My Hand Was Eaten By a Giant Snake and I Was Waiting For the Reattachment Surgery

What? That sounds like a hell of a better reason than "I can't think of anything good to sayyyyyyyyy." 

In a nutshell, my life still sucks, but I'm tired of bitching about it, thus leaving me little to talk about.

Did I tell you I went to Mexico for the wedding of Golden Boy and Crazy Girl at the end of April? No? Well. Hi, I went to Mex ... yeah. So anyway.  My mother knew I was some sort of special type of moron way back in elementary school, and she went through different phases regarding it.  Sometimes she tried to pretend I was just like all the other kids, but other times she admitted I couldn't run with the bulls and did things like fussing at the administration to make me foreign language exempt from middle school, on through high school.  

Now, I don't know if my lack of taking Spanish is why I am completely unable to say anything with a proper accent, but I doubt it, since all the French words I know courtesy of years of ballet also come out of my mouth without an accent.  

This means that gracias always sounded like grassy-ass when I said it.  The frustrating thing was that I'd hear it come out of my mouth that way, hear that it was wrong, and still not be able to say it with the correct pronunciation.  Thus, the little foreign language I know, I never used.  You would cringe to hear me say croissant.  Except that I never say it because I'm embarrassed at how it sounds coming out of my mouth. 

I was very worried that the Mexicans I would encounter would sneer at me and make me feel like shit for my shitty attempts at Spanish, and for reverting back to English after the greeting portion of conversations had been completed.  My brother reassured me numerous times that this would not happen.  That Puerto Vallarta is a resort area, that they want you to have fun and be comfortable.  That they all speak English, and if they don't, someone who does will always be close by (this was true also).  

The Golden Boy does not lie.  Everyone was so warm there.  Even the cab driver who fucked me over did it nicely (it was my mistake - I'd been warned to always ask a cab driver how much the ride would cost before getting in the cab, and I didn't think to do that, figuring it would cost the same amount to get back to the hotel as it had cost to get where I was leaving from).  

I pushed myself really hard to always speak in Spanish if I knew the words for what I was trying to say.  They must be used to that in a tourist town, and by the second day I had gotten pretty good at using a combination of Spanish, English and pantomime to get concepts across.  By the third day my grassy-ass had become a real gracias and all of a sudden the accent I could never wrap my tongue around had materialized.  

Which may account for why two weeks ago, when I found myself lost in the Mission and running late, I didn't hesitate to walk up to three men manning a garage sale, greet them and then ask where the street I needed was, all in Spanish.  They answered me in English, which to be honest, is good, since I would not have understood "You're very close, just two or three more blocks that way," in Spanish.  

As my friend and I walked on she said to me in amazement, "I didn't know you speak Spanish."  I smiled.  "I don't." 

Have They Always Been That Big?

The other day I was at someone's house and there were two pizza boxes on top of the stove. When asked for a slice from the bottom box I held one in each hand as I changed out the boxes, being careful not to knock over bottles of wine or wine glasses that were nearby on the counter.

Since moving out of New York, I haven't found good pizza. I won't even try pizza from places that sell other things, like subs, because some foods just don't belong together. Growing up we got pizza about once every two weeks or so. Often it was my job to take the pizza boxes out the the garage, stepping on them to fold them into quarters so they'd fit in the big garbage pails. Now I am just one person, so I never buy pizza pies. I don't really touch pizza boxes that often anymore. Maybe these were extra-large pizzas that came in extra-large pizza boxes. Or maybe the pizza boxes have always been that big.

What's Next?

Last week someone suggested I see August Rush, so that's what I did last night. The person who thought I'd like it was spot on. It was sappy and unrealistic but involved music and passion and although I would have preferred more Julliard stuff, it was a perfect movie to watch late on a Sunday night.

I will say however, it would have been nice if the director had done a better job of aging the main characters. Perhaps some Felicity hair for the pre-baby scenes to make the distinction that a decade had gone by, maybe?

My method with Netflix is to never check what's next in the queue. That way it will always be a fun surprise when the movie comes in the mail. Sounds lame, but it totally works.

Who Says You Need Words?

This definitely makes the list for Most Awesome Things Seen. There are no words.

(Watch past the point when you start to get bored.)

Truth and Numbers

We're getting all raw and honest today. Every two weeks I get $860 courtesy of unemployment.

Yesterday while on my way to the library after volunteering, I got a phone call from a recruiter, asking if I could work tomorrow (that'd be today). I said sure. He was more chatty than usual and after a while I recognized it as nervous chatter. So while we talked about how great the weather's been lately and how sad it is that Michael Jackson died, my mind was racing. Then it hit me.

"So Tony, what does this pay?" It's so nice that you can ask recruiters and headhunters flat out about money instead of having to play the "I am confident you will offer me a fair wage commensurate with my skills and experience..." card.

I knew I'd hit the mark when Tony hesitated. "I don't want you to think this is what we think of you - Patty and I know you're worth much, much more. You're at the top of our list for all jobs that come in. They're only willing to pay this because they don't need someone with a lot of experience, but we don't have anyone with such a little bit of experience." And on and on.

$14. That's right. $14 an hour (normally when temping I get between $25-30 an hour). That's $98 a day. That's $980 for two weeks (not that this was a two-week gig, but for math's sake, hear me out). $860 from unemployment. Or $980 BEFORE taxes from a job. I'm in the "take about a third out" tax bracket. So if you're following along, that means I get more from unemployment than from working today.

You may want to tell me, "But Green! This was an opportunity to sharpen your skills! Possibly learn a new program to put on your resume! NETWORKKKKKKK!" Ummm, yeah, you're right. It was an opportunity to do all these things.

Here's what I learned today: Jergens makes a cherry almond lotion that smells really good! I used it in the bathroom after photocopying bills to go out to over 100 clients, and stuffing, stamping and closing envelopes. Because paper dries skin out. Which I learned from Sandy who I worked for at the tennis club in New York.

I did not learn to use any new programs, though I did un-jam the copier and figure out how to use the fax machine without any assistance. My skills are as sharp as the two paper cuts I got. The Ivy league educated partner said hello to me in the morning and then belched as he walked past me, so there wasn't much networking going on.

But hey, positive thinking, right? I had something to do today that involved leaving the house! That's two days in a row. Plus, because I was working today I didn't have time to read all day, so now the books I took out from the library will last one day longer than they would have otherwise. And let's not forget that Jergens cherry almond lotion. Because that was a great find.

The Michael Jackson Thing

I've had this rolling around in my head for a week or so now, but with all this coverage of the funeral, it's spilling out. I just want to start out by saying that I liked a lot of the older MJ music. I liked his dancing. I have always separated the artist from their art. I can like a person without liking their art, and can like their art without feeling I need to profess my love for the artist.

There is no denying Michael Jackson was huge. It is a fact. However, I believe, and have believed since seeing his interview with Martin Bashir, that his hugeness was a huge part of Michael Jackson's problems. It was during the airing of that interview that I came to think Michael Jackson did not believe the rules and laws applied to him. (I happen to think Tupac Shakur had the same problem, by the way.)

You may be rolling your eyes and thinking things that involve the phrase "speaking ill of the dead" to which I roll my eyes back. Because this is all just Too Much. CNN just interviewed some woman (who does NOT have tickets to get into the Staples Center) standing on the street. She traveled by bus for three days from North Carolina to LA in order to attend this event. She said she sold all her belongings.

Really? REALLY? When you go home and are hungry and want to cook some pasta but realize you no longer have a POT to boil water, will you truly feel it was worth it? When it gets cold and you don't have a sweater or extra blanket will you feel like it was worth it? Sometimes grand gestures are not so grand. They are just stupid.

Another thing disgusting me this morning. There is a red carpet at this funeral. Celebrities are posing. For a funeral. Gross. I get that this is to celebrate Michael Jackson's life. But this is also a funeral.

How would you feel if your parent had just died, and millions of people who didn't even know him were crying over it, and screaming that they love him? Michael Jackson is not theirs to cry over. He "belongs" to his children. Well, and maybe those little boys he developed "special relationships" with too.

Don't talk to me about how Michael Jackson is an icon, how he invented the moonwalk. I know. I don't care. Los Angeles is asking people to donate money to pay for all the security they are forced to provide for crowd control.

I Ain't Got Shit To Say

I'm so tired of "having issues" that you must be tired of reading about them. Unfortunately, you can't really run away from yourself, so I'm stuck having my issues until I can get rid of them, which is proving harder than getting off the Val Pak mailing list.

There are lots of other people with shit to say, but since it's bad enough this is a pansy post by passing you off to read other writing, I'll just give you one link, THIS ONE. It's some of the funniest shit I've read lately. Of course, that may be because I've been reading a lot of Thomas Perry books, and he's not known for his humorous writing.

I've also been watching a lot of movies, courtesy of Netflix, but neither Billy Elliot nor Trainspotting are particularly funny either. No, I'm pretty sure that one link above is funny because it's funny, not because I've been surrounded by non-funny things.