Life is just too much at the moment. My heart can't divulge any more crap to the general public.
I have so little energy and realize that any energy I have needs to be directed to finding my teeny-tiny little sunlit corner of life. This is hard to do when you're all kinds of fucked up, like I am.
So I'm going to stop writing on this blog indefinitely.
To my four or five readers, thanks for reading my bullshit over the last few years.
And to those who discover Sixty-Four Twelve by mistake or happenstance and decide to read my bullshit (like that actually happens), thank you for being here.
God bless you.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Because it is bitter and because it is my heart.
I don't know where to start except I am so fucking angry and disappointed right now.
I am furious.
You know what? If you are a man and you're just looking for some pussy, consider:
Women are people.
People must be treated with respect.
If you don't treat people with respect, you will hurt them, one way or the other.
Once they're hurt, it's very hard to undo the hurt.
To the pussy guy:
Do all of us a fucking favor. The next time you want some pussy, just say, "Hey, I really want to fuck you. Nothing more. I don't want to talk to you afterwards. I don't want to make any kind of future anything with you-- whether it be a weekend a month from now, a dinner tomorrow, a phone call to you. EVER. I just want to fuck you, then... nothing. I don't want to see you, hear you, touch you, talk to you, anything-- ever again."
Don't say instead:
"I'm at peace with you and feel so good about you."
"I can't wait to hold you in my arms, baby."
"I'm so looking forward to all the firsts-- our first kiss, our first dinner together, seeing you come off the plane at the airport."
Just don't say it. Don't.
Just keep your trap shut.
Because you know what? After 30 fucking years of hearing from my father: "Men will say anything just to get you into bed," and me not believing him, me being the eternal optimist, thinking he's wrong! How could anyone ever do that to me? I realize he's right. That son-of-a-gun is 100% correct, on the money.
In the meantime, I'm bitter and hateful and angry.
I hate this. Hate it.
I am furious.
You know what? If you are a man and you're just looking for some pussy, consider:
Women are people.
People must be treated with respect.
If you don't treat people with respect, you will hurt them, one way or the other.
Once they're hurt, it's very hard to undo the hurt.
To the pussy guy:
Do all of us a fucking favor. The next time you want some pussy, just say, "Hey, I really want to fuck you. Nothing more. I don't want to talk to you afterwards. I don't want to make any kind of future anything with you-- whether it be a weekend a month from now, a dinner tomorrow, a phone call to you. EVER. I just want to fuck you, then... nothing. I don't want to see you, hear you, touch you, talk to you, anything-- ever again."
Don't say instead:
"I'm at peace with you and feel so good about you."
"I can't wait to hold you in my arms, baby."
"I'm so looking forward to all the firsts-- our first kiss, our first dinner together, seeing you come off the plane at the airport."
Just don't say it. Don't.
Just keep your trap shut.
Because you know what? After 30 fucking years of hearing from my father: "Men will say anything just to get you into bed," and me not believing him, me being the eternal optimist, thinking he's wrong! How could anyone ever do that to me? I realize he's right. That son-of-a-gun is 100% correct, on the money.
In the meantime, I'm bitter and hateful and angry.
I hate this. Hate it.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Tenterhooks. Headache.
Weeks of phone calls, emails culminating in beautiful, magical weekend.
Hotel-- art deco, beautifully restored, swank. Room-- mid-century modern, fireplace, corner view, Egyptian cotton sheets. Accoutrements-- French champagne, bouquets of flowers. Food-- room service, fabulous Italian restaurant.
Man-- successful, warm, sexy, funny, intelligent. Me-- happy I've met him and I'm there with him.
Thirty-six hours of bliss, together.
Home. Me-- a week of pre-occupation. Him-- a week of travel, business.
Emails-- his-- two, one asking "How are you?" and "Everything's good" after his arrival in a particularly dangerous Central American country.
Phone calls-- his-- two, one after his plane landed in Atlanta after our weekend, the other the night before he left for Central America. "I've been thinking of you," I admitted to him. "I've been thinking of you too," he answered.
All's I can think is, and hopefully I might add, he continues to do so.
Hotel-- art deco, beautifully restored, swank. Room-- mid-century modern, fireplace, corner view, Egyptian cotton sheets. Accoutrements-- French champagne, bouquets of flowers. Food-- room service, fabulous Italian restaurant.
Man-- successful, warm, sexy, funny, intelligent. Me-- happy I've met him and I'm there with him.
Thirty-six hours of bliss, together.
Home. Me-- a week of pre-occupation. Him-- a week of travel, business.
Emails-- his-- two, one asking "How are you?" and "Everything's good" after his arrival in a particularly dangerous Central American country.
Phone calls-- his-- two, one after his plane landed in Atlanta after our weekend, the other the night before he left for Central America. "I've been thinking of you," I admitted to him. "I've been thinking of you too," he answered.
All's I can think is, and hopefully I might add, he continues to do so.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Zombie Parades and Illiterates.
We've all met them-- those grim-faced, suspicious workers at government facilities. Their words are clipped, their sentences are to the point. They don't offer their opinions, they aren't expansive. They give only what you ask for and not one thing more.
Why are they like this? Why is it when you visit the DMV darned near every person who serves you is abrupt and stiff? Why is it at the Post Office the people behind the counter don't smile at you when you approach the counter? Why can't you engage the lady behind the bulletproof glass at the Social Security Office in a conversation about the weather?
I can tell you that the majority of these people were once friendly smiling workers who in the beginning of their governmental careers truly wanted to help every person that walked through the door.
Everyone is different; it could take a month, a year, two years maybe, dependent upon how resilient one is, but eventually serving the public becomes distasteful and some days it is impossible to serve the public without fantasizing about taking them outside and cracking their head open with a large stapler. And then walking away from their prone body, snickering. Because they are stupid.
Co-worker Kerri and I used to be happy, smiling workers. Eighteen months have passed since we started working in the same office and in this time we've noticed ourselves morphing into Bitter Government Workers. Our personalities are similar in many ways, so we've arrived in Bitter Town at approximately the same time, having been hired by the Hamlet just weeks apart. To Kerri's credit, she's a little behind me in the cranky department, because she's just a nicer person to begin with.
This is how it happens.
One day you realize that you are in no way in control of your work load.
Each citizen walking into the office needs something right now, wants to complain about something, or alternatively, they are there to pick a fight.
About ten percent of those you serve are in dire need of medication, the psychotropic kind.
A request from the public can be large or small, bad or good, do-able or impossible. Many times it is no one's responsibility because no one wants another piece of mangled, unmanagable crap on their desk and because you're in the service industry (don't kid yourself; government workers are in the service industry whether they like it or not) IT BECOMES YOUR PERSONAL PROBLEM.
These day-to-day requests are terrible time-suckers. Kerri and I both experience these kinds of calls at least once a day.
The guy who called a couple weeks ago and asked what permit was required to hold a parade in the Hamlet-- "A zombie parade!!!" he elaborated.
"A zombie parade." I stated. I heard Kerri choke on her hot chocolate behind me. Michelle cackled from the back office.
"Yeah!" he exclaimed. "Everyone dresses up like zombies and they shamble down the sidewalk. I think it'd be awesome for the tourists. They'd love it!"
"Alrighty. I'm gonna connect you over to Kerri, who will be able to tell you what kinds of permits you need for the zombie parade. Just a sec!" I said, transferring him to Kerri, whose face was a mask. She picked up the call.
"A zombie parade, sir?... okay, so will you march in the street?... well, I only ask because we'd need to block off streets and have traffic control down Hamlet Avenue... Okay. So you'd march on the sidewalk instead? What happens then?... You march into the park. Then what?" asked Kerri. She listened intently to the caller. "Well, sir-- typically when there's a parade of some kind, it's for a purpose, so I'm just trying to figure out-- so the zombies will 'shamble' down the sidewalk to the park, then at the park, the parade is over?... Will you have a barbeque or anything? Is this a fundraiser?... Okay. Well-- sir, I'm not sure you need a permit for the zombie parade. It sounds like you guys are dressing up like zombies and walking down the street, so you don't need a permit for that... Okay, you bet. Thanks for calling. 'Bye." She hung up.
"Shamble?" I asked Kerri.
"That's what he said." she answered. "That's ridiculous. I wonder if he'll actually get a zombie parade put together?"
"Are you crazy? He's already forgotten about it and is lighting up his next bong hit," I said.
Here's another example. Our office is located down a hallway behind the Hamlet PD. To get to our office, one must walk past the PD dispatch window which is encased in dark, bullet-proof glass. In the lobby of the PD, there are two large signs that state, "PLEASE PAY TICKETS AT THE DISPATCH WINDOW."
Naturally, people coming in to pay tickets wander through the lobby to our doorway, which has a sign on it that states, "IF YOU HAVE A TICKET, PLEASE PAY AT THE POLICE DISPATCH WINDOW".
They walk through our doorway and because of our many, many, many experiences with illiterates who amble (not shamble) through our doorway, we can spot a person who needs to pay a ticket from a thousand yards. We are talented that way, Kerri and I.
"Uh... I was at the Hamlet a couple of weeks ago... and I got this, uh..."
"Ticket?!?" I fairly screech at them.
"Yeah, this ticket... and I need to pay it. Is this where I pay?" Ugh. Another dullard who can't read signs.
"No. You pay at the dispatch window. It's that smoked glass window through that doorway," I say, pointing toward the window.
"But... there's no one there. It's dark!" they say doubtfully.
"Oh, there's always someone in dispatch. Just knock on the window," I instruct, for the five millionth time that day.
Then later that same day, another illiterate slob will shuffle through our door. Past the sign that says, "PLEASE PAY TICKETS AT THE DISPATCH WINDOW". And the second sign that says, "IF YOU HAVE A TICKET, PLEASE PAY AT THE POLICE DISPATCH WINDOW."
"Uh... I got this ticket yesterday... is this where I pay?"
"Nooooo... go through this doorway up to the smoked glass window. They can take care of you there," I say, my voice wavering upward an octave.
"No one's there," says the slob.
"Yes. They are. Just knock on the window," I say tensely.
"It's dark," the slob says doubtfully.
"TRUST ME. There's someone always in dispatch."
Combined, these little vignettes of constant idiocy and neediness knit themselves into a chain that wind around our necks. I shouldn't carry the chain home (like Jacob Marley, who forged his chain in life), but here it is-- Saturday night and I'm thinking and writing about it.
Why are they like this? Why is it when you visit the DMV darned near every person who serves you is abrupt and stiff? Why is it at the Post Office the people behind the counter don't smile at you when you approach the counter? Why can't you engage the lady behind the bulletproof glass at the Social Security Office in a conversation about the weather?
I can tell you that the majority of these people were once friendly smiling workers who in the beginning of their governmental careers truly wanted to help every person that walked through the door.
Everyone is different; it could take a month, a year, two years maybe, dependent upon how resilient one is, but eventually serving the public becomes distasteful and some days it is impossible to serve the public without fantasizing about taking them outside and cracking their head open with a large stapler. And then walking away from their prone body, snickering. Because they are stupid.
Co-worker Kerri and I used to be happy, smiling workers. Eighteen months have passed since we started working in the same office and in this time we've noticed ourselves morphing into Bitter Government Workers. Our personalities are similar in many ways, so we've arrived in Bitter Town at approximately the same time, having been hired by the Hamlet just weeks apart. To Kerri's credit, she's a little behind me in the cranky department, because she's just a nicer person to begin with.
This is how it happens.
One day you realize that you are in no way in control of your work load.
Each citizen walking into the office needs something right now, wants to complain about something, or alternatively, they are there to pick a fight.
About ten percent of those you serve are in dire need of medication, the psychotropic kind.
A request from the public can be large or small, bad or good, do-able or impossible. Many times it is no one's responsibility because no one wants another piece of mangled, unmanagable crap on their desk and because you're in the service industry (don't kid yourself; government workers are in the service industry whether they like it or not) IT BECOMES YOUR PERSONAL PROBLEM.
These day-to-day requests are terrible time-suckers. Kerri and I both experience these kinds of calls at least once a day.
The guy who called a couple weeks ago and asked what permit was required to hold a parade in the Hamlet-- "A zombie parade!!!" he elaborated.
"A zombie parade." I stated. I heard Kerri choke on her hot chocolate behind me. Michelle cackled from the back office.
"Yeah!" he exclaimed. "Everyone dresses up like zombies and they shamble down the sidewalk. I think it'd be awesome for the tourists. They'd love it!"
"Alrighty. I'm gonna connect you over to Kerri, who will be able to tell you what kinds of permits you need for the zombie parade. Just a sec!" I said, transferring him to Kerri, whose face was a mask. She picked up the call.
"A zombie parade, sir?... okay, so will you march in the street?... well, I only ask because we'd need to block off streets and have traffic control down Hamlet Avenue... Okay. So you'd march on the sidewalk instead? What happens then?... You march into the park. Then what?" asked Kerri. She listened intently to the caller. "Well, sir-- typically when there's a parade of some kind, it's for a purpose, so I'm just trying to figure out-- so the zombies will 'shamble' down the sidewalk to the park, then at the park, the parade is over?... Will you have a barbeque or anything? Is this a fundraiser?... Okay. Well-- sir, I'm not sure you need a permit for the zombie parade. It sounds like you guys are dressing up like zombies and walking down the street, so you don't need a permit for that... Okay, you bet. Thanks for calling. 'Bye." She hung up.
"Shamble?" I asked Kerri.
"That's what he said." she answered. "That's ridiculous. I wonder if he'll actually get a zombie parade put together?"
"Are you crazy? He's already forgotten about it and is lighting up his next bong hit," I said.
Here's another example. Our office is located down a hallway behind the Hamlet PD. To get to our office, one must walk past the PD dispatch window which is encased in dark, bullet-proof glass. In the lobby of the PD, there are two large signs that state, "PLEASE PAY TICKETS AT THE DISPATCH WINDOW."
Naturally, people coming in to pay tickets wander through the lobby to our doorway, which has a sign on it that states, "IF YOU HAVE A TICKET, PLEASE PAY AT THE POLICE DISPATCH WINDOW".
They walk through our doorway and because of our many, many, many experiences with illiterates who amble (not shamble) through our doorway, we can spot a person who needs to pay a ticket from a thousand yards. We are talented that way, Kerri and I.
"Uh... I was at the Hamlet a couple of weeks ago... and I got this, uh..."
"Ticket?!?" I fairly screech at them.
"Yeah, this ticket... and I need to pay it. Is this where I pay?" Ugh. Another dullard who can't read signs.
"No. You pay at the dispatch window. It's that smoked glass window through that doorway," I say, pointing toward the window.
"But... there's no one there. It's dark!" they say doubtfully.
"Oh, there's always someone in dispatch. Just knock on the window," I instruct, for the five millionth time that day.
Then later that same day, another illiterate slob will shuffle through our door. Past the sign that says, "PLEASE PAY TICKETS AT THE DISPATCH WINDOW". And the second sign that says, "IF YOU HAVE A TICKET, PLEASE PAY AT THE POLICE DISPATCH WINDOW."
"Uh... I got this ticket yesterday... is this where I pay?"
"Nooooo... go through this doorway up to the smoked glass window. They can take care of you there," I say, my voice wavering upward an octave.
"No one's there," says the slob.
"Yes. They are. Just knock on the window," I say tensely.
"It's dark," the slob says doubtfully.
"TRUST ME. There's someone always in dispatch."
Combined, these little vignettes of constant idiocy and neediness knit themselves into a chain that wind around our necks. I shouldn't carry the chain home (like Jacob Marley, who forged his chain in life), but here it is-- Saturday night and I'm thinking and writing about it.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Mark Sanford and "That Sparking Thing".
It'd be so exciting to hear a philandering politician tell the truth about what really happened when he cheated on his wife.
Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina said all the predictable things at his press conference yesterday, but had he told the truth, it would have been more like this:
"I cheated on my wife because I was bored out of my mind. I'd reached the pinnacle of my political career and felt I was bullet-proof. I felt I could do anything I wanted.
"I'd planned on cheating on my wife for a long, long time. That's why I fed my staff little clues-- for weeks!-- about my love of the great outdoors, that I needed time alone, that I wanted to go hike the Appalachian Trail. See, I planted those seeds in their heads so when I did disappear for a week and no one knew where I was, they'd guess I was off hiking the Trail. Hell, they didn't know where I was!
"See, it's my staff's job to cover my ass. They hate to look like a bunch of idiots, so they told the press I was on a self-reflective mini-break, enjoying the trees and birds, feeding my soul with nature, hiking the Trail.
"Plus I figured that in feeding my staff those clues, it would give me enough time to schedule a flight to Argentina and get a discount on my flight for booking in advance. Have you looked at plane ticket prices lately? It's expensive!
"So me and Maria had an awesome time drinking, dancing, having sex, sleeping in. I didn't want to leave! But I did have to go back and sign papers and things. I thought I'd really pulled off this trip, like I had before.
"But I flew into Atlanta and I was really bummed that the press was at the airport when I returned. Shit!
"So there it is. That's the only reason why I called this press conference. If the press hadn't been at the airport, I would have totally gotten away with it! But they were there, so I had to spill this to you. Bummer.
"So here I am talking to you. Now that my trip has been uncovered by the national press, I'll go ahead and say all those tired old things I'll need to say to the American people and the citizens of South Carolina to try and save my political career.
"I was wrong to cheat on my wife; this lady in Argentina was a dear friend; we've been emailing casually for eight years; a "spark" between she and I happened just a year ago; we became lovers only after "that sparking thing" happened.
"I'll also tell you I'm really sorry I let you down, I'm sorry I've hurt my family. Yadda, yadda, yadda. You guys have heard this all before. I'm actually surprised you're covering this, because frankly, this isn't anything new!
"Lemme tell you something though-- I couldn't resist this woman. People, she was hot. I was thinking with my dick and it was awesome! I haven't felt so horny since I was a teenager! Yeah, my dick didn't care if I was found out. He totally overrides any rational thought. Dude, my dick just pointed the way to South America and off I went!
"I'm really embarrassed and kind of pissed that you all found out about my trip to Argentina, though. Trust me-- I wouldn't be having this press conference if you guys hadn't seen me at the airport.
"Now I gotta go home and try to repair my life here. It's gonna be hard, because my wife made a deal with the devil when she married me, and now this has all happened, she's definitely got the upper hand. I hope my totally fake humility will convince her that she should take me back, 'cause if I blow it and can't convince her to continue with the First Lady act, she could screw me five ways 'til Sunday.
"I'm kind of nervous about it all, but I'm pretty sure if I say and do the right things, I'll be able to make a big comeback and convince everyone I'm a stand-up guy.
"Then all of this will be just a blip on my career's radar screen."
Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina said all the predictable things at his press conference yesterday, but had he told the truth, it would have been more like this:
"I cheated on my wife because I was bored out of my mind. I'd reached the pinnacle of my political career and felt I was bullet-proof. I felt I could do anything I wanted.
"I'd planned on cheating on my wife for a long, long time. That's why I fed my staff little clues-- for weeks!-- about my love of the great outdoors, that I needed time alone, that I wanted to go hike the Appalachian Trail. See, I planted those seeds in their heads so when I did disappear for a week and no one knew where I was, they'd guess I was off hiking the Trail. Hell, they didn't know where I was!
"See, it's my staff's job to cover my ass. They hate to look like a bunch of idiots, so they told the press I was on a self-reflective mini-break, enjoying the trees and birds, feeding my soul with nature, hiking the Trail.
"Plus I figured that in feeding my staff those clues, it would give me enough time to schedule a flight to Argentina and get a discount on my flight for booking in advance. Have you looked at plane ticket prices lately? It's expensive!
"So me and Maria had an awesome time drinking, dancing, having sex, sleeping in. I didn't want to leave! But I did have to go back and sign papers and things. I thought I'd really pulled off this trip, like I had before.
"But I flew into Atlanta and I was really bummed that the press was at the airport when I returned. Shit!
"So there it is. That's the only reason why I called this press conference. If the press hadn't been at the airport, I would have totally gotten away with it! But they were there, so I had to spill this to you. Bummer.
"So here I am talking to you. Now that my trip has been uncovered by the national press, I'll go ahead and say all those tired old things I'll need to say to the American people and the citizens of South Carolina to try and save my political career.
"I was wrong to cheat on my wife; this lady in Argentina was a dear friend; we've been emailing casually for eight years; a "spark" between she and I happened just a year ago; we became lovers only after "that sparking thing" happened.
"I'll also tell you I'm really sorry I let you down, I'm sorry I've hurt my family. Yadda, yadda, yadda. You guys have heard this all before. I'm actually surprised you're covering this, because frankly, this isn't anything new!
"Lemme tell you something though-- I couldn't resist this woman. People, she was hot. I was thinking with my dick and it was awesome! I haven't felt so horny since I was a teenager! Yeah, my dick didn't care if I was found out. He totally overrides any rational thought. Dude, my dick just pointed the way to South America and off I went!
"I'm really embarrassed and kind of pissed that you all found out about my trip to Argentina, though. Trust me-- I wouldn't be having this press conference if you guys hadn't seen me at the airport.
"Now I gotta go home and try to repair my life here. It's gonna be hard, because my wife made a deal with the devil when she married me, and now this has all happened, she's definitely got the upper hand. I hope my totally fake humility will convince her that she should take me back, 'cause if I blow it and can't convince her to continue with the First Lady act, she could screw me five ways 'til Sunday.
"I'm kind of nervous about it all, but I'm pretty sure if I say and do the right things, I'll be able to make a big comeback and convince everyone I'm a stand-up guy.
"Then all of this will be just a blip on my career's radar screen."
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Genetic Superiority Rears Its Beautiful Head in Cannes
Redhead: Good Lord.
T-Bone: She is indeed the most intoxicatingly beautiful person alive. That dress is un-fucking-believable.
Redhead: How? I mean, honestly.
T-Bone: Brad looks like a schlub next to her. Flesh-toned chiffon-- don't wear it. You'll have corpse-pallor. But not Angie! She can wear it! She can wear anything! Doesn't matter what shape it is, what fabric it's made of, what color it is-- it'll look great! 'Cuz she's wearing it!
Monday, May 25, 2009
Vietnam.
We called the enemy ghosts. "Bad night," we'd say, "the ghosts are out." To get spooked, in the lingo, meant not only to get scared but to get killed. "Don't get spooked," we'd say. "Stay cool, stay alive." Or we'd say: "Careful, man, don't give up the ghost." The countryside itself seemed spooky-- shadows and tunnels and incense burning in the dark. The land was haunted. We were fighting forces that did not obey the laws of twentieth-century science. Late at night, on guard, it seemed that all of Vietnam was alive and shimmering-- odd shapes swaying in the paddies, boogiemen in sandals, spirits dancing in old pagodas. It was ghost country, and Charlie Cong was the main ghost. The way he came out at night. How you never really saw him, just thought you did. Almost magical--appearing, disappearing. He could blend with the land, changing form, becoming trees and grass. He could levitate. He could fly. He could pass through barbed wire and melt away like ice and creep up on you without sound or footsteps. He was scary. In the daylight, maybe, you didn't believe in the stuff. You laughed it off. You made jokes. But at night, you turned into a believer; no skeptics in foxholes.
"The Things They Carried" - Tim O'Brien
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