tibetan nuns and monks burning themselves? Of course not, since you were too busy watching Hog hunters and Murdoch pre-packaged sloppy second circus dogs dancing around a planet some fucking 4th graders found with his sponsored iPhone. But let me recap: The country that manufactures every fucking thing in the world because their people have been sold out by their corrupt government and their land was seized and all resourced depleted and rivers dammed and streams poisoned and they are incapable of living except as the pack mules/conveyor belt to some other country's decadent dildo fantasies and Martha Stewart DOG CLOTHING! That country, China, forcibly invaded Tibet way back before you were born, evicted the Buddhist spiritual leader (as part of some secret Buddhist ritual where you are justified in slaughtering farmers as long as you wear a red star on your cap) and have subsequently held the Tibetans under their thumb using funds from Apple and Nintendo and Martha Stewart to enable soldiers to oppress and silence the peaceful Tibetans while the Dali Lama tours the world with his smile and glasses talking to ignorant people about the plight of his people. This would all be solved if we ceased to buy Apple products and gave China the silent treatment...INSTEAD OF NUNS BURNING THEMSELVES. There is no justification for this. These Tibetans are breaking through the wall of silence erected by the Apple Slaves and reaching out to us. Go to junk stores and buy used equipment. Do not buy Chinese gadgets as it enables them to massacre the Tibetans. Every time you turn your iPhone on you burn a nun in Tibet. It's ironic that this video was probably taken with and viewed on Chinese slave products but that doesn't change the evidence. I'm opening an American slave factory to assemble iPods and sew dog clothing. Who wants to apply for a job?

Spange

2012-02-09T17:09:00.000-05:00

I've always been curious about Rainbow people and I read this rideshare ad:

"im a 28 yro female need a ride to ocala regional rainbow gathering.....in ocala national forest in florida...... i have 3 dogs... i have a mom dog with 1 12 week old puppy and a rat terrier... so 2 small and 1 medium sized dog.... under 60 lbs.... i travel with 1 or 2 backpacks.... able to help with gas.... i fly signs and spange..... willing to gas jug as well if needed... wanting to go as soon as possible.... need to get to the rainbow gathering but more importantly my ol man gets out of jail january 24th.... i need to be there!!!... lovin you family......"

"Gas jug" has become a verb in this context and it means walking around with a gas jug until you get someone to fill it or give you change. I never did this but I did pull up to a gas station in Portsmouth driving my unregistered Grand Marquis as though I were rich and a lady asked me to put gas in her car. It was near Christmas so I gave her half a tank. She was going to Dover and had three kids in the backseat. The cold wind blew over the hood on Islington. She thanked me and drove off.
I don't know what "Fly signs" means. Maybe holding those "Need help" cardboard signs at intersections. Everyone needs something. I interviewed for a job at a high tech company inspecting PCB boards and routing out plastic boxes but I'm also looking for ride shares to Vera Cruz. Maybe I'll take the rainbow child to Ocala and spange my way to fortune.

Stalking the Arctic Wolf

2012-02-07T18:52:00.000-05:00

Happy Valley Goose Bay was the setting of a few excursions to find the Arctic Wolf. Mainly I ended up on a narrow ATV trail, stranded on a sandbar, climbed the rainy hills near Northwest River and followed the call of the wild. I did not spot a wolf.

Communist Slaves Bust U.S. Unions

2012-02-06T20:24:00.002-05:00

If someone could please explain how a communist "Workers Unite" nation like China can successfully break the U.S. unions by enslaving their own labor force while the Capitalist nation of America can have Basketball unions who delay the start of the season because they don't get millions more per game...then I'd appreciate it because it makes no sense to me. Is Detroit more Marxist than Hong Kong?

The whole point of a worker's nation that recognizes the work force is not a resource to be disposed of but rather the population that enables the ruling class time and money to coordinate better living conditions. But no, "If you don't like it, Leave." is, admittedly, better terms than the African slave had when he arrived in New Orleans but it's not what I would expect from a country who claims to have adopted the principles of communism.
My theory is that it's part of the long term strategy to weaken the American economy using a generation of subsistence workers to assemble iPods and camcorders and cheap Old Navy T-shirts so Walmart will be forced to accept the drastic changes that are on the horizon. Why else would a country that has a total monopoly on electronic assembly not charge consumers up the ass to pay for excellent working conditions?

Let's briefly examine the principles of Foxconn slave masters who are the Chinese Communist Party....

II. Four basic demands for the building of the Party

First, uphold the Party's basic line;
Second, adhere to the principle of emancipating the mind and seeking truth from facts; (Hahahah fucking ha)
Third, persist in serving the people wholeheartedly; and (>>>>?????<<<<)
Fourth, uphold democratic centralism.

Marxism-Leninism
This is closely linked to the Chinese Communist Party even if you wouldn't know it by listening to Madonna on your iPod.

"Marxism–Leninism is a communist ideology, officially based upon the theories of Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin, that promotes the development and creation of an international communist society through the leadership of a vanguard party over a revolutionary socialist state that represents a dictatorship of the proletariat."

I've tried on many occasions to read Marx's Communist Manifesto but the language is not entertaining enough to hold my attention. It was required reading for Food Not Bombs volunteers but I couldn't get past part 1. Now I prefer to get my communism directly from Apple computers like everyone else.

But seriously, "dictatorship of the proletariat" is not the first thing that comes to mind when I see lines of people wearing electrostatic discharge leashes on their wrists silently inspecting pcb boards so kids in America and Paris can buy iPods with a credit card that represents the failed accounts of a bank that fraudulently foreclosed on houses as part of an international land grab scam orchestrated by fresh faced Ayn Rand economists from Brown University as part of their master plan to populate New Hampshire with Ron Paul libertarian voters to make sure the guy wins the primary. No, I'd call that a fucked up situation. Steve Jobs called that the perfect status quo and he made sure nothing changed for two decades...what a loyal comrade! Thank him for funding the Chinese military machine and suffocating freedom. We'll forget the hipsters who funded China's military just like we forgot Nazi cash flow being stolen from Poles and gypsies and stuffed in Rockefeller and Bush wallets. Get drunk!

I haven't pissed up the Apple tree in a while so let me say that I haven't forgotten their fucked values. The hypocrisy of American security guards kicking me out of parking lots (because I threaten their way of life) while listening to their communist slave products as provided by Kim Jong il, Stalin, Castro, Mao Zedong, and Steve Jobs is pretty funny. It's so funny I forgot to laugh as the police escorted me off the property. Let me translate this so you can understand: Every Apple product represents the fundamental values that killed 60 million people in 1940-1945 and then encased 1/4 of the planet behind a red iron curtain and subsequently bankrupted Russia, trained and armed Osama Bin Laden, enabled American cold war industrial machinists to fabricate an economy based on hate, deception and obsolescence while exterminating any resistance to pseudo-capitalism in Chile, Guatemala, Argentina and Nicaragua.... all so we can afford electronics manufactured with rare earth metals from war torn countries in climate ravaged Africa and assembled by pseudo-communist slaves in resource depleted Asia and purchased by kids in America where the media is controlled by an Australian who sugar coats every fact with weight loss programming and beauty secrets of celebrities and lost kitten stories. But yeah I'm the asshole for living in my van while hipsters communicate on iPhone. It's like an abolitionist dressing in slave picked cotton.

I think my resentments for Native American holocaust and slavery isn't from the historical fates of the shackled slaves and small pox infected Kickapoo but from the repetition of the conditions and sentences on people today. Because a nation born from slavery will continue to enslave. Born of the sword; live by the sword; die by the sword. Nothing changes if nothing changes...but Rupert Murdoch comes along who is much better at hiding the stagnancy of the cultural climate...or of manufacturing false change or representing change that never occurred. Once you learn how deep the lies go then you can't trust anyone without investigating them first. And when you investigate them and see it as part of the lie then your distrust deepens...on and on in a spiraling descent down the hillside of wolf fantasy. iPhones provided by Marxist wage slaves...that decimate water qualities around the world. It's science fiction dystopian stuff that sounds so insane that it's better to watch your weight-loss programs and hog hunters and whine at the news and wash your ass with coconut scented soap than to do anything...because to do it properly would mean evicting your landlord and claiming your land and defending your neighborhood with the help of armed neighbors...collective farming and turning iPhones into weathervanes to predict the direction of the mercury laden dust storms that are in our future.

I think the best example of the status of the world is that when you tell the truth: iPhones are assembled by a false proletariat slave state founded by Lenin, strengthened by Stalin and supported behind the back by Reagan and Steve Jobs...it sounds so insane that you can accurately be accused of being an insane conspiracy theorist. When the truth becomes insane then the propagandist magicians like Rupert Murdoch and Joseph Goebbels* have won, but ultimately it comes down to the New York businessman in 1850 who decides for or against using Mississippi cotton for his trousers...and to the San Francisco hipster who supports or decries the use of Stalinist wage slaves to assemble his phone. So, it's not entirely Steve Jobs's fault or Rupert Murdoch's doing. They are merely puppeteers with their hands up your ass and you can either say, "get your hand out of my ass." or you can smile and pretend it's a prostate exam. Americans...we good at self deception give more music boxes and low cost jock straps.

*"It thus becomes vitally important for the State to use all of its powers to repress dissent, for the truth is the mortal enemy of the lie, and thus by extension, the truth is the greatest enemy of the State.”

All Else Fails in Fragile World

2012-02-04T23:54:00.004-05:00

Oggy mourns his lost watchman's cap.

Inspecting the wolf quest footage I weep in weary dog tired neck brace of Oscar Peterson accentuated runs. The watercolor pixelation of my journey through Oggy Wonderland, New Foundland, Labradorland, wolf land, land of the mystery wolf, the white wolf who runs from two legged animal enemy. Syrian uprising and Iranian muscle flexing. The arc of time includes the Pre-Athenian Minots who sacrificed virgin children to the bull-man Minotaur in the Labyrinth. Is Oggy sacrificing his own inner child to the savage wolf? Is the wolf refusing to bite so Oggy wanders the labyrinth?
I was chased by a savage, feral husky dog in a place called Saint Lunaire Griquet north of St. Anthony on New Foundland where Vikings made nails from peat iron and abandoned their cove to moose and tourists. The dog surprised me as I was wandering the coastline looking at the icebergs, hunting the elusive arctic wolf. I fled on desolated knees as it snarled and chased my skinny flanks down a hill, my video camera dropping to the gravel and exploding as I unsheathed my knife in dire protective mode, the dog out for blood and Oggy's ankle turning over Viking spears, saved by war shaman's amulet provided by gypsy in Mexico. Dog abandoned chase and Oggy ate a banana and panted, his instinct for survival not totally demolished by self-inflicted delusion.

The danger signs warn us of that which is hidden by the fog. Under clear skies we wonder why go through the trouble? But short sightedness is a weakness of the sound byte families raising us on 50 minute lessons of propaganda. Save 50 cents on air fresheners, spend 30 minutes looking for parking, donate to charity, low fat cookies, wolf free mountains, apples with no animal fat, animal fat with no hormones, vaginal mesh lawsuits and birth defects do the Lambada to syncopated African Mrimba ting and plink. Stop means go. Spending means saving. Cheer your touchdown and punch your infant wolf in the muzzle.

The Icebergs of the fantasy point to the dream that is on the horizon, 80% hidden from sight, and the other 20% melting in the mercury rich climate of our ignorance.

Oscar Peterson On Piano - Oggy On Drum Brakes

2012-02-02T21:31:00.003-05:00

Only Ray Bryant, an absolute futuristic alien life form transported to Earth for a few decades and allowed to perform piano, makes Oscar Peterson the second greatest pianist I've ever heard. Oscar demonstrates some musical styles here and sings like an unaffected Nat King Cole. This clip impresses me with Oscar's humility and humor besides his talent. I could watch him play piano all day long.

It's not been an easy transition to the Midwest from Labrador and I've lazily not found a piano at an old folks home to punch. Instead, I've been knuckles deep in my brakes, they've never been good and I think only the front brakes do anything at all. The brake shoes were cracked for a while and it's been a nagging project that I thought would have to wait for spring but the climate instability has worked in Oggy's favor by giving me a week of 60 degree weather to tackle. I made a resolution to be prepared. Lately, I like to translate this to: Bring a knife to a knife fight and a gun to a gunfight. My tattered past has been ruled by the grave and inexplicable motto: Bring an accordion to a gun fight. In other words, eschew preparation in favor of the absurd. I can say that this has its drawbacks. It also has many unexpected benefits that will be explored in my homeless manifesto but for now I think I have exhausted this as a practical modus operandi.

Case in Point: The Brake shoes on the 1969 Econoline. Sounds simple? It isn't. It's a gun fight. If you bring a knife to this fight you will be fucked because everyone else is bringing guns. My learning this valuable lesson at this stage in my life is evidence that I learn a particular way (trial and error) and all the useless dinner table lectures were like static on the radio. The van has been my zen master these last few years because it is the parent I never had and the child I don't have. It has no emotional investment in my travels and it does not passive-aggressively ask me for sweets on its birthday or an oil change. It cares in a healthy, self-fulfilling and Oscar Peterson "accentuate the positive" kind of way. I am its master and it is mine. We are a union of metal and membrane. I no longer swear at it. I only investigate and, in the words of NASA engineers, "work the problem". I don't cry over spilled milk. It might be the one arena in my life other than music that is not overflowing with bitterness and resentment...that is a calm oasis of constant change with which I am at peace. By comparison, I get a dirty look in the supermarket and I resent it for months.

My Econoline forum is littered with tales of "Gonna do my brakes this afternoon" followed by 11 pages of questions and answers and forum tailchasing that lasts two weeks. That might be filed under the category of "Forum users don't post when everything goes smoothly" category but I like to think it is because the brakes aren't easy to work on. There are several steps and at least one trip to a brake drum machining shop. To replace everything, including drums, It would be maybe $140 in parts and 4 hours in time if everything is in place and you aren't harassed by homeless people and drug dealers on the street or parking lot where you are doing this work.

Still I hesitated to prepare my weapons for the gun fight and figured, "I'll do the minimum." Well, I have the time for such folly so it's no big deal. I'll be posting a whole essay on this matter but the main point I want to make is that an ounce of planning and preparation goes a long way. Autozone charges 70% more for parts than online sites and they often have to order them anyway. Ex: I paid $15 for a wheel cylinder repair kit at Autozone. A BRAND NEW WHEEL CYLINDER COSTS $3 ONLINE!! Translation: Buy ahead of time. Tools made for specific procedures are manufactured so cheaply by Vietnamese slave children that they cost less than the tool you will eventually break while using them as a substitute. And they sort of work better. Translation: Buy the tools.
Now, this does not mean it will all go smoothly. If you have the time then you are advised to do these jobs yourself. Empowerment is important and it doesn't take much to be an expert on your own car. To be an expert on all cars is a task for a lifetime. Learning about your own car would take a year and $200 in tools. If you own a 1969 Econoline then you are required to do them yourself because most shops north of Mexico City will not work on your van.

I will add that because this is a 43 year old van, I also apply the rule that if it isn't broken then don't fix it. They say replace the return springs on your brakes...and that's true if you own a 1995 Saturn because the springs you buy new will be as crappy as the springs that you are replacing...only newer. On a 1969 Econoline you will find that with few exceptions everything in 1969 was built much better than in 2012. It was built to last and it has lasted and to replace it with a Vietnamese slave part is plain foolish unless it has cracked down the middle, like my brake shoes. Unless the springs are hanging like wet noodles then use them again because a 43 year old spring is still better than a brand new slave product. I might be alone in maintaining this position but it's how I justify not buying new $2 springs. Although this work still must be done on a busy street I bought some jack stands and two brake tools. The pads I had since September. The one scored drum was turned at O'Reilly's auto parts for $15. The only thing I replaced were the cotter pins on the castlelated nut holder. I'm still trying to bleed the brakes after a mishap with the wheel cylinder but they've tested OK so far.

Do you see any new springs?

Mont Groulx

2012-01-31T05:36:00.002-05:00

This editing is taking so long that I'm questioning my sanity. See, ordinarily, longer is better, but when dealing with computers then longer only means slower and probably not better. My computer is so old and all the footage must be on an external drive for backup and that slows the computer down even more and editing digital footage takes forever. IT's taking so long that I've taken up macrame belt making to occupy my time while footage renders into clips and my edited shorts render into wmv. But handmade belts do mean a nicer belt while digital movies that take a long time don't mean they will be better movies. I've seen the footage and it's unusual but limited. I hope to finish my hemp and bead belt before I finish the wolf quest video. Part of my new year's resolution was to attack projects like a normal person and not bang my head against a 256mb RAM wall. But I can't justify buying a new computer when the wolf documentary tries to highlight the insanity. So I bought a used camcorder (Turns out it's an $800 camcorder that I paid $50 for. It took the picture below and even has a flash and transferred the footage to my slow computer) and will look for a newer computer at a price my budget can afford. But I also want a bass guitar...and that music software isn't cheap either. That's like $2000 right there and I haven't done a thing with it. Does anyone want to buy a hemp/bead macrame belt for $2000?

The song is by Harry Chapin. On The Road to Kingdom Come. Used without permission. Do What You Do.

Ecosystems or Apocalypse

2012-01-31T01:58:00.000-05:00

Another atrocious misuse of a word. Ecosystems are related to app makers and gaming platforms only because the rare earth metals used in computing demand the destruction of ecosystems. What can you expect from the motherfucking asshole reporters/propagandists at CNN?

"But there's a lot more riding on Facebook's paperwork than wealth creation. The social network has become an entire ecosystem, supporting independent app makers and gaming platforms like Zynga (ZNGA)."

FYI: Here's a bit of real news from CNN: "How Facebook makes money -- and could make more: The vast majority of Facebook's revenue comes from advertising: a combination of search and display ads. And the sales growth is incredibly robust."

Creepy Optura

2012-01-29T06:05:00.002-05:00

A test video for my new camera using found footage on the tape that came with the camera. There was a minor scare with the aftermarket power adapter being 2 amp instead of OEM 1.5 amp* and possibly destroying the motherboard, but it was actually the tape falling apart and not playing because the head was dirty. Note to home techs: Don't use nail polish remover on mini dv camcorders. They require dry cleaning process that basically sands the dirt off the heads.

I really must be losing my mind if this makes me laugh. Speaking of things that make me laugh...Portlandia is a series that fits my quirk factor. Reminds me of Santa Cruz. Also, PBS had a good show about Phil Ochs. Poor man took his musical activism seriously (thought it would make a difference) and watched Nixon take a giant crap on America and then Phil hung himself. Woody Guthrie took himself seriously too but had the mind of a child. Being gravely serious is dangerous. I'm going to film myself editing the wolf video because it'll be a miracle if I finish it.

*Higher amps is fine. Unit will only draw 1.5 amp. The problem is using a .5 amp power supply with OEM 1.5 amp unit. Then the draw is higher than the maximum output...and I could break the internet.

Midwest Decay

2012-01-27T05:37:00.003-05:00

NO, a hurricane or tornado didn't blow through here recently. It's called neglect.

An old abandoned gas station gone the way of JJ Newberrys. Had jackalope antlers over the door. Closed forever.

Demolition and train tracks go together like Mud and water.

This air conditioner won't be doing anyone any good.

A black man in torn pants was stacking usable brick on a pallet. I think the romance of the bleak scene was not a high priority for him.

I think the Natural Gas refinery is further south so this is some kind of oil storage unit. Lonestar.*

That's literally a scrap metal yard across the railroad tracks from the oil storage tanks on the banks of the Mississippi River near an abandoned gas station.

And then I find this incredible Cherry red Vette to throw my whole theory of urban decay into the trash.

* Actually, Lonestar is a natural gas operation.

I Bid The Project...You Do The Work

2012-01-27T04:59:00.003-05:00

Here's a craigslist ad that I want to turn into a song..."I Bid the Project, You Do the Work..." it's a sign of the times that a person can say this with a straight face and then go on to have an attitude like he's doing me a favor by allowing me to work for him. I should lie to him and get hired and then show up drunk and stoned. Then he'll pass the buck and complain to the "investor" that he hired another craigslist junkie. Must be nice.
Good old fashioned workers? How about a good old fashioned cotton picking Uncle Tom to work fo yo Simon Legree motherfucker? "I bid the project...you do the work." Classic.

"I am a small company that does rehabs for many investors. We do small jobs that range from ten thousand dollars to jobs that are seventy thousand dollars.
I need guys that are experienced, have their own tools. Can do the job. And i dont have to worry. Basically i bid the project. You do the work.
And if your good and get things done on schedule, i will have alot more work for the right people. I dont want the craigslist junky. That painted
their moms house or their own. I need some people with more knowledge than that. I dont want the craigslist junky bringing thier six pack of beer to work
and smoke pot all day. I just need some good old fashion workers. If you cant do this then dont bother to reply. Must have you own tools, ladders etc.
I supply the materials. Any questions "

I got a question...who died and made you such an asshole?

1000 Posts

2012-01-25T04:00:00.005-05:00

I like to think the quality and not the quantity of posts is what matters. It started as a joke to amuse myself or to regain my sanity after the Los Angeles silicone tit implant/hair extension/lip enlargement and penis enhancing low fat coffee experience I had in Venice. Thong wearing women rollerblading backwards on the beach boardwalk (walking their pure breed lapdog named Tsong (silent T) on a diamond leash) as drum circles full of LSD and medicinal marijuana junkies beat mad rhythms to the $2.5 million dollar homes of Eric Clapton who would yell at me to turn my amplifier down as I attempted to play Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb solo in G minor pentatonic with a nod to David Gilmore's demonic attack, basically begging for change from millionaires and starving to death. Now, 1000 posts later I must refer to my blog to remember those days in Santa Monica fixing bicycles and office furniture during the day and shoplifting my food out of Donald Sutherland's Whole Foods cart during the evening and in the night I would defend my van from the legions of drunk homeless seeking shelter. One day, I thought, this will all end up in the great Oggy Bleacher tragi-comedy saga.

Lately, I've been listening to Petula Clark on LP. Her delivery of the Tony Hatch songs is dated and "of an era" but it's very appealing to me in a Neil Diamond kind of way. Structure is basic, melody is paramount and subject matter is simple and the Key is G Major. It's when folk music was about to make a comeback, the Vietnam war was not only winnable but America was going to go to the moon first too, skirts were shortening, hair was getting longer and penicillin could cure any STDs. Long haired kids like Bob Dylan and John Lennon were making music that folks our age were certain would be forgotten about in 6 months and Big Bands would reclaim their seat in Music's throne. Talentless Elvis had other plans. "The fucking Rolling Stones can't even spell music! Every song they play is in the same minor key!!" I can hear my past self yelling as I cling to my Nat King Cole Trio records (Nat's guitarist was phenomenal and after a feud with Nat he ended up laying brick for racist and snobby movie stars.) Oh, the clock spins round and round but the numbers never change.

In 1966 the singer must deliver the goods and that's all there is to it. Pet Clark stood alone and belted these songs and that made them famous. (The Vogues did a good cover too)

I plan to make a nice tribute video to her now that I bought a new Canon Optura 30 mini dv video camera. Once the replacement battery comes I'll be in good shape to finish the wolf video. I figured out that the recording heads of my old camcorder are dirty (possibly ruining all my footage) but it might be good for something in the future if only as a vcr to transfer video to my computer or to get footage of throwing the camera off a bridge where it will smash into the ground or running it over with a car. In the meantime, here's a "Thank you" to my two or three fans. I couldn't live without your love...and your hate sometimes motivates me too. My top 5 songs lately are as follows:

Walker Brothers: The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore
Petula Clark: You're The One
Bruce Springsteen: Racing In The Streets
Percy Faith: Theme From Summer Place
Ronettes: Be My Baby

Year of The Scorpion

2012-01-24T01:31:00.000-05:00

In honor of the Chinese New Year, I give you a fable written during a dark lonely time. My apologies to the stereotype police.

Dragon ask one-eyed Pig, "What for breakfast?"
One-eyed Pig say, "Scorpion?"
Dragon say, "Breath foul? 180 proof in ceramic bowl with plastic cherry, pineapple rind, cool ice delivered with false smile.
"We make no love in bowl of plastic cherry."
Dragon ask, "One more?"
Pig say, "Yes. Not so much juice."
False smile with yellow lidded eyes and crooked teeth.
"Oh, more good stuff?"
"Yes, not so much juice and less ice," say One-eyed Pig.
Dragon pass out in puddle of hot mustard, face in greasy chicken elbow, fingers of chicken poke Dragon in eye.
"Scorpion fo four," say Rat, returning with straw up nose, placing bowl on table.
Dragon awake and pluck other eye of one-eyed Pig.
"Pig blind," say Dragon. "Pig Blind in both eye but still see scorpion!"
Scorpion dance 180 around yellow bowl with plastic cherries while Dragon and Pig poke each other with chicken fingers and spare rib with rat sauce. Fried rice with broken English names written in 180 proof blood, the menu calender spins faster as cat chases goat and Japan surrenders to the one-eyed crab rangoon. Broken promises go up in the sterno flames with egg roll and fake crab.
Old Mexican template ivy wraps bands around the Dragon's tail while Blind Pig drowns in deluded coconut.
"More Scorpion! Less Juice!" Demands the Pig.
"You want one mo scorpion?"
"Yes. Bring now. Dragon ok?"
Dragon sweat 170 proof pain through bleeding knuckle before making this prophecy:
"We return to empty well one too many times, like farmer who milks dry cow."
Dragon sags face to duck sauce.
Pig say, "Bring two mo scorpion. Revive Dragon!"
Dragon say, "We make movie to inflate ego. Watch me vomit."
Owner yawns and nods in sad gesture to defeated promises and betrayed trust.

Scout the Undead Guitar Player

2012-01-23T00:05:00.001-05:00

What has Oggy been doing during these days of vagabond misery? Reading up on my comic book stories including one dystopian series where an undead Apache musician travels a very similar route from Maine to Nevada hiding from the law and committing random acts of domestic/eco terrorism. My latest assault on the American Value system has been resurrecting this disco shirt from the dead. It's a tight fit so I'll be going on an all water diet until I can button it properly and begin to resemble Scout, including the red paint of the "War Shaman".

Oggy Goes West

2012-01-22T23:57:00.000-05:00

Someone said, "You look like Fivel."
Maybe I do but I feel like a rat.

Gateway

2012-01-13T15:58:00.000-05:00

I have no internet access and am not overwhelmed with things to say. I have had some good ideas to video people reciting the MLK "I have a dream" speech in all regions of the country and then editing it into a montage with different accents and races and creeds and such but I ended up getting no footage. Every good idea either ends with a success or never starts. IT seems there's no in between. Either I take steps toward completing the project or else it withers and dies on the vine...or the seed never germinates...or some other metaphor that adequately describes an unfulfilled idea.

I've pondered the decisions that have me crisscrossing the continent. There has been the mentality that if I keep going then around the corner might be something that will illuminate and enrich my life that I would never have experienced had I not kept going around the corner. And that has been mostly true...which leads me to expect illumination. And there has been the challenge of coming full circle, like the Pisces that I am, swimming in circles if only to see if I can make it happen. I have mixed feeling about it. The research for my Kerouac inspired book is complete. There's nothing left to accomplish. I don't even get excited by wilderness because there's no way to top the Labrador back country. I'm more engaged when I speak with flea market owners of muffler shop mechanics. I don't really care what their opinions are but I've become like a connoisseur of humanity. The differences appeal to me and the quirks (in small doses) interest me. People's funny hats and men in the library writing stock names down to track and kids in jackets asking questions. Blogging has helped keep me writing during a time when I don't have a notebook. Like most things, you won't know your limits unless you push as hard as you can. I'm not sure I've reached my ceiling with the guitar because I haven't really spent the 8 hours a day playing and practicing. There was a piano, a nice spinet, at the thrift store today and I might buy it along with some car ramps so I can work on my friend's muffler. I'm not sure how that fits into the blogging world. It could go on indefinitely, this wandering and blogging, and it would result in a crazy tapestry of experiences that not even I could interpret, but when I first read The Glass Bead Game by Hermann Hesse, I knew that I could interpret things, that I had a peculiar gift of perception and explanation that was fulfilling. Gathering the material to interpret has been engrossing but the bits of interpretation I have done in essays doesn't really get to the core of what I'm aiming for. It's all been tentative adventures on humanistic exploration...finger foods for the fast food junkie...but I want to write the main course that captures the savagery and delight I witness and challenges me to engage the reader for longer periods of time, to plot longer cons with slower burning wit. No more cheap jokes at the expense of my employers. It's been time to do this for a while but I was compelled to chase the Arctic wolf into the last region of North America that I'd never visited. Now there is no excuse. I don't want to be a stand up comic who gets away with one-liners anymore. If I want to push the boundaries of my own capabilities as a writer I will need to aim high. I don't know what this means except writing longer passages with slower developing morals. I had a whole essay about Whole Foods deli counter and how the abomination that is Flying J truck stop deli counter is fattening the calves for the slaughter that is the diabetic aisle at the supermarket. There is no plot to debilitate the truckers of America but that's what is happening with the chicken strips and potato wedges and 2 slices of pizza for $5 or 1 for $3.49. There is a magic number there, the number at which you will buy and eat an additional slice of pizza rather than simply buy the one slice you really want. I need a mathematics person to find the ration. The point at which getting the change back is more burdensome than merely eating another 700 calories of fat. These are not questions I want to pursue in the real world but they are definitely questions that characters I create will pursue long into the night. And in order for that to happen then I need to explore them a little...and tolerate the idiots who question my research because my coat is dirty from working IN A FUCKING PARKING LOT ON MY VAN IN THE WINTER WITH FREEZING HANDS. The snobbery of New England bothers me as New Hampshire grows 5% of the food eaten by people in NH. The rest comes from Tyson chicken lip factory in Indiana BUT YOU SHOULD RAISE AN EYEBROW BECAUSE MY FUCKING SHOES ARE DIRTY AND I LIVE IN A FUCKING VAN!! CALL THE FUCKING POLICE WHY DON'T YOU??? BUT KEEP EATING THOSE CHICKEN LIPS AND GOAT CUNTS WITH KETCHUP!! When priorities are prepackaged by Fox News and sold on Ebay then you run into some fucked up scenarios...that I want to further explore and interpret for the future pale poets of American's post apocalyptic destiny.

Rock N Roll Hall Of Fame

2012-01-10T20:59:00.000-05:00

This turned out to be a Patti Smith tribute tour as after reading her memoir I found her journals from 1968 in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. And she is featured in a concert with U2 and Bruce Springsteen...and she rocks....which is important.
They sprung this picture on me before I could strike a proper pose but I managed to get my Van belt buckle on the cover of Rolling Stone. I don't think that's a coincidence. Was this worth $30 admission? You decide.

Main Street Tour

2012-01-09T12:38:00.007-05:00

My Tour of Main Street America (driving cross country only on secondary roads*) began with a long delayed and too short meeting of two Soldiers of The Free Spirit cut from the same cloth. David owns the 1970 E300 camper conversion and together we did some trips around the hood and were amazed that we had these dinosaurs running.

We're both dealing with a lot of entropy with our respective 40 year old trucks and 40 year old bodies. There is no easy way to solve the galactic riddle except by interpreting our own dreams and ignoring the idle gossip that goes on in the background. We're crazy but we're our own crazy and not a prepackaged store bought version.

This is supposed to be my patriotic portrait but the lighting off Lake Erie was all sorts of messed up. That acrylic sweater is red white and blue, like the colors of the American Flag on David's van. My skin color is the same color as the sky. But I'll allow it for now.

Oggy's Main Street America Tour 2012 brought me to a flea market in a dusty town in New York. I asked the booth attendant: "Where am I?"
His shaggy gray eyebrows scanned my hippie attire.
"Do you know where East Bumfuck is?"
"Yes."
"Well, we're 5 miles east of there."
He let me have the Greek Fisherman's hat at a discount but absolutely refused to let me buy the '50s wool plaid ladies skirt I wanted for rug hooking. The sweater was pretty much a gift that I immediately stained with oil. The loot from another flea market in a snowy village was as follows:
1. Xanadu 78 rpm single "Magic" b/w "Cool Country"
2. 78 rpm "Sky Pilot" by Eric Burdon and The Animals

3. Fancy Parisian eyeglass frames.
4. Box of depression era sheet music including "Go Farther than your Father" and "Alcoholic Blues" One song says "Buy War Bonds"**
5. Beads for future crochet hemp belts

It was not a sad day to see this crappy tire fail. I hate this tire because it is the last reminder of the NTB experience and my wasted money putting new tires on a van with bad I-beams and having an $8/hr wrench monkey pull his pants up and drop my van off the lift and adjust his glasses better than he adjusted the alignment, fucking everything up completely and not fixing or even identifying the original problem, leading to lots of wasted time/money and an eventual front end job by an RV shop but left me with $200 worth of destroyed NTB tires that I decided I would use until they fell apart rather than replace immediately (The alignment issues wore 60,000 miles off of one side of the front tires in under 1000 miles of actual driving)

I didn't have my pitchfork but I had loosened the lug nuts a few days ago so this pit stop went smoothly.

The tire wear wasn't the cause of this fatal flat in rural Pennsylvania, there were 4 nails sticking in the tread at various places that I had picked up on Labrador dirt back roads and such. I'd been fighting the slow leak for a week. Now I find out if my 3 year old Mexican spare tire purchased in La Paz will last long enough to get me to Guatemala.

*Though this sounds insane, it has been a relief to drive the van at a safe speed (45) and see the countryside and the flea markets and hog pens of the country, camping wherever I want and shopping with locals at markets with people's names still on them. The interstates are faster speed wise but they don't take the most direct route so you still lose time on them. Only driving through cities does this method become a pain, unless you want to see the destitute of the city. In general taking a secondary road directly to your destination will not lose you much time compared to taking a high speed highway on some roundabout route.

** This gives me an idea. You know the movie "Julie & Julia" about the woman who cooked all Julia Childs' French recipes? It was also a book and here's my pitch: I will learn to play all the songs in this gigantic box of depression era songs. These are totally out of print songs ( I can't find a recording of "Go Farther than your Father") and I will basically write my experiences learning about the songs, annotating them, and playing them at rehabilitation homes for the infirm. Aging hippie makes good. That kind of story. It's the stuff publishers dream of. It all starts with my ability to sight read, which is improving but is not up to the task. OH, it's going to take serious sacrifices to learn to sight read these forgotten songs from 1937. Maybe I'll get that music software and write them all out and then simply sing along like karaoke from 1940.

I Send You Flowers

2012-01-05T19:38:00.003-05:00

New Song to learn for the Central American Tour

Dryer Installation was Easy Compared to Dog

2012-01-05T12:52:00.003-05:00

It took some real determination to get this 29'' washer through a 27'' wide cement door frame. Thanks to whoever invented the smartphone so we could access the exploded diagram and disassembly instructions in the freezing cold.

This dog looks and sounds like it has been beaten and abused its whole life but the contrary has been true. However; it may be that like spoiled children who narcissistically look back at their parents, Buster thinks he has been abused and neglected. And if that's the truth then it does not matter what the parents think they have done for the dog. They have abused and neglected the dog in the eyes of the dog. This might correspond to the selfish 40 year old child regressing to his childhood and blaming his well meaning parents for abuse and neglect. Was he neglected? Maybe not in the eyes of the parents but in his own mind he was and that develops the shame-filled eyes, fearful and untrusting, whining about the chocolate cakes he never had and the fame and fortune that was never realized. If Buster had a blog it would be called "Dog in A Van".
I should point out that the longer he whines and bitches (hours on end), the more I want to abuse and neglect him, which fulfills his own prophecy. Interesting...

Whining

2012-01-05T12:43:00.001-05:00

This is how I feel sometimes.*
whine [ wīn ]

complain peevishly: to complain in an unreasonable, repeated, or irritating way
make high sorrowful sound: to cry, moan, or plead with a long, plaintive, high-pitched sound
utter something in whining voice: to say something in a plaintive high-pitched voice

*This dog is named Buster and whines no matter what you do. I just took him for a walk and fed him and gave him duck and cherry dog treats that are more than most Haitians eat in a year. I'm convinced Buster has mental problems, fear of abandonment issues, lacks trust, like me. What do you think about buster?

I hope 2012 will be a very bad year for the 1% and their cronies - the conservatives and republicans.

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DrG0nzo71

7 minutes ago

Perhaps I've been worng in suggesting that anti-OWS is employed by the tea party or fox news. I would assume that, in their own twisted, delusional way, these guys really do believe they're acting in the best interest of America. But when lilsquirrel comes on and makes a comment that is completely indefensible and so contrary to American legal and ethical principles, then I feel led to believe that he/she represents the interests of an enemy of the state.

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Peikovianii

8 minutes ago

You are some of the stupidest, most incompetent mfs to ever pretend a role in politics.

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Peikovianii

10 minutes ago

8:00 AM dispensing of the weed

8:30 AM hand jobs

9:00 AM preliminary bongo studies

9:30 AM debate between anarchists and socialists

10:00 AM pouting

10:30 AM second dispending of the weed

11:00 AM stupid altercation with a cop

11:30 AM arrests

12:00 AM lunch time

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DrG0nzo71

10 minutes ago

Re-read the constitution, lilsquirrel. Perhaps you don't have a copy on hand because you're 50 cent army. Go back to studying your Little Red Book, lilsquirrel.

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DrG0nzo71

12 minutes ago

At least I'm doing it free of charge because it's what I believe in. Look at me, and unpaid volunteer going up against paid professionals. And not one of them can make a logical argument in their defense!

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LilSquirel

13 minutes ago

(DrG0nzo71 said:

Obama's treasonous signing of the National Defense Authorization Act)

sorry, what s treasonous about defense. And how does this violate those ammendment or the declaration of human rights. What you say sound like chinese propaganda to me.

It wasn t signed quietly at all ! There was broad coverage. Now I hope you re not one of those tea party madmen who just want to close the government no matter how ... so that big corporations take over. I m sure the chinese would like that, as would Putin. Autocrats are of one mind.

(RandMPS said:

Generation gimmie gimmie gimme, all grown up. )

sorry to break your buble. profits are rising. cost decreasing. monetary consolidation increasing. Last time it was seen to that extent was the medieval era. A 1000 years mess. Is that what you wish for. They had no idea back then what they were missing on and how pitifull those castles were. 1000 years running in circles and hurting peoples

Capitalism is about free trade. The most critical trade good is money. Pile it all on a few greedy hands and the world stop turning. Simple economic fact.

The OWS peoples don t know what the solution is, but they have a point. they do want education, jobs and the ability to contribute. they are not asking for roman era free bread and bloody games. they are asking for the right to work

The world has become complex and is spinning out of control. The information age has made possible to replicate data and share information faster than before. It also bring up the need for new law regarding publishing because there is no longer a cost to manufacture digital goods, making it senseless to give 90% to the publisher since they take no risk (each download imply a sale).

billybobxyz ,

communism is a myth. there never was a communist nation on earth. all those who pretended to be were autocracies. wake up and read up.

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Peikovianii

14 minutes ago

You can't be any brighter, but you can be quiet.

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DrG0nzo71

14 minutes ago

Tentative Schedule for Day of Action:(December 3rd)

January 3rd will be a spontaneous show of people power in reaction to Obama's treasonous signing of the National Defense Authorization Act. Not only does this act violate our first, third, fourth, fifth and sixth amendments, as well as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, but this Act was signed quietly this past New Years Eve violating what...

19 minutes ago

Tentative Schedule for Day of Action:

7:30AM (All Day) – OWS solidarity with the New York State Nurses Association Strike at St. Lukes (1111 Amsterdam Ave and 112th Street) and Roosevelt Hospital (1000 10th Ave and 59th Street.)

12PM – Press Conference at NYPL (Bryant Park)

2PM – Office Demonstration at Senator Gillibrand’s office (780 3rd Ave.)

3PM – Office Demonstration at Senator Schumer’s office (757 3rd Ave.)

4PM – Rally at Rockefeller Plaza

5PM – Flash check about NDAA in Grand Central for commuters.

After, we plan to march up 5th ave to do a demo tour of 1 percent homes.

Mustache

2012-01-01T22:05:00.001-05:00

This look lasted about 3 minutes of 2012. I want to switch my driver's license to this picture.

Pitchfork

2012-01-01T22:02:00.000-05:00

My van is so old that the manual says that I need to use a pitchfork as a breaker bar to take the lug nuts off. I'm only doing what the manual says.

Cleanserve Incident Complete

2012-01-01T17:25:00.000-05:00

The Cleanserve Incident

I’m not a troublemaker. Maybe that’s my problem. If I were more of a troublemaker then I’d spend more time getting myself out of trouble than seeing how much trouble I could get into. For example: The Cleanserve Incident. The Cleanserve incident makes for a good story, a modern fable on capitalism at its worst. When thieves and exploiters meet on opposite sides of a buck there is always drama and the Cleanserve Incident is no exception. Large scale flooding is the perfect setting for insurance fraud and it’s also where looters make their rent. If you want a story where human kindness prevails then I suggest buying something with Oprah on the cover.

This story begins before I even entered the picture. Around February 25th a violent wind and rainstorm lashed the Seacoast. Trees fell and basements flooded. In a bad coincidence, a pipe burst in the University library flooding a floor or two. So, as a popular flood response company called Cleanserve was busy pumping water from basement apartments and flooded warehouses, they were called upon for a large scale, immediate rescue of a State University library. Cleanserve doesn’t carry permanently hired employees because they can’t guarantee a permanent supply of messy suicides and floods and broken septic pumps to justify such a crew. Since the days of hiring Mexican laborers off the streets vanished with the arrival of injury lawsuits and worker’s compensation premiums, Cleanserve now relies on local temporary agencies to provide workers for the intermittent disasters. Most temporary agencies have pools of skilled workers like secretaries, welders, shipping clerks, janitors and drivers. Cleanserve needs someone who can carry a 60 pound plastic bag full of water soaked carpet all day long, for minimum wage, not ask questions, and not complain when they get short changed on the hours…and that type of worker can only be found at Work A Day whose motto “Work today, Paid today” attracts everyone from musicians looking for a quick paycheck to hippies on a road trip trying to fend off starvation to escaped convicts trying to get out of town. I’m sure there are some responsible, skilled individuals who are proud of their work and choose to labor intermittently, for the minimum wage, in unpredictable but mostly dangerous environments, with no training, under negligent supervision…but I haven’t met them yet. They must be in another hall. In my experience, the Work A Day office is home to all manner of society’s mutts, crippled, uneducated, undernourished, ugly, impersonal, violent, easily pissed off, misunderstood, diseased and lacking all long term planning ability. They need money because their parole officer will give them shit if they don’t show they are working or they need money to pay for child support or they just need money to survive. The Work A Day employee pool should be your last stop for reliable workers but it is the first stop for Cleanserve when several large-scale floods exhaust their normal pool of on call help.

Since the University crisis happened during a storm the Work A Day office was empty when Cleanserve called with their request for workers. You or I might be stymied by such a problem but Work A Day has learned that there are two places they can look for workers. The first is to call anyone who didn’t show up that day. They might corral one or two workers sober enough for work that way and if that isn’t enough they will call the transitional housing complex known as Crossroads to see if anyone wants to work. Crossroads, I should remind you, is where you go if you are released from prison or are living on the street. A man I’ll introduce later is homeless but chose to live in a wood stove heated tent by a bog on the old air force base because Crossroads “Is all fucked up.” Lets just say that Crossroads is where you are forced to go when a bear evicts you from your cave. That’s also where Work A Day hand picks their Team Rainy Day Rescue. Work A Day doesn’t feel any loyalty to Cleanserve, they don’t actually care if they get enough men to work. But they do care about the end of the month numbers. If they can gather more men to work then that will translate into a bigger net for the company and I’ll eat my hat if there isn’t a bonus to the dispatcher crew who breaks a certain number of hours worked. Who worked those hours makes no difference. The only thing that matters is the end of the month hours. So a call goes out to crossroads and maybe two or three guys aren’t doing anything and they’re bored so they get a ride to Work A Day sends a car to pick them up and the quota is met and the men are assigned to the job.
“You’re going to the University library. Meet your supervisor in the parking lot. He’ll give you uniforms. He says you’ll need rubber boots so take some now.”
Boots and gloves are provided by Work A Day.
“Library?”
“That’s right.”
“Will we have to whisper?”
“It’s closed.”
“Good. I hate libraries.”

The Cleanserve Incident Part II The Misfits Redux

It's raining hard, which means the apartments I cleaned out a few weeks ago are flooded again. I need to finish that story or else it will haunt me like a pimple that won't pop. Part One is Here

Where did I leave off? I...oh, yeah...I was describing how Cleanpro (I like that name better) called Work a day labor hall because they needed workers. And, since all the workers had been dispatched from the hall, work a day called the local homeless shelter. And thus a few parolees showed up at the hall and were sent to the state university library to rescue it. I could stop right there and you'd know this didn't turn out well. These guys didn't go to the labor hall looking for work. They were at the homeless shelter trying to avoid work and they saw an opportunity to make some hustle money. They have bills to pay, court fees, child support, medical bills. If you're poor it just means that you have exhausted your savings, but you still owe a ton of money just like everyone else...especially if your last act as a free man was to steal a car.

So, these fellas go to the library and start moving books and tearing up carpet and vacuuming the floor. Trash gets thrown out the door into a dumpster. And during this labor one of them saw some laptop computers and other possibly valuable items. When you are earning $7.25 an hour and your bills run around $25 an hour then you are always on the lookout for ways to make up the difference. Here was his opportunity. So, I figure he slipped some computers in a box of trash and dragged it out with the rest. Then he allegedly called his girlfriend to come around and he hid the loot in the bushes until she arrived. And piece by piece he started to make some real money. The way I see it the guy was so deep in debt that he was going back to jail if he didn't steal something. Right? It's not like he's supporting some luxurious lifestyle. He's at a homeless shelter and if he doesn't produce some cash at his next court appearance then he will get cuffed. Or maybe he's Robin Hood and he was going to donate the computers to an elementary school. Hey, it's possible!

So, the Cleanpro foreman sensed something was off and he followed the guy out and caught him with computers in the car. Allegedly, there were punches thrown, but who cares? The damage was done because in that moment every Work a Day employee in soggy pants became a suspect. See, the Cleanpro dude had no idea where these guys came from. He thought they were labor hall regulars like most of the guys who were hired. So, while he's kicking this homeless thief in the stomach for looting the library, the reputations of all honest but diseased laborers like myself is plummeting. I know what a catholic priest must feel like when he hears of a cardinal butt fucking little boys. It doesn't matter that he has no sexual feeling toward boys but he is now a suspect. And then he starts wondering if he should be a suspect. Does he like boys? Naw. Should he like boys? If every other priest is getting preteen boy ass on a regular basis then maybe...maybe there's something he's missing. Naw, it's just not his thing...but he knows he's half guilty in the eyes of his parishioners. All he needs to do is get caught helping a boy put his socks on and there will be an inquiry. He's fucked. When I heard the story of the computer theft I realized I would now be a suspect, guilty by association.

This is all to justify my trepidation when old Tiffany called with her offer of a gig with Cleanpro. We all know I need the work and the money but I'm walking into a situation with many thorns. Not only is the work best suited for strapping twenty year old kids but I'm going to have the boss looking at me like a thief. And, honestly, I do need to steal something to make some money on the gig. But I took it and showed up at the damn hall to pick up three guys who were fresh from the prison yard.

One fella was happily living in a tent in the woods near the old air force base. It had a wood stove and was near the brewery so that meant he could go raid the dumpster for bottles of beer that had the label on crooked. He had a feral cat for a pet and was nursing numerous ailments and drug dependencies while trading food stamps for money at seventy-five cents on the dollar. He went to the shelter because his tent had "completely fucking flooded."
(That description sounds fictional but I'm not making it up. For some reason I get along with these kinds of people. They are hunter gatherers, totally unfit for modern civilization and I despise modern civilization.)
The other guy was younger and had acne and a horrible disposition. He looked at everybody like they had just spit in his face. I asked him what his name was and he gave me a stare so filled with rage I didn't say much to him again. He was at the shelter because that's where the police dropped him off.
Another guy was with us (this sounds made up too) who was a former mixed martial artists. He had literally been kicked in the head so many times that one of his eyes wasn't straight anymore. He was bald and had bulging muscles. I think he actually had an apartment. He and the tent dweller traded recipes for morphine and prescription drugs while the acne dude would offer a groan or a non-sequitur like "Once my dad bought me a rifle."
All this while I drove to Dover. I should point out that the guy who lived in the tent smelled so fucking bad that I had to drive with the windows down for two days after he left. He was wearing ski pants that were incredibly greasy. I hate cigarette smoke but when he asked me if he could smoke I said, "I insist."

So, we were sent from Portsmouth to Dover. A 20 minute drive. Why? So we could pick up Cleanpro t-shirts and get directions to a place in Hampton.
"You're going to Portsmouth," said the lady who gave us directions.
The directions obviously said Hampton but I foolishly didn't ask for clarification. I should know that everything related to Work A Day is a cluster fuck. It's just not how business should be done, hiring homeless people through a fucking day labor hall staffed by half homeless people. I was asleep and sick when Tiffany called me. It's all a disaster. For instance, the simple act of getting about 7 guys the right size t-shirt proved to be a hysterical comedy of errors.
The acne faced dude could not grasp that we were getting a uniform and just threw the t-shirt on the ground. Two or three guys never got their shirt or lost them. Everyone complained they were too small. It was ludicrous to think we were going to do any fruitful labor. I immediately put my sweater over my shirt and as I looked around I thought, "These are the kids who didn't get in line when the bell rang at the end of recess. And I'm the kid who got in line but didn't really believe in it."

A historical aside: One winter day in 1976 I did NOT get in line when the recess bell rang. It was first grade and I remember watching everyone run across the playground toward the line and I thought, "No. Not me. Not this time." I turned the opposite direction and slipped over a snow bank until the whole class had gone inside. Then I ran away from school and took a walking tour of Portsmouth. I was 5 years old. Basically, I had released myself under my own recognizance. I intended to go back eventually.
As a former elementary school teacher, I can tell you that this is pretty much the worst thing a kid can do. When I was a teacher I was frantic with the kids all assembled right in front of me. If one of them simply vanished during recess, knowing the number of perverts and priests in the world, I would've had a complete breakdown. My teacher at the time, Mr. C., kept his cool and placed the class in the hands of another teacher and quickly borrowed a car to hunt me down. He found me in the cellar bulkhead of my house and he took me back to school. I didn't run away again.
I think this story is covered more in depth in Memorabilia.

So, the four of us, the kickboxer, the acne dude, the tent dweller and myself all left Dover for Hampton. I recently watched a John Huston flick with Marilyn Monroe called "The Misfits" It was written by Monroe's husband playwright Arthur Miller and had Clark Gable in one of his last roles. It's Marilyn's last role too and judging by the loopy performances I think they were all popping pills and boozing in the Nevada deserts. Gable died within a few days of the wrap. He said that working with Monroe damn near gave him a heart attack. Well, it DID give him a heart attack and killed him. But if a woman is going to kill you it might as well be Marilyn Monroe and not some crack whore you meet in the porn theater. OR does it matter?

Monroe died a year after it was released. Montgomery Clift died a few years later. I'm shocked to see that the nearly forgettable tow truck driver who is Gable's lovelorn friend is actually Eli Wallach from Sergio Leone's Good Bad & Ugly. He's shorter than Monroe and can dance and he talks with a Jersey accent. Amazing!

I saw it as a vanity flick...which is basically right since everyone concerned was vain as hell. One day there will be the same thing for Tom Cruise and Ewan McGregor and Demi Moore. Age catches us all.

It's not a spectacular movie but I think Monroe does show some skin in it and that's always nice. Anyway, the misfits in that movie, including a punch drunk bull rider (Clift), don't even compare to the clown car that rolled up to the wrong address in Hampton. It was absolutely pouring. The guys were bumming cigarettes from strangers, knocking on doors, chasing pets. It was like a field trip from a mental institution but there was no chaperon. Another car showed up driven by a guy with black teeth.
"We here. This is this address. Far as I'm concerned we on the job."
But we weren't and we were getting wet and wasting time. No one wanted to call the hall and no one wanted to call the customer. When the guys started comparing prison tattoos I finally dialed a number on the directions sheet and found out the right address. It took some work to get everyone assembled in the car again. I should've asked everyone to pick a safety partner. Insane.
"Motherfucker!" I yelled as I pounded the car roof. "Drive from fucking Portsmouth to Dover and back to Hampton to the wrong fucking address! God Damn it mother cunt!"
No one blinked or paused in their conversations. That probably wasn't even the worst outburst they'd seen that day. I was so pissed because frivolous driving is like my worst pet peeve. Like God put petroleum on earth so I could go get a fucking t-shirt that I hide with a sweater?? And then pointlessly tour North Hampton in the rain in a car that smelled like foot rot??? Oh, I was so pissed.
"I'm going to punch Tiffany in her fucking face," I screamed, even though I love Tiffany.
"She's nice," said the kickboxer. "Big old tits."
"On the heavy side but you see her ass?"
"Damn. Them sexy shoes."
"Real pretty face. How old is she?"
"You ever seen something like this," asked the tent dweller as he revealed a horrible rash on his arm.

So, we finally arrived at the apartment buildings in Portsmouth, hardly ten minutes from my house like two hours after I had left and I had not made one penny yet. This alone is enough to make me want to loot food from the refrigerators of these flooded families. Fuck them. They think they got it bad? I'm working for food money and I'm starving with a car full of lunatics and we're going all over God's green earth searching for their shitty basement apartments! And every one of them is on fucking welfare while I starve to death. You know...I have to stop now because my doctor told me not to do anything that gets my blood pressure up. I just wrote a whole paragraph about Jeffrey Dahmer that I had to delete because it was too insane. It scared me. This wasn't supposed to be an epic. So, stay tuned for the ending of this disastrous tale...the part where we misfits actually have to do some work. I'll give you a taste,

We're standing in 2 inches of water around a queen sized bed.
"Ok, everyone grab a corner. Hey! Hey! Come back here! Fuck it. Lift!"
A pile of kids clothes tumble into a milky puddle on the concrete
"Quick! Pick those clothes up! WATCH THE ELECTRONICS!"

P.S. I forgot to mention that the address of the real apartments was the exact same as the address on the directions except for the zip code. So we ended up in the wrong town but at the right number and street. Furthermore, two of the guys in the car knew exactly where the apartments were to begin with so we never needed the directions in the first place. Now, why would that piss me off?

Cleanpro incident Part III Life imitates Art

So, I'm trying to finish this story and I'm going to be ruthless. I know that what I'm writing here is more than anyone but unemployed Eddie could ever take the time to read so it's almost pointless to write this much. I could just say that we went to the apartments. It sucked. Raining. Flooded. Dogs. Kids. Anger. Fights. Lifting carpet. I fell down some stairs. An old guy had a heart attack. I didn't get paid shit. Etc. But that's not how I tell stories. I only get one shot at these things because it isn't like I'll revisit this in ten years but one day I might publish this entire blog. So, here it goes.

We arrive at the apartments that were foolishly built where the water table is on top of a huge slab of granite. When the rain lasts a few days then that's the end of the carpet. It's not that the walls are leaking from above, it's that the water has risen in the ground above the floor. So the building is sinking. A horrible horrible mistake that the slumlords never tell the tenants until it is too late. This must happen once a year at this place although the rain this past month has been apocalyptic.

So, I want to say we divided into teams and attacked the problem with good direction from an attentive foreman, were given breaks and adequate equipment and merrily did our work. But that is just pure fantasy. I'll bet half the guys were stoned before we arrived and the other half were texting nude pictures back and forth. And the one foreman was a deeply unhappy guy who clearly hated us all for being such idiots. His one bit of advice was almost a moan, "You're getting paid by the hour."
Yeah, Seven fucking dollars! I don't care what Cleanpro is paying (probably $25 an hour) since I'm getting absolutely the lowest legal wage. So, forgive me if I take a minute to wipe the blood from my nose!

The first flooded apartment I walked into contained a freaked out dog and hulking man casually rescuing his Harry Potter paraphernalia from the water. The dog eyed me and I eyed the dog. Then I saw that we would have to move all the furniture to get to the carpet but these shitty apartments have absolutely no space. So how are we going to do it? Is Harry fucking Potter going to wave his magic wand and levitate all the furniture so we can remove the carpet? No, the foreman's method of training was to tell us what we were doing wrong five minutes after it was too late. We ended up basically moving all this guy's wet furniture to one side of the room, stacking it in towers of dripping debris while we pulled the carpet back to get at the saturated carpet padding. Then we would lay the carpet back down and move everything from one side to the other to get the other layer of carpet padding. This sucked but what I hated was that when the job description says "Water damage clean up" and I ended up being a fucking "crisis furniture mover"
So, the wet carpet padding gets tossed in a trash bag and dragged outside. I did this a few times before I learned you can hardly put any soaking wet carpet padding in a bag before it gets too heavy to lift. Only a monstrous bodybuilder was able to do it regularly. I staggered under the weight and lunged through the door and ended up dragging the bag until I saw the bag had torn and gallons of water were pouring out onto otherwise dry areas of the hallway. So, I was doing more damage!
Then, to make matters worse, the damn door kept swinging closed and no one could figure out how to prop it open. I was so frustrated and it was freezing and I didn't want to fight the door anymore so I took a huge knife and cut a chunk out of the folded over carpet to use as a wedge under the door. I was so proud and I looked around and the faces were horrified.
"How they gonna kick that carpet back in?" said the kickboxer.
"Huh?"
"They're saving that carpet. Look what you did."
I had forgotten in the chaos that these cheap ass company men were going to save this saturated carpet because they'll probably charge the insurance to replace it and keep the money. I looked at the carpet and imagined the families who would be living with black mold and death beneath them.
"Naw. It's fucked. The fucking carpet is fucked." I said lamely to defend myself.
"I'm just saying," said the kickboxer.
He pointed to the carpet and I realized I had cut on a folded edge and thus when the carpet was folded back down there would be a jagged circle missing from THE MIDDLE OF THE CARPET.
I was at a loss for words.
"I don't know. Fuck. Just glue the piece back down. Fuck, man. It's soaked."
"I'm just saying," said the kickboxer. This is what temp laborers say to eachother when one of them fucks up but the other one is not in a supervisor position. No one wants to be a hero or a boss for $7 but no one wants to look bad either because that chunk missing from the carpet could easily be blamed on all of us. I shook my head and reached for another bag of carpet padding.

In retrospect, I don't care about that piece of carpet. They probably did use the piece again and just glue it down, those cheap motherfuckers. Or, hopefully, they replaced the carpet. But I doubt it. I've met those slumlords and they would make you drink reclaimed toilet water if it could save them a buck. But the fact that cleanpro had so rolled over bummed me out. What were we doing then, but making things worse?
A tale someone told me in confidence involved a similar clean up situation. The walls were soaked and instead of cutting the whole thing out they just sliced off the bottom of the drywall and pieced it in. And the guy was slapping mud on the seam and saw a dent in the wall and went to slap some mud on it so it would be patched.
"No," said the boss. "That's a preexisting hole."
"But I'm right here. Let me patch it."
"No. That's not covered by the policy. It's preexisting."
And if that doesn't make you quiver then you are a disgusting person. What is the opposite of integrity? What is the opposite of professional? That's what we're dealing with. And while I have no one to blame for my cutting a chunk of carpet out that rendered the carpet disfigured, who is to blame for the absurdity of saving a completely saturated carpet in a family apartment complex in a basement room that sees sun only on the summer equinox?

So we moved on. One room to the next, each worse than the last, no break, no water, no food.
The worst part was when I grabbed some carpet padding and didn't see a bag and I just wanted it outside so I walked out and there were these guys blabbing about prison and I couldn't get to the bags so I just took the shit outside.
"Hey, that goes in a bag."
"I know. I'll put it in a bag outside."
"What do you mean, "No."? Get back here."
"What?"
"It goes in a bag."
"I'M PUTTING IT IN A FUCKING BAG!"

An old lady opens her door a crack and looks at us. A dog runs free down the hallway chased by a girl in a bathrobe.

The way the one dude looked at me I think he thought I had stuffed some DVDs or computers in the padding and was looting the place, which is why I wanted to explain the backstory.
I went outside and put it in a bag. The shiftless tent dweller was smoking a cigarette and here was my chance to rehearse some lines from my Sons of Job play:

"I used to hunt deer in that field.," said the homeless man through a cloud.
"This is complete bullshit," I moaned.
"Bagged five or ten a season."
"They put their boot on your neck. Break a man down. Look at me. Soaking wet. Bleeding. Hungry."
"Bow and rifle."
"They want ten an hour work out of seven an hour men."
"Venison stew. Jerky. Smoke house."
"Look at me like I'm a criminal? What? They're the fucking criminals."
"Drinking on Saturday. Pussy all weekend long."
"I come to do a job and they...they got their fingers in my ass."
"Fat 'ol belly. Sleepin in, fuckin', drinkin'. Them were the days."
"Ah, this is a cunt of a job. What a bitch. Why the fuck I take this ticket?"
"You want a smoke?"

One reason I like these guys is because they are whatever the opposite of codependent is. Indifferent? But unlike an indifferent woman who will look through you at the man behind you, an indifferent man doesn't even recognize you as an entity. Where there was a mailbox, this guy was seeing a ten point buck. My voice was like the breeze in the wind. I like that. It's like being alone. A woman might try to pretend to care I was talking; a man makes no attempt to show he's listening.

And back into the apartments I plunged. The worst was a household of a mother and two kids under 3 years old...two inches of water and every damn toy imaginable. I mean, if there was ever proof that toys do not do shit for a kid's behavior or development it would be that apartment. These kids were bouncing off the walls as five smelly men moved all their toys and furniture and clothes around. The mother was hysterical. There was a picture of man on the wall so don't jump to the conclusion she was single. But definitely jump to the conclusion that raising two preschool kids all day alone is basically impossible. Televisions were blaring everywhere. Puzzle pieces everywhere. We had to move a gigantic entertainment center that still had all the electronics on it. Try doing that in three inches of water with one other guy helping you whose pants keep falling down around his ass. We were vacuuming the water up with a big shopvac and as I reached down to grab some long lost trinket or earring it got sucked into the hose. I said nothing.
It's a real shock Cleanpro doesn't have permanent helpers. It was in this apartment that an older temp worker started to have trouble breathing. He was sweating and lost focus in his eyes.
"I just gotta catch my breath," he huffed exactly like a guy in a play I wrote.
It was sad to watch a grown man trying to earn his $7 an hour lugging bags of water up stairs. But he got old before my eyes and he shuffled out the door and said, "I'm. Gonna. See. When. We. Get. A. Break."
I never saw him again.

That was the apartment where we had to clean out an already incredibly packed room with a crib full of Hannah Montana toys. There were five of us but no one wanted to take charge so finally a younger kid stepped up and tried to lead us but the other guys had a mini-mutiny because it is an unwritten law that no one takes orders from a work-a-day temp when you are yourself a work-a-day temp. That's why the kickboxer said, "I'm just saying." He wasn't giving orders. He was intentionally removing any authority from his statement that I had just destroyed the carpet. He was just saying...that I was a fuck up. Which was true.

But this kid was ordering,
"Get on the corners. Grab the frame. No. The other frame. Steady the clothes. No. OK. lift!"
That's when two of the guys just walked away.
"Get back here.," yelled Mr. Hero.
The others just kept walking. What was going to happen to them? Nothing. A temp worker can not order you to do shit. They were there to take orders from the man with the checkbook and no one else. My pants were falling down.
"Come back here!"
Nope. That left three guys on the bed and when we lifted it the frame collapsed and all the clothes that were piled on the bed fell into the water. And when I went to grab them quickly I whipped them around and all the water sprayed across the back of a television set.

Let me just slow down here and explain that this whole situation is as bad as it gets. This is a crisis company I was working for. If you go to Haiti then you'll find much worse shit going down. I've had plenty of jobs with work-a-day that involved moving a trash can from point A to point B. Easy money. For some reason the company can't do without you and so they hire you and probably regret it. But with cleanpro the only time they need help is when someone's worst nightmare has happened. Either someone took a loaded shotgun and put it in their mouth and splattered their brain all over a wall of family photos...or else someone took an axe and murdered a couple in their bedroom...or someone hung themselves from a chin up bar and shit all down the hallway...or a storm arrives that raises the water table to the point that your living room is a swimming pool. Face it, life is unpredictable and dirty. I didn't expect this to be a walk down pretty panty lane. My point is how this particular situation was bound to failure because of the underlying methods and character and everything. It's a crisis situation and they basically got a crew of people ALSO IN CRISIS SITUATIONS. See? I'm sick, starving, jobless and I ended up being the guy the others looked up to because they were completely homeless, broke, on parole, craving methadone. And we're the team that's going to save the day? What? When the earthquake happened in Haiti, did they recruit rescue teams from Ethiopia?? I mean, there is a point where you actually need well paid, motivated people to do a job and Cleanpro refuses to accept that.

The last few apartments were a blur. They kept promising us a break and never gave it to us. Finally, we had hundreds of bags full of water and carpet padding that we loaded into the truck. I thought that was the end but they forced us to go back to Dover and unload the truck. Bullshit!
So we drove through the rain and everyone was wet. The acne dude described his role in the university library affair and then fell asleep while the kickboxer and the tent dweller talked about the afflictions that make morphine part of their diet. Both had chronic injuries and, as a man with his fair share of scar tissue, I said, "You wake up in the morning and can't put your shoes on, but if you take some pills you can, then there isn't much choice."
We're all survivalists but some are just better at it than others.

Half the team showed up ten minutes after we'd finished unloading the truck. They told a bullshit story about a flat tire but the chances are very good they were smoking pot in the Burger King parking lot. I'll tell you that the trash we threw away filled a gigantic dumpster and made me feel pretty foolish for using cloth grocery bags. I know disasters create trash but really disasters destroy things. Men cause waste.

Then we got signed out and I drove acne boy and tent man back to Portsmouth. That's two round trips to Dover and a side trip to Hampton, plus the cost of the car. You literally couldn't pay me $40 to DO JUST THAT. Forget about the labor at the job. Just the driving was worth more than $40. So, work-a-day can pretty much kiss my ass. And cleanpro can also kiss my ass. Am I above this kind of job and pay? I'll address that in a minute.

We got back to Portsmouth too late to cash our checks so the acne kid and tent man had to starve for the rest of the day. I dropped them off on route one near the homeless shelter and they vanished into the night.

"Call me," said the tent man. "I'll get my truck out of impound and I'll get some work for us."
"OK." I said and drove to buy some salad at the store.

I hope I've been fair to my fellow workers. I'm sorry if I haven't been. I'm trying to tell it how it was. Obviously I hated it because I'm a playwright who has no agent and no idea how to get a play produced so I'm trapped with no money. That old guy who had a heart attack looked like an actor I've seen perform downtown. He's probably dead now. Death by carpet. Is there a moral to the story? That I'm an asshole? A fun-loving asshole according to some. I already wrote about one temp gig at Poco Diablos and I don't usually dwell on the temp gigs since I'm trying to write marketable stuff and not anecdotal exposes. Better writers like George Orwell and Kerouac and Steinbeck have addressed this topic. I'm merely a footnote.

The men and women who work temp gigs are a rare breed. They know they're being fucked over but they've already resigned themselves to a hand to mouth life. Every generation has them and I've done as much research on this generation's disenfranchised as anyone I know. There are a few books where journalists experiment with low wage work. Nickle and Dimed is one book. There was another more recently about a guy who worked in the lettuce fields. Working in the shadows. Now, writing a book like that is how to make some money. But the check was already in the bank before he did it so that helps. It's too new to be at the library but I'll check it out one of these days. There are lots of ways to make these essays into money. For some reason people like to read about a guy going undercover in a lettuce field to pick vegetables or a college educated biologist washing dishes and cleaning toilets. If I had to trade lives with that woman taking care of two kids alone in a flooded apartment I'd really think about it. I got $40 at the end of the day. What did she get?

I don't want to complain about the whole situation. America doesn't owe me anything except some economy and honesty. If you start cutting corners like saving soaked carpet to save a penny and you ask me to be your hatchet man then fuck you. I might rent that apartment one day and that's not how I do business. I'm not too good to move furniture but I object to moving it with guys you pulled from a shelter. They called it conscription back in the day.

Furthermore, reflections like this change almost nothing. Actions are what matter and having a person expose Wal-mart's shady hiring practices just seems preachy and futile. Like, it's entertainment, but when you have a basement that's flooded then you have to call cleanpro. Or do it yourself. I think my motivation in reflecting on this isn't to throw dirt on cleanpro, but more to show that our society, the absolute bottom rung workers and the companies that rely on them, have some problems. I know that smart and pretty people who work at advertising companies and drink $6 coffees are doing their job. They passed the test and went to the source. Congratulations. They don't need my help and except for a total lack of ethics they're pretty capable humans. But the guys at the very bottom...I'm really curious what has happened here because they have been ignored for a lot longer than a few years. In fact, like I've said before, this is no accident. Yes, they are responsible for their diet of drugs and booze but what reason do they have to be sober? Is it the job of society to provide that reason? Not really. But, and this is my closing argument, is it the job of society to provide a reason to get fucked up? If you systematically corrupt a kid then, congratulations, you'll have a $7 slave when he's 20. And the drugs and booze will just give everyone an easy excuse to dismiss him. Hell, people are amazed that I don't do drugs. I don't dismiss these guys I work with. I listen to them and hear the story behind the story. I see the whole situation. Am I objective? No. Do I have my own demons? Yes. But that's why it's so rare to read stories about the inner workings of temp agencies, because no one in their right mind would do this work to learn something about humanity. But a person named Amy Goodman said, "Going to the silence. That is the responsibility of the journalist." If you want silence then look no further than work-a-day labor hall. As much as those guys hated their work they would not risk it to muckrake. In fact, I've changed the company names here because I'm a coward who will probably end up working for them again when the shelves are bare.
I do believe there is a lot to learn here and there's only one agonizing way to learn it. Almost everything John Steinbeck wrote was about the underclass and I like to think I'm carrying the torch for him as I carry a bag of soaking carpet pad.

Traffic Sources

2011-12-30T11:38:00.002-05:00

"Demented Baby" brought someone to my blog
but it's still wild at heart and Bobby Peru that lead the pack. How humiliating. But since the hate mail has been charting off the scale lately I might have to fire my promotion department. I got my haters and my motivators. Which are you?

If You Don't Like It You Can Suck My Dick Part 2

2011-12-30T02:21:00.005-05:00

Jake and I were sitting in the Labor Hall. I'd brought a dozen stale donuts that were snatched up quicker than ammunition at an Arctic Wolf hunting party, but I didn't care to eat one myself. I think they were chocolate covered raised. Jake drank his coffee and rolled the unlit cigarette around his mouth. He was waiting for the call to come in so he could be assigned a bell to ring for the Salvation Army. Lately it had been at Rite Aid, but Shaws had better bathrooms and fewer sick people.
"It's $52," he said plainly.
I'd ring the bell for free but you couldn't pay me to do it. For one, the Salvation Army is paying $21 an hour for you to stand and ring a bell. $160 a day in costs and I didn't think I could collect that many donations...so they would be losing money by paying me. And even though all the meals at the Sally Ann are preceded by a sermon, they gave you a roof and some cabbage stew and a job if you wanted to sort donated clothes or pick up worn couches off the side of the road. They deserved better than to lose money during the Christmas bell season. Also, it's a shit job that any respectable person would do for free.
"Eight hours of ringing a bell?"
"Yes."
"Rain or shine?"
Jake nodded.
"Some people bring me coffee. They nod, at least. Treat me like a person."
I'd been chased around New England by fresh faced policemen and stalkers for the last three weeks so I nodded vaguely and said, "Ah."
Jake left to smoke his cigarette.

I didn't get a ticket that day but the next evening I swindled my way onto a construction site. That's where I met Bill and Nick and became best friends with red fireproof slime. It all started to blur together into a series of chaotic appointments:
Midnight: start fire in my wood stove,
2am: read the New Testament by candle light (as God intended)
oatmeal at 3am,
Police bang on side of van around 3:30am and keep banging until I answer that I'm sick with the flu and unemployed and harboring no criminals.
4am move van to another dark street and sleep for 40 minutes.
5am fail to start fire in the freezing cold because the crappy big lighter has a kinked butane hose. Find a can of starting fluid. Spray fluid into stove on pieces of cereal cardboard boxes. Ignite by striking cheap Mexican hatchet against Labradorite stone (that is supposed to help me find my destiny). As ball of flame explodes from the stove and sends the two tops spiraling over my electric guitar, I shiver until I can feel my fingers. Then I scrape the bottom of an old yogurt container and chew on a blackened banana peel. Time to get ready for work.
5:10 - Having put on socks - I am ready for work.
6: Arrive at Labor Hall after stalling several times as the van fails to climb slopes near the hospital (where I hid for a few hours in the visitors parking lot)
6-10am- sit around the Labor Hall trading sob stories with the rest of society's rejects. A call comes in for working at a paint factory. Someone else gets assigned and the remaining men moan and drink coffee.
10am-4PM Play inventive and original arrangements of 1940s era jazz songs on my imaginary piano. Read Cosmopolitan and think, "Blake Lively isn't good enough for me." Plan grand essay on the vapid state of today's youth. Lose the piece of scrap paper that the notes for the essay are scrawled on. Use internet and read anonymous comment "EAT SHIT YOU LOSER. DIE FUCK FACE" Laugh at the madness of it all.
4pm-6pm walk around the downtown window shopping at restaurants. "I'd eat that. Oooh, that sounds good. I'd get an appetizer and a drink....blah blah. So HUNGRY!"
6PM-7PM blunder around in the dark as my eyes are failing me and my legs are too weak to walk.
7PM - 10PM Lay in the van and play guitar by looking at the fretboard because my fingers are too cold to feel the strings.
10:02 PM evicted from the library parking lot by someone from the neighboring police station. "If I catch you here one more time.,..blah blah....," says someone in a uniform. I flip him off as the van stalls and rolls into a mailbox as Bob Marley erupts from the radio: "Easy Skanking....skanking it easy...." suddenly burst out laughing and make a mental note to write down exactly what the last few minutes involved. It will make good addition to Homeless manifesto.
10pm-12AM - revisit the events of the day and edit my responses so that I come out as the hero. For instance, when the librarian says that I must leave the library if I want to sleep, instead of mumbling my apology and stumbling to the bathroom to wash my face in hot water, I respond, "Well, you'd fall asleep too if you were reading Moby Dick." Or when I read hate mail from my many admirers I always slay them with my wit and insight. Note: This particular segment of my day sometimes lasts 10-16 months until every single event of my life has been examined multiple times.
Midnight- Light up the stove with the starting fluid method, burn songbooks and Hemingway novels to keep warm until the police arrive.

This routine was viciously disrupted when I landed the ticket to the apartment construction gig. Bill took charge and led us in ever increasing circles of madness and futility that I didn't question because I LOVE WASTING MONEY AND TIME IN ORDER TO APPEAR TO CONTRIBUTE TO A DECAYING SOCIETY.
"This goes where?"
"UP YOUR FUCKING ASS! WHERE DO YOU THINK IT GOES?"
"Well, you're telling me one thing and the code inspector is..."
"FUCK THE FUCKING CODE INSPECTOR! HE DOESN'T IF HE'S WALKING OR ON HORSEBACK!"
"Fine. I'll nail it up here." (I'm thinking of Jake and his bell ringing gig. Laughing in my head as I mash my thumb under the hammer)
"AND COVER THE FUCK OUT OF THAT WITH THE SLIME! I DON'T WANT TO SEE AN INCH OF PLYWOOD.
Four hours after nailing in tiny scraps of plywood coated with fireproof slime we are told to take it all down and use one continuous piece of plywood. Furthermore, says the inspector, "You're using way too much fireproof stuff. Just fill in the cracks."
"I TOLD YOU GUYS TO GO LIGHT ON THE FUCKING SLIME! WHO DID THIS?"

From 7-1 we waste company time and materials, destroying three sheets of plywood, one large chunk of siding that I mistook for plywood, the circular saw blade...and the circular saw itself....along with some other stuff that went mysteriously missing as soon as we were told to put it in storage. We do manage to collect all the paper and foam material from around the work site when the environmental impact is called into question. "MOTHERFUCKING TREE HUGGERS WANNA SAVE THE FUCKING WORLD. LIKE A CHUNK OF FOAM IS GONNA KILL ALL THE TIGERS IN IRAN!"
Then the inspector and the contractor all gang up on us because they are methodically going through the houses after we have worked in them and have declared all our work to be shoddy, worthless, wrong, etc...and we have 20 minutes to correct everything that took 6 hours to fuck up....and we run like roaches through the site throwing fireproof slime at the walls and kicking sheetrock that is in the way, knocking over ladders, fighting with Mexicans for a turn at the saw, using a box of nails to reach up into the rafters to spackle a gap with slime (a negotiation that was later deemed unjustified) screaming, sweating, nearly destroying one building when Bill lights up a cigarette next to a leaking propane tank. I lose my gloves and misplace Bill's carpet knife and spend 10 costly minutes tracking them down behind the porto-potty where I had keeled over from famine.
Finally, the contractor dismisses us for lunch. I can tell our work leaves no doubt they've asked the wrong people to do this job. I'm not proud. I'm shaking my head as my stomach rumbles.
"MOTHERFUCKER!" yells Bill. "Let's GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE AND GO SEE SOME ASS!"

Off we drive into town where every girl on the street gets dressed down and judged.
"KEEP RUNNING YOU FAT FUCKING WHORE! YOUR ASS LOOKS LIKE TWO POSSUMS WRESTLING UNDER A CIRCUS TENT!"
or
"CHECK OUT THE RACK ON THAT SLUT!"
or
"I BLEW MY NUT IN A CHICK WHO LOOKS LIKE HER.
Oggy: You have kids?
Bill: FUCK NO! NO FUCKING WAY.

...To the convenient store that is packed with people hustling for gas and crappy sandwiches. Bill waits impatiently, honking at an old lady backing out of a handicap parking space.
"COME ON YOU OLD CUNT! STEP ON IT. FUCK I HATE THIS!"

And then he swiftly plunges his huge Crown Victoria (salvaged Police cruiser) into the handicapped spot.

"Really?" I say. "We can't just...."
Bill reaches over a coffee maker that is plugged into his cigarette lighter.
"NO FUCKING WAY AM I WAITING."
He pulls out an expired handicapped tag and hangs it from his rear view mirror.
"Found it in a bush outside the DMV," he says proudly and steps out. "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK." I get out and see at least two dozen faces who are waiting to order a sandwich all looking in total disgust as three men wearing yellow Labor Ready Hard hats and work boots covered with red slime get out of this shitty Crown Vic parked in a handicapped spot. Bill flicks his cigarette into the air and it lands in a puddle of oily water. Nick leers at a girl. I trip on a curb and injure my wrist falling on the cement.
"FUCK!"
Our audience decides they want nothing to do with us and look back at the neon menu and their disgusting sandwich choices. I grab the poor man's lunch of one gallon of water (I curse my stupidity in not bringing water) and a pack of overpriced peanut butter crackers. Nick shoplifts $10 worth of power bars and Bill skips ahead in line to get a turkey sandwich while flirting with a girl wearing Ugg boots.
"I like your boots," he says. "They make your legs look sexy."
He makes a good point as her legs are like finely sculpted flesh sticks that I could eat with chipotle salsa. I'm so fucking hungry that I've eaten 5 peanut butter crackers before paying for them. Crumbs are falling over my gray whiskers as I fish through my pockets for change, borrowing liberally from the penny cup.
"You like Ludacris?" Bill asks after her initial silence.
"Can I have some napkins?" asks the girl to the cashier.

I really hope the police tow Bill's car because I don't care at all about going back to the job. It's all damage control from now on. Unfortunately, the car is where we left it and after a few minutes of waiting for Nick to come back from the liquor store we're back in the car with Ludacris blasting from the amplifier that takes up most of the back seat.
"Blah blah blah...COULDA TAPPED THAT ASS!" yells Bill as Nick bounces in the back seat and blows rings of smoke around my head.

Back at the work site, Bill shouts a series of contradictory and vague commands...."I WANT THIS SHIT DONE WHEN I GET BACK!" he yells without providing any details. FOr some reason, we've abandoned all the plywood strips and I'm now cutting 3/4'' sheet rock into 8'' wide strips that are 6' long. I'm using a $1 box cutter for this and the blade brakes every five inches so it takes an hour to cut one strip.
"WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN DOING FOR THE LAST HOUR?"
This goes on for what seems like an eternity. I bring the strips to Nick who is sitting on the floor with his pants so far around his ass that I can tell the size and country of origin of his Boston Red Sox long underwear (XL, Mexico). He fumbles with a spatula of red slime, his hands are covered with it, Bill's unwieldy framing hammer is covered with red slime.
"'PUT THE SHEET ROCK IN THE GAP'," mimics Nick. "No one says how I can do that WITH THESE FUCKING STRAPS IN THE WAY!"
So Nick finds a weak power drill and starts to remove all the metal bands that are holding the sheet rock to the floor and stud. As I've said this is some time saving method used by the sheet rock crew and instead of screwing the rock to the studs, this single band runs up the length of the wall and is attached to the floor and ceiling. It's in the way of the plywood that Nick is putting in the gap (that was left when the strap failed to bind the rock to the wall).
"Maybe you shouldn't take that band off. Let's notch the plywood instead..."
"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!" says Nick as he quickly removes the band, losing all three small screws instantly and then we watch as the wall begins to collapse as the tension was removed. The sheets of wall no longer rest on one another and they tear out of their screws and fall into the gap and down into the next floor.
"MOTHERFUCKING MEXICANS!" yells Nick as he slams his hammer into the floor, causing a pulse of pain to radiate through my brain.
"Wait!" I say, "Why are we putting fire proof slime on the first floor? Where's the fire going to come from?"
I point at the concrete foundation.
"There could be a volcano under the building," says Nick.
"A volcano?"
I consider arguing the possibility of this but decide to argue the effectiveness of the fire proof slime.
"If there were a volcano under here, do you think this sliver of plywood covered with red slime will do anything to stop the whole building from going up in flames?"
"It might," says Nick.
I roll my wrist, which has begun to ache ever since I demolished the tile floor at the Library restaurant and trucked it out in 5 gallon buckets. I ain't fixing shit. I wish I knew what time it was so I'd know how long I need to pretend to work. I return to slicing sheetrock with the razor blade and ignore any progress or demolition going on above me. Eventually, the contractor comes and gets us to begin a three hour tour of the property picking up all the wood and stacking it on a front loader and then into neat piles on the outskirts of the site. Tons of wood goes in the dumpster and I need it for my wood stove by I have no way of transporting it. An electrician, one of the few locals on the job, finally takes a truckload of wood "for a bonfire this weekend"
"Good for you," I think with hateful venom in my heart.

Bill and Nick and I sit behind a shell of a building where sheets of sheetrock have been left in the rain to rot and hundreds of roofing nails with plastic rings stick out of the dirt.
"Sue told me that if I cut my finger off and wasn't wearing my gloves then I wouldn't be covered by Labor Ready insurance. I told her that the gloves they give us couldn't wipe my ass let alone stop a circular saw blade." This is true as my gloves are 9 hours old and have holes in the thumb that have allowed my once broken nail to play the part of a shattered plastic poker chip. Nick steps on a nail and dances around in agony.

We begin to walk back to the trailer when it gets dark. I'm indifferent to the work and confident that we caused more problems than we solved. Bill and Nick cross a paved street singing a Ludacris song. I limp along behind them as the crappy steel toe boots that were provided by Labor Ready have worn a bleeding blister in my ankle. They have no foot pad and it's like walking on my knuckles. But as I cross the road with my head sagging low into my sunken chest I notice that Bill and Nick have stepped over several clusters of framing nails. A car is coming and because I always remembered the horse rustler Russ Peach telling me, "Always pick up nails in the road, else a tire'll pick em up for you."
I stoop over and feel the tendons of my hip creak like a rusty wagon leaf spring. My knee buckles but I grab the nails. THe fact my gloves have no thumbs left makes it easier to grip the nails. I look around for more and then shuffle out of the way on my bleeding feet.

That's when I hear it: a whistle that has only one source: The Mexican Roofing Bird, perched on his wooden framework, it's a high whistle made without fingers. A single pulse of a note that pierces the loudest work site and calls attention. I look up and from the darkness of a hooded sweatshirt I see the roofer looking down at me. He nods in appreciation because they were his nails in the middle of the road and he's been up there watching for hours and he knows that every car that passes over them has a chance to hit them just right to turn it up and into the tire. The whistle and the nod are the only positive moments of the entire day. I pause and salute him before limping toward the trailer. I want to leave. I need to eat half a pack of ramen noodles or a can of soup or even toast a piece of bread and put some honey on it. I'm starving. The roofers return to the last of their work for the day as the light fades.

In the trailer we are signed out and, amazingly, asked to return. I was sure we'd be fired. Lawsuits would've been justified, but they want us back. Nick and Bill commit instantly but I say that I've got a job interview. No one tries to talk me out of going to it. The contractor writes my name on a piece of paper and I'm sure it's because he wants to make sure I don't come back.

Still, I'm so happy that the Mexican acknowledged my effort with the nails and Nick and Bill are so engaged with packing and smoking a bong that none of us remember to retrieve our loot stashed behind the Port-o-potty. We swerve home, crossing double yellow lines, screaming at trucks, honking, singing about nasty booty sex, smoking weed and sparing no respect for our fellow man. Bill sees Jake ringing a bell at Rite Aid and yells, "GET A FUCKING JOB DEADBEAT!"
Back at the office we clean the red slime off our boots and hard hats. Then I heard Bill say something about spray foam to another man.
"What?"
"Yeah, everything we did today was for nothing. The code inspector approved the use of a spray foam retardant to fill the gaps right before we left."
"No plywood or sheet rock?"
"Wassahp, mothafuckah!"

"Sometimes they bring me coffee," said Jake. "One woman brought me a muffin. They treat me real nice. They say hello. I've seen some of the customers three times in one day. Walgreens has a place where the wind can't get you. I've gone to Walmart but the wind comes sweeping across the parking lot and there's nowhere to hide. You freeze at Walmart."

I nod and yawn. It's another day at Labor Ready. We're all chasing phantoms in the parking lots, crashing empty shopping carts into mystery bakery grab bags.

Modern Folk Quartet

2011-12-29T03:11:00.001-05:00

They aren't so modern anymore but this is Phil Spector (Righteous Brothers, Ronettes, Crystals, etc) swinging for the fences as producer, layering upon layers. It's safe to say Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys was heavily influenced by this sound when he produced his own songs although they were being recorded neck and neck with George Martin of the Beatles. June 1966, as I've said before, is the best month of pop music ever.

Are The Holidays Over Yet?

2011-12-28T16:35:00.001-05:00

I recently received a digitally animated Christmas card where a pale child dreamily walks through a winter wonderland pulling his sled. He stops at a spruce tree that lights up magically. Then he proceeds through the calm forest until he reaches a point overlooking a small New England town where the church steeple is the highest point and all is tranquil and peaceful. The boy pulls a violin off his sled and begins to play along with the music that has been accompanying his walk. Merry Christmas!
And the whole time I'm wondering: "People call me idealistic? This might as well show Jesus at the gates of heaven handing out cherry pie and cigars to Nascar fans while Libertarians are cast into a pit of flames."

As I was nearly penniless up until my 80 consecutive hours lobbing lobster crates, I never was affected by the commercial demands of Hannah Montana and her Barbie Doll daughters. So I missed my opportunity to play 1% Scrooge while the 99% Bob Cratchets of the world save pennies for their crippled Tiny Tim son. "God Bless us Every one!" Such bullshit...state sponsored casinos on stolen Indian reservations and kids huffing piss and shit in a bag: that's what reality is right now. Tar sands projects that pollute and decimate; wolf bounties returning to save precious cattle for high priced steak houses on Route 1 for Rye snobs; chipmunk movies where "After surviving the sinking of their cruise ship, Alvin, Simon, and Theodore must survive on a Polynesian island"; drug cartels competing with T-mobile for domination of telcom infrastructure; guys breaking jars with their assholes; bath salt used as cheap crystal meth; pet food companies manufacturing rice and chocolate...on and on.

The status quo is some fucked up shit and I don't need the holiday ideals to sugar coat my concrete cookies.

Un Mundo Sin Drogas

2011-12-27T14:14:00.001-05:00

Raise your hand if you are tired of the drug war and want to stop it. The time has come to go on the attack. I read that Mexican drug cartels have started installing their own telcom towers to use for advanced warning. THEIR OWN TELCOM TOWERS! That's like your local crank dealer owning his own warehouse full of servers so he can be an internet service provider and better monitor his customers. The scales are rapidly tipping in Central America in the direction of drugs being the future. Mexican special forces are defecting to the cartels because the money is better and, frankly, the cartels have a better health care plan.
Obviously, I live in a fairy tale world where I become Peter Pan at night and fly around on my green wings planting flowers and healing wounded squirrels...so it should come as no surprise that I think I can do something about this insanity. Sure, you can shake your head in your pathetic fear castle and call me stubborn for not accepting the ascendance of drug cartels but I like to frame the debate in these terms: I'm NOT the crazy person for tying a helium filled happy birthday balloon to the ass end of the Titanic, but YOU ARE the asshole for sitting on your hands while the ship sinks. Either way, it looks like we're in for a wet and wild ride but personally, I'm optimistic and believe humans want to do spiritually rewarding work, and not manufacture and smuggle cheap cocaine and marajuana into America so the 99% can find some relief from their failed.expensive pain relief medication. I'm tired of it all and if the ship is going to sink then I prefer to die with a paddle in my hands rather than watching college football and eating franks and beans until our colons explode.
We choose our allies and I'm recruiting allies for a direct attack on the Mexican drug cartels. I don't mean we will will actually target cartel drug lords because that would be a pawn fighting a king over a spoiled bounty. No, what I want to do is retrain the pawns on the other side so they reject the drug-based lifestyle. That takes manpower and man hours. If I can toss lobster crates around then I can make a difference in the drug war. We need a grassroots movement to show Mexicans that Americans are sober and intelligent and compassionate people. We don't want to exploit them anymore. We want to peacefully coexist!
That's as far as my plan has gone but I think it's honest and it's important and it's time has come. The best way to combat the drug trade is to stop taking drugs and to encourage the people at the source of the drugs to stop making them. Who is with me?

Happy Festivus

2011-12-25T13:13:00.002-05:00

Love your neighbor.

Lobster Blues

2011-12-23T16:26:00.002-05:00

Next time your lobstah roll is next to your gray whiskers I want you to think of my arthritic toe and chew long and hard on that monster from the deep. I'd like to type out a nice essay on this lobster topic but I have no time and my fingers hurt too much.

They say blues can not be faked because it is the music of the broken man.

Well, nothing like a week in the lobster processing biz will turn you into a broken man. And if your fingers are so swollen that you can't play a single note on the guitar without searing pain then that's even better. Why do the cotton pickers like Howling Wolf play and sing so well? Because they don't give a shit and their fingers hurt and they are beaten and poor and disrespected and you get what they feel. I started playing this song and it was like someone else was singing and playing, not a pretty kid who wants to be Jackson Browne. It's because my fingers are so swollen and bleeding and cracked and my voice is weakened and my neck is still throbbing. That's 62 hours in 5 days, my fucking friends. Give me shit about my lazy ways and I invite you to come down to the pound during holiday rush season and put it 62 hours. Better yet, I want you to go pick up two stacked car tires and throw them across the garage...FOR 19 STRAIGHT HOURS...and I will stand next to you and blast Slayer and Metallica in your ear and call you a motherfucker as I rip two packs of marlboro lights (along with 6 other chain smokers). You do that and then you can write your own message to me on toilet paper and shove it down my throat. Until then, you will need to shut the fuck up and keep your opinions to yourself because you'll be a fraud and a fucking asshole. "Use your big boy voice" is how the lobstermen describe it. That's my big boy voice. shut the fuck up. this is my domain. I'm lord of this castle. Me. Oggy. Not you.

They say, "Lobster processing ain't rocket science." Yeah? Well, I've worked with engineers in their calculator world and I can say that "rocket science ain't lobster processing"

If You Don't Like It You Can Suck My Dick PART 1

2011-12-17T16:50:00.001-05:00

"I love pill whores," shouts Bill, my new coworker. "I love dirty pill popping whores who strip on the side and fuck in the middle!"
We're standing in a cold second story apartment complex under construction. I don't know what I'm doing but I need the money and as long as I don't break a window or lose my temper then I'll probably get paid.
"Do you have carpentry experience?" the temp agent had asked.
"You bet. I wrote the code book for the White House. Frame to finish," I had lied with a straight face, desperate for money, tired of my principles getting in my way. So I ended up here at these apartments, on the clock, wasting money looking for my hammer, living the dream like the roofers from Honduras...
"If you don't like it you can suck my dick," Sings Bill as the Blood for Blood song coming from his phone speaker reaches a guttural climax.

I smile uneasily and motion my hands down.
"Ok," I whisper in my library voice.
I can hear workers downstairs banging nails in blue plastic power outlet boxes. Latino roofing crews put more Americans out of work on ladders outside. Their banging on the roof comes in morse code patterns: bang-bang-bangbangbang.
"I don't give a fuck if people hear. I'm a recovering addict," says Bill. "That means I smoke crack off the clock. Hahaha! Look!" Bill reviews his contact list in spite of my obvious discomfort. "I can get pills from him, meth from him, that skank still owes me money, cocksucker, cocksucker....pot...whatever."
"Ok. So you have contacts. I get it," I say with a fake smile.
"Fuck that. I don't deal no more. I used to pimp pill whores out of my pad. Three fucking years while I was recovering from my bulging disk. Pills and pimpin'. Fucked up, yo! I got pictures..."
Our other coworker, Nick, has been grinning nearby and suddenly pipes up in a clear and loud voice, "When I was serving time, because my public pretender was a jerkoff...I..."
Bill interrupts him as though he wasn't even speaking, "Look at this bitch. Look at that snatch!"
He shows me a self taken duck lips picture (in a mirror (could be fake)) of a twenty something girl. She's got a tattoo "BITCH" on the area above her panty line and below her navel.
"Her tattoo says 'Bitch'," says Bill, in case I missed it. He scrolls up her thin (devoid of subcutaneous fat, indicative of meth use) hip-less stripper body.
"What's her name?" I say, to humanize her in my mind.
"Jen. Her stage name was Kitten or Charlene or something...She was a rock hard stripper/prostitute."
"Escort," I clarify. "They like to be called escorts."
"I don't give a fuck," says Bill in what is his trademark phrase, impossible to imitate, almost musical, definitely rhythmic rap based, uttered with emphasize on the fuck and with almost monotone expression and deep loathing for whomever is in his presence, his accent almost southern but not quite innocent of Northern heritage. His routine arguments with the roofers begin not with "Ah-mee-go" but with "A-mee-go" as in "No, a-mee-go, you can't have that fuckin' ladder cause we gotta get this shit done." His phrasing is as beautifully and expertly executed as an Italian aria by Puccini.
"I mean...," I begin before Bill interrupts me with his last and final word on the subject.
"No! The only thing they're escorting is my cock into their vagina."
Then Bill and Nick begin to shuffle/dance around in their big steel toe boots singing, "If you don't like it you can suck my dick..." over and over, the sawdust from a hundred Honduran roofers is stirred from the plywood floors into my delicate nostrils and I begin to sneeze.
"I'm gonna play some baseball after woooork. Hoooo! Mothafuckah!" sings Bill, referring to smoking a pipe loaded with drugs. (He made good on this promise)
"If you don't like it, you can suck my dick..." sing the two of them, stomping around, as I sneeze and wipe my dripping nose with an oil soaked rag.

By the end of the day, a day filled with major and minor mistakes, misunderstandings, malicious attacks, malingering, misery and malaise, I calculate the three of us earned $180 ($60 each) while the foolish contractor paid $370 (total) and I estimate that if they (the contractor) had come down to the temp agent and paid all the employees there $10 each to NOT go to their job site, then they would save at least $100 and whatever they have to pay to fix our blunders, so possibly $500 of savings.

But that's only my opinion and my experience at construction sites has always been burdened by my endless pondering to determine the best plan of action. This irreconcilable clash manifests itself when I am tasked with fitting 2X4 wood coated with fire proof putty into a corner in order to comply with safety codes regarding draft stops and smoke chambers. I cut the 4 pieces of wood to fit but neglect to write the corresponding location on each piece of wood so when I return to the room (the saw being 100 yards away) I must fit each piece of wood into the space to determine where it goes. Then there is sheetrock that is jaggedly preventing the wood from seating all the way into the corner. So, after hunting down my hammer, I chip the sheetrock away and pound the wood into place, planning to remove the wood once I hunt down the fireproof putty. Enter Bill:
"WHAT THE MOTHERFUCKER?? ARE YOU STILL WORKING ON THIS?"
He's screaming, I believe, because he's learned that if you are yelling then you are considered valuable. But if the boss doesn't hear him yell then it would be pointless so he has to really scream for his voice to be heard down below in the boss trailer. It's worked so far because he's had a few weeks on this one job and now he's earning overtime, a gross violation of the agency's frugal methods. However, his insistence that he "Knows every motherfucking thing about construction" has been put in serious doubt by some of his commands and the subsequent outcome.
"I'm almost...." I begin...
"HOLY SHIT! YOU DIDN'T PUT ANY CAULKING ON THESE!"
"Not yet. I..."
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE IF YOU CAN'T PICK UP A HAMMER?"
"Well, those...."
"WHY AREN'T THESE DONE? DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE?"
Bill screams this last line as loud as possible, slightly turning his head in the direction of the boss's trailer as he yells it.
"I put them up so I'd know they would fit when..."
"No. NO! IF YOU PUT THEM UP THEN HAMMER THEM THE FUCK ON! DON'T DUMMY THEM UP! DO IT ONCE!"
This remark has me laughing inwardly as we spent at least 3 hours running in comical circles as his earlier direction was totally contradicted by a code inspector.

Code Inspector: Don't put caulking on the bottom.
Bill: That's exactly what I told them not to do. GODDAMNIT!

Three hours earlier...
Oggy: So, put caulking on the bottom and the top?
Bill: Yes! DO I HAVE TO SHOW YOU HOW TO DO EVERYTHING?

Flash forward 4 hours:

"Alright." I say and get busy coating the fire proof putty onto the wood and hammering it into place. This works much easier than when I watched Nick attempt the procedure with the fire putty on the wood and the piece not yet fitted into the space. His face was covered with putty from when he had to chisel into the sheetrock to make the wood fit. Then the wood fell. The floor was littered with 3'' nails he had dropped as he tried to nail them through 1/2'' sheetrock using a 2' long framing hammer. Then he hit his thumb with the hammer.
"Motherfucker! They don't give us the right tools! If they only knew how to do it right the first time we wouldn't need to do this! Fucking Mexicans!"

This ongoing prejudice against Latino workers on the job irks me. Standing up for a people (Mexicans) I have grown to love and admire, quitting the job to protest the acute prejudice shown toward them, is precisely what has prevented me from getting a job in the first place. And now that I'm on the clock and making nearly $8 an hour, I would be a fool, a dreamy idealist, to risk that pirate's ransom, to defend the honor and memory of the unnamed Mexican. Furthermore, despite the lazy, shiftless stereotypes dogging the Mexican's legacy, they are all doing their work far more efficiently than us. True, some crew completely messed up their installation of the sheetrock on these walls, leading to a huge gap in the corners and between the studs and the sheet rock (some kind of metal band has been used to brace the sheetrock rather than screws into the studs) and that is a fire code violation because now smoke and air and fire can flow freely between the studs. (I can't pretend to understand any of it but I did glean some shreds of information that I will pass on to you).
However, if the roofing crew is indeed made up of politically allied Mexicans, rather than Mexican-Americans who live in Texas and travel around the country doing fast and economical (charging $33 a square foot opposed to $140) installations then maybe Nick has a valid argument. Maybe there is an injustice I'm ignorant of. Or is globalization good for commerce and real estate in general. Would these cottages be affordable if not for low wage roofers? I try to introduce myself to one of the roofers but am ignored. Another one lifts a 3/4'' sheet of plywood with one arm and drags it through the dirt. I grab the other end and he stops and looks at me with his dark eyes peering through the hood of his sweatshirt. He could be Mexican but I'll never know. "No." he says simply and I let go. He drags the plywood away alone. There is a barrier between these tropical Central Americans and my pale skinned companeros.

In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out when I can jokingly say, "We probably won't be getting to the cabinets today." That moment never arrives because the day begins in chaos and ends in tribulation but for those who want to know what cabinets I'm referring to, they are the cabinets that I was originally dispatched to instal, the cabinets that didn't exist on the job site and won't exist for several weeks. Those are the cabinets I'm talking about, which brings me to the section of this memoir where I bring to task my temp agency, the inept Work a Day hall where bad attitudes are required and every junkie can patiently await a job from a condescending dispatcher. The woman, Kim, who had called me during my Library retreat, had offered me a job "Installing cabinets, simple, if you know how to use a measuring tape...little blocks of wood...etc...you say you have carpentry experience so are you interested?"

to be continued....

Richistan

2011-12-15T17:21:00.000-05:00

Robert Frank wrote a book a few years back that may or may not be relevant today. It's the book I wanted Willian T. Vollmann to write about the lives of Rich People. It's not as piercing as Vollmann because Frank is a proper journalist for the Wall Street Journal. In fact, the very title, "Richistan", is a tongue in cheek political delineation of a land where the extremely rich set lives. This is how to get books published. He asks the right questions and pulls few punches but it's a lot different to go to a Palm Beach diamond tiara ball and eat goose butt than to scamper down a flood plain in China to talk to the men living under the bridge. What would I know? I haven't done either. Vollmann's book "Poor People" is more my style, painful, desperate, longer than it has to be, equivocal. Stripper poles are apparently standard equipment on a 200 ft. yacht along with alligator lined toilet seats on private jets. Google owners bought a Boeing jumbo plane. But I'm divided on the unfairness. If you can drive a man off his land to later give him the opportunity to pick your grapes then maybe that's fair. IT happened and is ignored so maybe that's the way it goes.

Ethics

2011-12-14T13:21:00.003-05:00

Question: 20 of 20 - Ethics

A co-worker makes inappropriate jokes about a female employee during your lunch hour. She is uncomfortable with the remarks but doesn't say anything about it. You should...

My Answer:
?


A.	...inform your shift supervisor of what occurred.

B.	...hit the co-workers making the jokes and force them to apologize.

C.	...recommend that your co-workers only joke about her when she isn't present.

D.	...make fun of another co-worker so the unwanted attention moves away from her.

E.	A and D ________________________________________________________

F. ...go to Oggy's blog and make anonymous comments about it

Wanted

2011-12-14T12:51:00.003-05:00

Resemblance to Author purely coincidental

When it seems like the world is out to get you, remember that the layers of graffiti reflect the cultural maturity we've earned. Children mock what threatens them and burn bridges they are themselves afraid to cross. Do I strive for or profess perfection? When it's amusing to me I will, but mostly the work here is an attempt to communicate those opinions which have no market and are thus not valued, but which may allow me to satisfactorily complete my homeless manifesto. Madmen on the underground subway cars in San Francisco or Chicago announce similar views to commuters who would prefer to not hear them and take no joy in being a captive audience. The blog is a gallery of thoughts that allows me to practice entertaining myself under the guise of research. What I can't make up, I must instigate and usually society will accommodate me. Take it seriously at your peril, deface it as a substitute for a sheet metal fence. It's not low resource. It doesn't save paper. I've tried alternatives and that didn't work either. In the dead of night the universe will erase all moral equivalency test questions until the static ringing from my ears envelopes eternity.

Corporate media brands and owns children's opinions and behavior from the womb and I'm not going to participate in that kind of intellectual genocide. Call me crazy. There are enough glitches in the corporate program to allow for independent thought but it manifests as one form of graffiti or another because then it will be criminalized and labeled. What can't be labeled is what corporations fear the most because they can't classify it into a crime. "Failure to disperse, loitering, noncompliance, corrupting minors," these are efforts to define the independent brain struggling to manifest itself. Those who are content with a corporate bottle feeding their sheep are beyond influence. "Boycott Slave Cotton? Why? Sounds Unpatriotic to me." But mostly we are a discontent nation, discontent with wages, lifestyles, culture, law, justice, prices, environment, resources, medicine. Etc. We are discontent until an alternative is thrust into our park and ride parking lots and then we do an abrupt about face. "No no no no, that's not what I'm talking about. I'm totally content with parking lots being strictly for parking," they sputter. "Ah, so, you are discontent but only as long as nothing changes? Health Care must be reformed but parking lots are untouchable holy ground?"
Right.
Tea Party folks argue for radical changes, Occupy America hipsters argue for radical changes, Democrats and Republicans argue for radical changes, just as long as nothing radically changes and the Walmart prices on big bags of Doritos hangs steady at the same price as a gallon of North Dakota gas. Crates full of $1 round Christmas coke pints await early January shipment to Big Lots. It's the way of America and a puzzle with thousands of pieces missing or hidden by the manufacturers of the puzzle. So Oggy tries to find all the puzzle pieces or speculates what the pieces would look like. Because how else can he begin to reconstruct the puzzle? You reach an interstate off ramp. Signs:
We think those are our options. Waffle House is a little further than Wendy's so lets stop at Wendy's. Ok. They have good fries. But Oggy is the asshole if he lives in the Subway Parking lot for three weeks and cleans up their trash but then refuses to buy anything there because it's all picked by raped muchachas smuggled from Sinaloa to the Imperial Valley to pick onions for turkey subs so they can buy diapers for their orphaned kids. Ah! Oggy is the villain. HE belongs in the police blotter. There must be a piece of the puzzle that got dropped in the wilderness. "Go and find it," says Kipling.

I was addicted to Twilight Zone episodes in 5th grade. I watched them all day and night and when the New Years Eve TZ marathon came on I watched them all. So I got the episode book, a full description of each episode:
Businessman Arthur Curtis finds his phone dead. He is then surprised to hear a voice yell, "Cut!" and see that his office is just a set on a soundstage. Everyone tells him that he is Jerry Raigan, a drunken movie star on the decline, and "Arthur Curtis" is a character Raigan is playing. Curtis drives to where his home should be, but finds no evidence of his life. Raigan's agent, thinking his client is having a nervous breakdown, tells Curtis not to worry about returning to the set, the picture has been cancelled and the sets are being dismantled. Curtis, realizing the last link to his world is about to be destroyed, rushes to the set. Just in time, he arrives on the set and pleads not to be left in this uncaring place. Curtis finds himself back in his office, while the agent arrives on the set and finds Raigan has vanished.

It was escapism, escape from the grind of Junior High School, involuntary erections, baseball losses, absentee parenting, expectations and hair growth. At least I had the Twilight Zone to distract me. Lately, I've been a character in my own movie length version of one episode. The premise being corporations pretend to give you a choice between Pepsi and Coke and we pretend to make a choice. And the hook is so firmly implanted in our cheeks that even this "choice" is recognized as not a choice but is still a choice we fervently defend. "Don't tell me to think for myself."

The background of the puzzle is missing but the little unimportant details (brands) are all provided and in the paint by numbers key they are labeled "the background". I've figured this out (in my unbroadcast episode of Twilight Zone) so the luster has been taken from everything. Cut through the aisles of Walmart to fill up my three year old glass water bottle? Navigate the staggering Downs Syndrome sweeper locking the doors in my face and the tattooed pallet smacker with crates of red Gummi bears teetering near Hannah Montana birth control pills...to suck water from a trickling fountain that dribbles like a clogged drain so that I must use a nearby broken Batman toy to divert the stream off the fountain platform and down a salvaged Conan sword into the water bottle, thus attracting an audience and the ire of the manager who subsequently kicks me out with a warning into the 20 degree night where brightly lit telephone poles cast their nuclear shine on my flat tires and bald patch...but I have half a glass of water which is not half empty but half full and the Puma shoes I found in a clothing patch full of Mexican immigrants fit comfortably when tied...and that water is enough to wash my cock and balls behind the fragments of my ego driven blizzard. CUT! shouts the director and ignores my Fox News boycott. Go to Detention where tough kids direct insecure hatred toward skinny Oggy through spitballs that turn to angry Lexus horn honks at mopeds in twenty years and anonymous blog comments after that. Fear? I know about fear. I'll etch what I know into a granite memorial to my own shortcomings long before the world trade centers are rebuilt in heaven. Fear to build or fear to destroy? That's the question.

I amuse myself, selfishly, and if my brain could retain the revelations I have in the hunger pangs of evening I could be a radio preacher giving hope to hundreds of rats in the doomed apartments of their shame. There can be no victory in a parking lot nation. We do all live in a Walmart Parking lot, processing fast food to survive long enough to complain about the texture of the mashed potatoes in our future long term care facility. "Dirty Bum, dirty bum, dirty bum!" yelled a woman in a wheel chair as I played Autumn Leaves. That's her salvation and her prayer to the world. I don't take myself seriously but I protect the squashed squirrels in their threatened landscape with my words. The seasons change and so do attitudes and alliances, mentors squash trust with idle facebook hands and build ice walls for comfort, the land hibernates and quasars leap to life, laughing at our urgent betrayals.

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Taco Bell Manager Gives Inane Pep Talk to Crew

2011-12-14T11:34:00.000-05:00

Darwin Sheffield, night manager at Taco Bell #3288 in Indianapolis, Indiana gave a mid-December Pep talk to his crew on Monday Night, sensing a lapse in critical judgement, enthusiasm and "urgency" among his employees.
"Let's step up to bat," urged Sheffield, wearing a striped gold tie and tan trousers. "We're almost through Christmas," he added.
Crew members shrugged and rolled their eyes at one another as the "employee meeting" continued.
"I like what you've done so far this December, especially Todd at the cashier," said Sheffield with his trademark false grin. "That Santa hat you wore the other night was great."
Todd looked sheepishly around the stock room before his manager said, "Way to go, Todd!" and started to clap. No one joined in and the applause quickly died out.
"Darwin has these emergency staff meetings. I don't know. Maybe he's required to by law," explained Frank "Hot Sauce" Mason, who has worked at the Taco Bell for two months. "Half the time I have no idea what he's talking about."
"But," continued Sheffield with a dramatic pause, "There's room for improvement. Doug! Remember when that customer service incident came up on Sunday?"
Doug "Steak and Bake" Baker nodded himself awake in the corner near the walk in freezer door. "Totally."
"What improvements could you have made?" asked the Manager and when Doug's pause began to get uncomfortable he added, "I don't want to put you on the spot. I think everyone can benefit from this, we can learn from it, grow and improve as a team."
"Yeah, I guess I dropped the ball on that. This customer wanted to exchange something for something and I...I don't know. I made it harder than it had to be," said Doug vaguely.
"Thanks, Doug. Remember, 'Who is always right?'
The rhetorical question hung in the air like the steam over the tortilla heater until Sheffield answered it himself. "The customer is always right."
Does anyone have anything to add?
A man who everyone called John but whose real name is Jack considered asking for a day off next week, but decided against it. Better to call in sick, he figured.

Frost on Eyebrows

2011-12-13T13:54:00.000-05:00

The condensation that collects on the roof of my van gathers on the lips of sovereignty until it falls onto the bags of bananas and chicken soup. Order, that tempting utopia our lesser ego strives for is an unattainable destination, not on the map, out of service, not recognized by our spiritual travel agent. So, the temptation to hoard wealth (hidden debt) in the form of expired parking tickets and the phone numbers of broken-hearted women slurring their address and Christmas list to the graying Santa Claus, these temptations are saturated with the tears of my rasping lungs. Kerouac's Ghost stays warm near the fire of bundled wax cardboard. It's Christmas and the bells ring loud at the steps of the grocery stores. I'm proud in my ice castle, building crystal ships to guide me into the holy land.

Swerving around Squirrels
The van mocks my broken pride
robin laughs in garbage nest

The Entertainer

2011-12-11T15:45:00.000-05:00

Joplin performed by Oggy

Decriminalize Poverty

2011-12-11T15:11:00.006-05:00

Portsmouth police log

November 29, 2011 11:50 AM

Nov. 27

6:57 a.m. - Responded to Walton Alley where doors were found open at a residence.

10:27 a.m. - A Mill Pond Way caller complained about loud construction equipment.

11:15 a.m. - Assisted with a domestic incident.

11:34 a.m. - Report taken about a landlord / tenant dispute which became physical and ended with injury.

1:58 p.m. - Responded to Elwyn Road for a report about a “creepy” man in a van. Responding officer found homeless people in the van and advised them to move along.

Interestingly, the "creepy" man living in a van on Elwyn Road (near the Urban Forestry/Yokens area) IS NOT me. I feel some sympathy for him and his family of homeless creepy people but I've never met him. Let's jump forward a week in time...

Portsmouth police log

December 07, 2011 1:43 PM

Dec. 5

5:17 a.m. - Checked on a suspicious car parked on Andrew Jarvis Drive.

7:55 a.m. - Officer dispatched to a donut shop where someone said a child was heard screaming in a bathroom. The officer determined the child was being disciplined by a parent.

9:42 a.m. - Report taken about a theft at the high school.

10:04 a.m. - Arrested Christina Muder, 34, of 11 Old Rochester Road, Dover, on a warrant.

2:27 p.m. - A Lafayette Road caller reported the theft of $310.

7:36 p.m. - Assisted at Spinney and Middle roads with a two-car crash.

10:23 p.m. - Responded to Greenland Road for a complaint about a man living in a van.

However, this man who had a long conversation ("Do you live in here?" "I don't know you well enough to answer that question.) with Officer Small of the PPD at 10:30 pm on the 5th WAS me. And I knew that this day would come (not that my path would cross with the Police, which happens routinely) that I would be in the Portsmouth Police Log. I feel like the other guy on Elwyn Road stole my thunder and by the time they got to me they didn't have the heart to care. "Oh, another guy living in a van."

This is the event that I have been waiting for, the event to formally declare my departure from this area. Nothing says, "Get Out" like when your lifestyle, chosen for its simplicity and reduced environmental footprint, lands you in the police blotter. I do not belong here. I don't care to judge the character of a culture that would criminalize a lifestyle calculated to reduce needs and resource use (you fucking ignorant snobs), but I can clearly read that Portsmouth is a round hole (filled with ignorant assholes) and I'm a square peg (who will never conform). So, goodbye.

Peace Love Burgers

2011-12-09T23:30:00.002-05:00

The old man treated me to some real food at Levi's Joint on Islington. They have 4 oz burgers and some damn good onion rings. I got the bleu Cheese with bacon because my heart isn't congested enough.

Hissing Cockroach

2011-12-09T16:34:00.001-05:00

Dharma Bum

2011-12-09T04:05:00.003-05:00

Long ago I started reading Kerouac and his enthusiasm really hypnotized me. He may have died young but he lived the whole time he was living. He was troubled, no doubt, but he decided to study his trouble. He also drank quite a bit and although I'm not as sober as a nun, I don't think that's my demon. If you want a good book to read, pick up The Dharma Bums. Japhy Ryder is the real life Gary Snyder who is still a force for good. Pick your allies carefully, is the message here, as they will be your role models and lead you places where all is revealed.

Plaid Nightmare

2011-12-08T23:44:00.000-05:00

A kid asked me, "Why are you wearing pajamas?" and I foolishly tried to explain that there was an era when these pants were worn commonly. But I really sounded like an asshole.

Darkness on The Edge on Night

2011-12-08T15:45:00.001-05:00

When I work on cars I like to listen to The Boss. He puts it all in perspective, that I'm part of a long line of historical nobodies who find quiet contentment in replacing worn rotors and plugs and piston rings and ignition coils and swapping out parts only to find that the parts weren't broken to begin with or else they were the wrong parts to replace. It's paying dues and since I don't trust mechanics to work on my vehicle and not charge me to jerk off or buy premium parts when there is no reason to do so, then I have no alternative as long as I own a car or van. I'm not an overpaid flim flam stock analyst; I value my money. Overcharge someone else!

The 1974 Vespa Ciao moped I ride is a different story because there is hardly anyone else but me who can work on it. I own the only flywheel puller on this side of the Mississippi. And after a long day of starving and racing around like a madman fixing cars and vans in the rain then I like to listen to Bruce sing his highway song to the wrench monkeys of the world, the men who have small dreams and broken egos. We are the mechanics and we are lonely but our sadness lubricates the rusted bolts of our mendacity.

Shoe Soup

2011-12-08T15:36:00.001-05:00

Last night was a hard one. Despite the triumphs over the Grand Marquis ignition problems I forgot to eat or gather wood so I was fucked until I remembered the great Labrador shoe soup recipe that I learned. Gather old shoes. Fortunately, I have two pairs that spent 5-7 years on Oggy Feet before succumbing to the wear of Mexican dirt roads. I've been using the leather to repair my wounded ego and seats and guitar case. But, there is a little bit of flesh in the leather and if you boil the leather and season to taste....

...then you get a delicious soup. I had a nice meal before playing Honeysuckle Rose and then closing all the windows because the storm shook the van like a Labrador Nor'easter.

Ignition Coil

2011-12-08T15:24:00.004-05:00

Left one misfired at 1000rpm. Right one saved the day

This is what an ignition coil looks like. It's $20 from rockauto...not $86 from ripoff mechanics. And my spark plug cost $1 and not $9. The labor was tricky because I didn't have the pleasure of a warm garage and good lighting and it was pouring freezing rain on my plaid pants and I'd never seen an ignition coil before this but I still got it done in less time than a mechanic would charge. My feeling is that it costs time and money to learn how to do these things yourself but it costs time and money to get ripped off by mechanics. Old mom's advice applies: "Education is expensive, but ignorance is more expensive."

The hardest part was getting the spark plug out of the hole without letting the acorn bits and mouse nest shavings fall into the cylinder and clog the valves. I used a non-magnetic socket so the plug kept falling out. I didn't have any rubber hose to use so I stuck a piece of packing tape off the box into the socket and it was enough to wedge the plug in there so I could take it out.
Then it was off to Autozone where I cleared the misfire code on their diagnostic machine and the Grand Marquis is now running like a champ. I had three people come up to me to buy crack and they were baffled that I would be driving such a pimped out car and not sell crack.
"Don't you got no whores, neither?" they asked as they scratched their pock-marked faces.
"No."
"What the fuck that shit on the radio?"
"Burt Bacharach. The Look of Love box set. Want me to turn it up?"
"You fucking queer?"
"Naw. You know how long it took me to fix the ignition coil in this car?"
"Get away!"
And I was off into the rainy night to look for wood at Motorbikes plus but their pallets had all been disposed of and I had no wood and ended up under the railroad bridge digging up railroad ties to burn with creosote coating my lungs. So, you can add that to the list of "Only Homeless Person I know who..." wears Ray Ban sunglasses, shops at Philbricks, Drives a Grand Marquis, Quibbles over Steak Sauce brands, idolizes Hermann Hesse and builds semiconductor cable harnesses...and plays Honeysuckle Rose on the piano at the old folks home. I'm raising the bar on homelessness.

Air Compressor

2011-12-08T14:58:00.000-05:00

Running low on air in my tires so instead of spending a quarter to pay for air I attempted to rebuild the air compressor that was hanging out in the trunk of the Grand Marquis.

IT turns out that the motor is burned out. The bearing work and the pison compresses air and the compressor holds air but the motor itself will not activate the drive shaft. Chinese crap wins again and Oggy has no air in his tires still.

Music Soothes the Beast

2011-12-06T19:39:00.002-05:00

More keyboard magic by the master of improvisation.