Crashed

Last week, my computer, overheated by Microsoft updates, somewhat crashed. The updates kept freezing up my computer, causing me to shut down. Apparently, when you do this, it leaves behind some components that ruin your operating system.

Thankfully, the IT department at work are a great group of people, and helpful to situations outside of the realm of work. I purchased a 500gb external hard drive, turned everything over to them, and they returned my laptop the next day - saving all of my precious files on the external drive. I then had the task of rebooting my laptop and erasing every single thing off my hard drive. I think I would've had a nervous breakdown had I lost all my photos and the various documents I had been saving for years.

The only drawback, and it's very annoying, is that in addition to all my favorites disappearing from both Firefox and IE, is that all the tags and collections in my Adobe Photo Album have disappeared too. All my hard work down the drain. Still, there's always the alternative, and that's to have no photos to go with those no tags and no collections. I'm starting from scratch in more ways than one.

So, this has postponed the online album creation for my Paris, Brussels, and Antwerp trip as all my tags fell off and I have to reselect and tag all over again. Again, I'm trying to look at the bright side and be grateful that I even have all my photos, but it still stings like a bitch.

Maybe if I Pretend to be Old...

I won't know what to expect. Welcome 35.

Sigh.

October Shelter Duty 2007

Friday night was long and excruciating. The shelter re-opened last week for the 2007-2008 season. First, the bus came too early. This wasn't too bad, but still, an annoyance. I enjoy the reflective quiet of setting up and talking with the other volunteer before the long and unpredictable night sets upon you. In this case it was volunteers, plural, as we had newbies last night. I got that warm and fuzzy positive feeling they will be back to do it again.

Right, so. The bus arrived early and I noticed that we had several new guests. This is good and bad news. The good news is that the presence of brand new shiny guests indicates to me that last season's group have finally found accommodation and won't be back again. The bad news is that you now have another set of folks to break in and set rules. Don't get me wrong, these are grownups and our rules are pretty liberal. Me personally, I'm more of the you-can-do-pretty-much-what-you-like-as-long-as-you're-quiet-and-leave-others-alone nature. It's just the typical settling in and learning the ropes that can prove to be difficult for both the volunteer and the guest. This is when we learn who might have trouble with the stairs or problems getting along with the others.

It was a typical night, I tossed and turned while dealing with the noisiness of those who couldn't settle in. I don't mind it so much as I truly believe it's their night and I can nap later. By 5:30AM, I heard so much noise and people talking, it became too difficult. Our wake up time is 6:00AM. Until then, you must remain quiet for the sake of the others. 5:45AM, a guest turned on the lights and began waking others up. I went down and asserted the rules of the shelter, wake up time - 6:00AM. I was told that they always wake up at 5:30. Not so in this shelter, I said. While helping someone with their bed, I heard one guest mutter to another, "the volunteers just want to sleep". No. Nuh, uh. That is one thing I refuse to tolerate; anyone who expects a volunteer to be superhuman. This is a free job, and pulling an all-nighter is not a requirement. I turned, looked at the comment culprit and quizzically asked, "excuse me?" Nothing. No response back.

Thankyouverymuch.

So, that morning I ended up with egg on my face because the bus arrived too early - at 6:00AM!! It's supposed to arrive at half six. Here I was running around turning off lights and scolding people for being noisy and the bus pulls up in front of the church at wake up time. I spent the next fifteen minutes getting beds stripped and people out the door.

Exhausting.

If You are Going to San Francisco...

Make sure it's for an actual trip and not just some random layover for your intended destination.

If I can offer you any words of advice, it would be this. DO NOT. I repeat. DO NOT -- fly US Airways. Ever. I'm serious when I say this. What US Airways did to us, should be factored into the Geneva Conventions. I swear, people in Gitmo might just have it a skosh bit better than the passengers who fly on US Airways do.

Seriously.

The original plan was supposed to be this:
Fly to Charlotte, NC
Connect to Phoenix, AZ.
Connect to Flagstaff, which would be the last leg of our flight leaving and arriving the same night.

However, this was never to be.

Our flight started out delayed, then, even more delayed. Needless to say, we missed our connecting flight to Phoenix. Airline representatives were at the gate, each with new tickets for most of us passengers who were on board. In our unlucky lottery, we got a new itinerary. It sucked, royally. In the morning, we would fly to San Fransisco, connect to Phoenix and finally connect to Flagstaff. Okay, we thought, resigned to our fate, and as we went to retrieve our luggage, discovered that it was already en route to our final destination. "It will be there way before you arrive", promised the US Airways representative. She was kind enough to throw each of us a bone in the form of a complimentary toiletry kit. Gee. Thanks. Angry, frustrated, and weary eyed, we reluctantly agreed. I grabbed up the special slip for "distressed passengers" which landed us discount hotel accommodations. We took a taxi cab to the only hotel that would accept us so late, and converged on Waffle House, the only option open in the vicinity to fill our starving bellies. Thankfully it happened to be situated right next to our abode for the night.

Waffle House were the only ones who came through for us that night.

The next morning, worried and still reeling from the night prior, we left for the airport on barely a night's sleep, and in the clothing we wore the previous day. You would think that after all that trauma things would run a bit more smoothly, right? Wrong. Again, the flight was delayed. However, luck was on our side in a weird kind of way for our connection in San Francisco because the flight to Phoenix was delayed as well. However, it too bit us square in the arse because arriving in Phoenix so late caused us to miss our connection to Flagstaff. This elicited screaming fits from my mother and I towards the gate staff. Luckily, we were able to catch another flight, but at a cost of another delay.

Finally, when we arrived at our destination, we discovered that our luggage was missing. After slightly boiling under the pressure of all that US Airways threw at us, I finally lost my cool. We headed to Target for some new clothing and toiletries. I figured that if worse came to worse, we could survive on just two outfits for the entire trip, making sure to wash our clothing each day. On the way to the checkout counter, we got the most glorious call ever. I mean the kind of glory where the heavens open up, bright rays of sun shine down, and fat nude cherubs wearing silky white banners descend playing harps and trumpets. It was the airport announcing that our luggage had finally arrived.

Now we could proceed with our most anticipated trip to the Grand Canyon and its environs.

Luckily for us, the rest of the trip went swimmingly. Although we had missed an entire day, we managed to make do with the rest of our time and have an excellent time.

It Was More Funner During the Strike

The dog days of August are upon us, and the city is sweltering hot. News reports last week predicted an end to the heatwave we were experiencing. It finally broke, giving us the most glorious weather -- for one day. Mother Nature decided to fool us yet again and continue her vicious cycle of heat and humidity. As an additional "Fuck y'all!", she added severe rainstorms to the mix, and they aren't removing humidity from the air.

I woke up this morning to chaos. More problems from the water building. Nothing new, I thought. Apparently, the city's plumbing was overwelmed in some spots, including ours. The pipes burst in the mid-section of the building, spewing water, plaster and other mysterious matter all over the hallways. From the top to the bottom - every single floor. Thankfully, the apartments were okay. It wasn't until I got to the subway station when I realized the problem was much more severe and not unique to my building. No trains.

The crowds swelled on the platform, still, no trains. Commuters began pouring in, and with no more room down below, gathered in the hallways and sat on stairs. It wasn't until the situation was almost to the breaking point when we were informed the entire subway system was down. Forget buses, which were packing people in like sardines and skipping stops. Forget cabs, which were already using the buddy system to reach final destinations. Finally, I resigned myself to the fact that I would just have to walk to work. This wouldn't be too bad, right? Wrong.

I tried to imitate the camaraderie of a few years ago as best I could when the MTA went on strike during a December cold snap. My memories of those few days are of being bundled up and cozy in my goose down coat and Hush Puppies boots, all comfy and assured that I could take what the MTA wanted to dish out to us. Today, however, after the tenth block; stupid pedestrians amok, sweat pouring down my back - I had enough. I wasn't built for hot weather. On Madison, I overheard one person on her cell alerting whomever that the Starbucks on 36th was closed due to plumbing problems, inducing head shaking and eye rolling spasms on my part. By the time I turned that corner, an unbearable fishy sewage smell permeated the air, and I knew that Starbucks had more problems on their hands than they were ever going to realize.

I managed to get to work and greet the slow drizzle of co-workers coming from distances far beyond where I commuted from. What a day. I can't wait for vacation.

A For Effort

The past few weeks I had been getting frustrated that I hadn't received my grade for my class yet. It's interesting to remember how confident I was about the class I took last semester. How I simply waited for the transcript to arrive in the mail, confirming what I had already suspected, the wonderful A we all cherish so greatly. ESC's website has an odd and maze-like interface. In order to get from point A to point B, one has to log in and out of several different screens. So, after much searching around, I accidentally stumbled upon the final letter grade for the Native American history class that recently came to a close.

I got an A.

I should be happy, and on a lot of levels, I am. However, as I discussed previously, I'm not 100 percent certain I feel I earned it. In the professor's eyes, I did work hard. I confess that I turned in a mean paper, which the professor stated was "a very creative, well-written and timely research paper". He also pointed out that my sources were "very interesting". True. It's not everyday one finds such publications titled "Counselling the Inupiat". Not to mention, even though I missed a few class discussions, the majority of the ones I contributed to I gave well thought out responses. I feel anyway.

Nevertheless, I should look at this as a learning experience and respect the academic slump I was in the last few months and stop being so hard on myself. If I were such a piss poor student, like I was convinced I was, I wouldn't have got the grade I did.

Now I can order my transcript in confidence, have it sent off to my future Alma mater, and hopefully, get the credit towards my intended degree. At this point, I just want it over with.

Pushing Issue

Tonight, while shopping at the Brooklyn Target store (and for once grabbing a cart with normal working wheels), I got into a shouting match with some big fat bitch (hereby called BFB). Oh, did I mention she was ugly too? Apparently, I ran over her foot. I really don't know how I could have run over those great big giant pontoons of hers, seeing that it was so damn hard to miss them. Especially since her fat ass sneakers were so damn white, like over bleached game show host teeth.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I get a bit anxious when shopping at big department stores. I'm all cloistered there in downtown Manhattan where mom and pop stores abound. So, getting inside a store like Target opens the flood gates of my heart, but ceases to allow my brain to function properly. While trying to round a corner into the soda aisle, her cart was in the way. I stopped, waited, and saw her roll her eyes and give me a snotty "Mmmm, mmmm" kind of look. I figured I would inch my way around her, with no such luck. Finally, I waited for an in and went with it. First, a look of disgust, then a shaking of the head. Finally, as I was already rolling my cart down the aisle, BFB mustered the courage to push issue with yours truly.

"You didn't see my foot there!?" BFB called out to me.

"No. I. Didn't", I replied firmly. My mouth was sealed with a confident smirk, but my heart was beating a mile a minute over the possible outcome of this angry exchange.

"You thought you could just run me over, didn't you!?" Her stance was in a position which indicated to me that she was about to do a sassy and overly gestured zig-zagging three-snaps-up with her fingers.

BFB truly believed in her heart of hearts that her large-and-in-charge presence combined with her loud voice would turn me into some shrinking violet. It didn't. In fact, it only gave me the confidence to be loud in return.

"I didn't run over your foot!!" I called back to her. BFB was now staring at me as if I were going to tremble in her presence. I repeated myself, "I didn't run over your foot!!" Then, I did the most bold thing possible. I guffawed and strolled away with my head high.

BFB trudged off muttering sweet nothings to herself. I, full of satisfaction from my victory, had immediate thoughts of evilness run throughout my brain. I had it in mind to approach her at the checkout and stomp on her foot all while shouting "I didn't run over your foot!!"

Revenge fantasies are sweet. But on some occasions, only in your mind.

Bulls-1, Humans-0

It's that time of year again - The Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain. Each and every year, this archaic tradition induces full body peals of laughter every time I hear/read/see that some lame excuse for a human being has been gored by some helpless, confused, stressed out bulls, who have been trotted out for our sick pleasures.

Having a member of the bovine family chase me through the streets is about as appealing as having, say, an rabid pit bull do the same. Yet, the minute an animal does what an animal is naturally built to do, and attacks because of the stupidity of the human race; we get angry, indignant, and insist that the poor creature get put down. After all, we are the "intelligent" species, right? Sigh.

I say we call for a new tradition - The Running of the Nudes. It's harmless and fun, and you don't have to worry about suffering the same fate as a bull.

Type A Negative

I’m sick and tired of being a little miss goody-two shoes.

I’ve just passed in my research paper for class. I know that deep in my heart of hearts that I haven’t really truly given my all to this class. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the class, nor the material. In fact, I have been dying to take a Native American history class for ages. I mean, since my dream is to turn in my senior dissertation on Native Americans who have emigrated to Europe, you would think this would be such a great starting point, a veritable springboard, right?

So, after much soul searching, I think I’ve figured it all out. I finally realized what has been gnawing inside of me for some time. Are you ready? I am simply sick of going to school. There, I said it. I have reached a breaking point where it’s all coming down to the fact that I just want to get it over with. Another factor is that since I am only half way through, I have been approaching it with difficulty all this time. I’m trying so hard to be good. Well, I’m sick of being good.

I had tried college right after high school and failed miserably. At the time, I just wasn’t cut out for it. I needed time -- me time. However, deep down inside, there was that gnawing little feeling. I knew that sometime in my life I had to get my bachelor's degree. Even if some view it as only a piece of paper, and many don’t work in the field they studied for, it’s still an accomplishment. Later on in my life, I decided it was time to go back. As a barometer, I took one class, to see if I was cut out for the responsibility. I got an A. Let me tell you, it was so damn exhilarating, and a sign that, yes, I can do it after all. That A eventually did me in. Afterwards, I couldn’t turn back. What happened afterwards was a lesson in “type A” studentry (is that even a word?). I strived for the highest grade possible in each and every class. That was my supreme goal, and in the end, it became the only means necessary for my education.

Lately, I find myself just wanting to piss around and do nothing. Or, do other things that require my full attention. Last year, I took a wonderful sewing class. It was nice to start that hobby back up, since I so love to sew. But, there was that educational "do it!" cloud that always seemed to hang over my head, proving it to be so difficult to relax and go with the flow without thinking of how many more discussions I had to contribute to on our forum. Or how I had to head back to the library, yet again to pick something up for my research paper.

These past few months, I found myself doing it again. I admit that it took me much later this time to put a flame under my ass and get going on my paper. I had the subject matter all figured out. That wasn’t the problem. I culled my research. Again, no problem. I admit, I do write a mean research paper. It was the sitting down and actually typing my paper out that put me in a mental quandary.

So, I sabotaged myself by turning in my paper (days) late and at the same time realized that I hadn’t turned in the second assignment, which was simply to outline exactly what my paper was about. A stupid move, since I will be penalized; and even more stupid is that I had the information all this time. And all this time I’m fighting the feeling that I’m not getting an A. I’m trying to fight the fact that I do not deserve an A, and it happens to be in one of the most important classes of my college career. This class is part of my major. This class will eventually be the catalyst for my senior dissertation.

Is it the end of the world? No, certainly not. Is it time to re-think my approach towards my educational goals and get out of this slump? Yes, most certainly.

2B or Not 2B

In a monumental turn of events, for once, I am siding with my landlords. No, I haven't bought a one way ticket for a ride on the crazy train...yet. The reason involves a rabble rouser whom I'll call 2B.

Last year, when I brought my landlords to housing court over some serious issues (like no heat in the middle of March), 2B suddenly seemed very interested in getting involved with my case. Even to the point of declaring she would come to court with me. I kept my guard up, because after all, she never said so much as one word to me in all the years I have lived in this building. A bit weird for someone who not only lives on my floor, but who is also five doors down from me. At first, I chalked it up to weirdness, but now, I know the full scope of things. 2B only wants to associate with you if it involves causing trouble.

It all began several days ago, while gathering up my trash for next day's pickup, I noticed numerous things that did not compute. One was the absence of bins for both our paper and plastic recyclables. The other was the disappearance of the huge can for our regular garbage. Both the bin for plastics and the bin for our regular garbage have had a longstanding place inside our vestibule. The bin for our paper goods was always inside the foyer.

Apparently, 2B, angry over the legal change from rent control to stabilization, decided to work with her lawyer to make things difficult for the building's owners. My guess is that he is some shyster Lionel Hutz type of "law talking guy", who probably has a 1-800 number that coincides with his area of litigious expertise. Her master plan was to get the landlord to exclude her from the rent change over. So, she made several calls to 311 to complain about the "garbage problem". I put that in full-on ridiculous finger quotes because there was never a garbage problem.

The charges have resulted in the relocation of our bins to the outside of the building, and the complete loss of paper recycling for us tenants. Now the building is a major eyesore -- and has a huge potential for serious rodent problems. The landlords are also dealing with one city agency who agrees that garbage left inside the building creates a health hazard, and another agency who claims that it's a hazard to keep leaving garbage outside of the building. It is now all in limbo as the agencies duke it out, and considering it's the City of New York the landlords are dealing with, we're in it for the long haul.

Drama.

So, where is 2B in all of this? Carrying on day to day in her own merry little way, completely oblivious and uncaring that this is, in the long run, only going to bite her in her skinny little ass. Not that she actually cares about the garbage, it is merely a minor coup for all her dastardly efforts. What has happened is a loss of support for whatever offenses the owners have caused her over the years. Now, she is on the outs with the tenants, and that's something you really don't want, or need. Hey, we're suffering from this too! In several ways. We are not the only ones who got screwed by the legal ruling from control to stabilization. That was Albany's doing. Now, we also have to deal with lack a of waste facilities, and a possible rodent problem as well. All because one person went on a selfish campaign against the wrong people.

I hate you 2B! Crying wolf will be the death of you when you actually get eaten by the wolf. I really wish you had picked the proper battles.

June Shelter Duty 2007

With mixed feelings, last night was the end of shelter duty. Until next fall. I always leave each year with a feeling of hope that our guests will finally find suitable housing. A few of these people have been with us for several years now. That's not good, or promising, and it can really bring you down when you see their faces the next fall.

The person I volunteered with last night had the oddest bedside manner. She arrived after I did, and not introducing herself, first demanded the keys so that she could get something to eat. When she came back, she offered up no information about who she was and answered every single one of my "get to know you" questions with one or two words. That was the tone for the rest of the night. A total snobby dud. When she had stepped out for her food, I made a call to the coordinator to tell me her story. Turns out, she has been doing the shelter every month for five years. I have been doing the shelter for ten years, and never once had the pleasure (displeasure is more like it) of working with her.

All throughout the night, I tried initiating conversation several times to no avail. Finally, when I left the next morning, I said goodbye, and out of niceness, lied when I told her that it was nice working with her. Again, I got no response. Nothing. Anyone who knows me knows that I give a lot of people a chance, and that I am an incredibly understanding person. I have done shelter duty with people whom I didn't really mesh with. But, we always managed to make a go of the night.

I'm still scratching my head in confusion over this.

One good thing come out of it...no more Jane. I found out two weeks ago that she had another mental breakdown and has been removed for good. Thankfully, when she started up trouble again, we had some long timers volunteering that night who were able to keep the situation under control. My only regret is that I didn't tell the coordinator immediately that I didn't ever want her there. I had figured I'd wait until we spoke about arranging the next shelter night. Unfortunately, it didn't happen in time.

Mars Needs Water

Turns out, my carnivorous plant, Mars, requires distilled water, only.

DIVA!

Don't they only sell that stuff in huge frigging gallons? That seems like a lot for an itty bitty plant. How on earth am I to keep a supply of distilled water around when he will only need it every once in a great while?

What will he require next? Dance and elocution classes?

I should have gotten a cactus.

Humming Towards Insanity

There are four types of individuals.

1. Those who whistle

2. Those who hum

3. Those who whistle and hum

4. Those who so desperately want to go homicidal on 1, 2, and 3.


As you might have already guessed, I am in the number four category.

I am a devout magazine junkie, and the place I prefer to do business at is the magazine store in my neighborhood, which I stop in sometimes on my way home from work. Now, I've gotten much way better at managing my addiction, and I mostly browse whilst the young cute Middle-Eastern guy behind the counter flirts with me. Personally, I think it's a ploy on his part to get me to buy more, but since I'm forced to take it one day at a time with my habit, I just go along with the niceties.

The other day, whilst browsing, there he was – like a villainous superhero - The Hummer. This wasn’t your ordinary variety of offender. Like the ones who are humming away melodically on a happy, snappy tune. No, this was the worst of the lot. The down and dirty type. He was in the hum-a-few-bars-slow-and-randomly-way category of delinquent. And in a very low baritone voice I might add.

STOP HUMMING!!

Now, with the ones who hum away sing-songy like, you can just adjust your brain to tune them out. Make them background noise. With the type I faced the other day; you can’t really tell when the next verse is going to assault your eardrums. So you begin that long road to craziness trying to figure out when they will strike next. You even begin to think you are hearing them. And being in a store with roughly the square footage of my shoebox apartment, I couldn't get away from him.

I got so uncomfortable I just walked out. Yeah, just like that. Plus, he was real tall like and imposing, so I didn't have the courage to yell at him. To those who know about my magazine obsession, this was certainly no small feat.

Sunday Afternoon at Ikee-ER

Today, I did what I never do much that I should do more often. I went to Ikea. Or, as the family in Maine would call it, "Ikee-ER". One of the luxuries of city living is that places like this actually will do stuff to get you to their locale. Case in point - Ikea offers a free shuttle bus service every weekend, picking up and dropping off from the Port Authority bus terminal. So, it's not unusual to see numerous hipsters waiting in a very, very long line at Gate #5 for this bus.

I went out of want/need of picture frames and didn't find what I was looking for. But I came back with the bendable cutting board (a necessity in my teeny-tiny kitchen), and some cheap towels to place across my windowsill to catch the grime that enters my apartment in the summertime (you have to see it to believe it). Oh, and I couldn't leave without buying some proper Scandinavian licorice.

I like Ikea, but I also hate it. For some time, all I could think was, what is it about this place that leaves me so conflicted? This weekend I figured it out. I go there mainly for the food. Okay, I'll admit it, I treat the cafeteria as if I were really in Sweden. The Swedish meatballs with lingonberry sauce are definitely the highpoint of my trip there. The coffee, which I rarely drink in my day to day life, is strong and smooth. And I get all jazzed up over the decadent desserts (who wouldn't!). My view of Swedish cuisine is forever skewed. I think anyway. I recall visiting the cafe inside the Scandinavia House and feeling let down that the $4.99 meatball plate special was not the focal point of the menu. Such is life I guess.

I guess the moral to the story is that I only emphatically LOVE the place. But, I do enjoy visiting.

So the next time you hear me mention that I went to Ikea, don't first ask what I bought. First ask me what I ate!

Keeping Out the (Gramercy) Riff Raff

Looks like the long waited for day this year has come to naught. Every first Saturday of May, the Gramercy Park Block Association sponsors what is known as “Gramercy Park Day”. This is one of only two times out of the year (the second being the Christmas concert) when those hallowed iron doors of this private park open to allow the throngs of neighborhood citizens inside. Otherwise, you will need to live around the perimeter of the park, and have a key.

GPD turns into a fair of sorts, with free food, clowns and various activities for young and old. Now that it's cancelled indefinitely? The huddled masses yearning to breathe free will have to continue to hang outside of the locked gates and peer inside, like they do 363 times out of the rest of the year.

April Shelter Duty

Last night was my turn for shelter duty this month. Again, I was alone this time, which was perfectly alright with me. Sometimes, I prefer it this way. The night went off without a hitch, with the exception of a guest who talked really loud in his sleep. I woke him to give warning, although I realize the idea of that is quite absurd. How do you curtail what you do in your sleep? I did it mainly to appease another guest who was near him, and who wouldn't calm down until I did something about his ramblings. It ended up working, and we were fine throughout the night. I actually got some sleep. Anyway, when our guests first arrived, my stomach dropped.

It was the return of *Jane.

I came in contact with Jane early last year. It was my first, and what I had hoped would be my last time. The night she arrived, everything was fine, save for a disruptive guest who was a bit of a bother all night. He woke up before the 6am wake up call being noisy and disruptive. Jane had much issue with this guest's actions. She went on and on complaining about him, mumbling and speaking in non-sequiturs. I spoke with the other guest, explaining the rules of behavior before wake up call, and everything was fine, except that Jane insisted on complaining. I gently explained to her that now she was being the disruptive one. After wake up call, she approached me, still angry that I had scolded her and defiant. I explained my position, but soon found out it was to be of no use. Viewing her behavior, it became quite clear what I was dealing with - schizophrenia.

Jane wouldn't let up, and proceeded to follow me around the shelter admonishing me. Finally, after much confrontation, I asked for her name. Because she wouldn't supply that information, I decided to best her and do roll call again; weeding out the names until I zeroed in on hers. In that short span of time, Jane managed to write up a five page manifesto on mini notepad paper, of why she was being "oppressed". Words such as "Jews", "Nazis", and "resistance fighters" peppered the pages. That is when I was truly aware that I had a live one here. After much back and forth, Jane finally pointed at me and exclaimed, "YOU, ARE A NAZI!!" After that remark, what could I do? I threw my hands up, walked away, and in a sing-songy "whatever" voice said, "Okay, so I'm a Nazi!"

We were so relieved when the bus to pick up our guests finally arrived. Doesn't it always seem like forever when things are going pear-shaped?

And my shelter partner that night. Where exactly was she during all of this hullabaloo? In hiding folks. Now you know why I don't mind being alone.

A few months after this chaotic meeting, my friend and I were walking in my neighborhood, and to my surprise, we passed by Jane. She looked terrible. Judging by the look of her, you could tell that she was out of shelter system and onto the streets. There is a definitive look about someone who is on the street and knows how to handle that brutal life, and someone who doesn't. Jane was the latter.

Well, last night and this morning, Jane was her usual cranky self, but without the outbursts. My guess is that she got back on her meds. Even her appearance was different. Plus, she was more talkative with the other guests. She even approached me about a problem with the ladies' bathroom. I tensed up a bit knowing that whatever my response was could make or break her behavior. Thankfully, it was fine.

I was glad to see her go, but it left mixed feelings inside of me. Why would the pickup station put her on the bus when they were told that she was banned? Perhaps it was the passage of time that made them forget. But still. While my gut says I don't want her there anymore, my rational mind says that it's necessary to understand the plight of mentally disabled persons. Last night, things went off without a hitch. But that was only one night. Not to mention that I was on my toes all night about her presence there and that keeps me from doing my job properly. Who can predict that Jane won't ever act up again? My fear is that she will start up on someone else, someone who is new at shelter duty. What if it's worse and Jane hurts someone? I made the decision. I went with my gut. I am going to voice my concerns to the shelter coordinator and have her banned again. In the long run, it's for the best.

I simply must put my safety first.

*Names changed to protect the insane.

Actually, I Quite Prefer Limey Town

So the Brits and their American counterparts are coming out in support of renaming the block of Greenwich Avenue between 12th and 13th streets "Little Britain". This little enclave in the West Village celebrates all things British.

Stores and businesses in the West Village have banded together to get their neighborhood around Greenwich Ave. officially renamed "Little Britain" - putting it in the same category as other famous ethnic enclaves such as Chinatown, Little Italy and Spanish Harlem.

Now wait a minute. Hardly a "ghetto" in its more correct term, especially since there is already criticism and charges of conduct unbecoming on our own shores, and it doesn't involve taxation without representation (that's just so 1776).

While I think the idea is brilliant, I hope that the many people behind it realize that there can be no comparison to these other neighborhoods mentioned in the article. If that is the intent, it would be quite insulting to compare British expats to the other immigrants who have settled here. The West Village is not and will never be comparable to the trials an tribulations of the immigrant communities of say Jackson Heights or East Harlem. There are no British people fleeing war, poverty or starvation. British immigration to the Americas is strictly financial and/or artistic in nature.

Since I am a halvsie, I had already considered this area to be Little Britain, or "The Ghetto" as I lovingly call it. And I giggle a bit because it reminds me of the show of the same name. I do have reservations only because I want it to remain my own little secret.

So, anytime you need your fill of anglophilia, you can just head over to the West Village and stock up on fresh pies, Bird's custard and Ribena all at Myers of Keswick. Head over to Tea and Sympathy for Sunday roast or afternoon tea, and go next door to the chippie for some faboo greasy fish n' chips.

And Bob's your uncle!!

Battle Royale

On my way home from work today, I got into a verbal confrontation with a disgruntled middle aged man. Oh, he was ugly too.

When I walk the city streets home, I tend to keep to the sides because I'm frequently lost in thought and I don't want to bump into people. I am however, aware of my surroundings. In this case, the sidewalks weren't busy, so there was ample space for this jerk to walk by me unfettered. This was not to be the case. In a matter of seconds I felt the sharp jab of a shoulder bag in my gut. Le Jerkoff immediately got defensive with me even before I exclaimed, "WHAT THE FUCK!?" My brain quickly determined that either he meant to slam into me, or he assumed that he didn't have to move for anyone. After I yelled at him, he turned to me and called me a million names, not one of them good. I walked towards him shouting back insults. I was quite the surprised one when he decided to walk back in my direction and have a go at me. A shouting match ensued, and after putting up with his string of crazy non sequiturs (“Oh, is that your favorite body part!?”), I arrived at the conclusion that he must have been a card carrying member of the He-Man Woman Haters Club.

Luckily, I quickly assessed the situation and remembered that I had pepper spray on my person. I think he got it into his thick skull that going after a woman in the middle of Midtown, who was also reaching in her handbag for something, was not the greatest idea in the whole wide world. In his final coup de main, before walking away for good, he shouted, "GO VOTE FOR HILLARY CLINTON!!"

Okay. I'm getting verbal abuse and savvy political advice. I wonder if this guy hires himself out for consulting jobs too. I had to laugh, I mean what was I supposed to do after that comment? Can you imagine if I stopped, turned to him, and gently explained -

"Actually sir, I'm more of a conservative Democrat myself. I'm personally opposed to abortion, but I firmly believe in a woman's right to choose. I'm an advocate of personal responsibility, but feel that the government should provide a solid safety net for the marginalized members of society, or those who might find themselves in a financially unstable position".

Imagine that scenario folks!

After calming myself down, I got the distinct feeling that he was a short old loser, mad at what the world dished out to his pathetic self. My guess is either his wife left his sorry ass, or he was currently married to some useless hag. Whatever it was, he needed to get some.

Why be angry at me? I can't help it if I'm cute and happened to be having a good hair day!

Better Than A Casino

Oh, Wah! Leave the Hualapai Tribe alone. The White fist of the Sierra Club has, of course, complained about the efforts of this tribe under the guise of keeping the pristine condition of the Grand Canyon intact. Remember people, this tribe was schlepping around that canyon way before your ancestors even thought to put up a gift shop, beat up those poor canyon donkeys, and call it a cultural event.

First, let me explain that I have nothing against the Sierra Club, and I consider myself to be an environmentalist (I try my damnedest anyway), but the Native in me says to these doubters, "Shut Up, You!" With so many tribes turning to casinos as revenue to remedy their problems (thus, creating new ones), the Hualapai are taking it a step further, and better. Plagued by years of poverty, they seek to increase revenue on their native land by building a glass Skywalk which will extend 70 feet out and 4,000 feet above the Colorado River.

STUNNING





Now before you go getting thoughts of unnecessary drilling and fakeness, the Hualapai have kept the skywalk as natural looking as possible, using natural materials, so not to spoil the aesthetics of the canyon. They have also built the structure on a side canyon, out of view. How kick ass is that? Here’s an attraction that will benefit the nature lovers and provide a purpose in life. To enjoy yet another scenic view of a natural wonder, and for the average Joe to be able to walk on Indian land.

Visitors will not only get to know the Hualapai on a much deeper level, they will also (hopefully) get an understanding of tribal history in our country; whilst helping out an actual tribe at the same time. That’s much better than a casino, which will only result in empty pockets, and a low rent laser light show. But I digress. Face it. The last time you saw Native Americans in the Grand Canyon was on the Brady Bunch. And why did Bobby and Cindy bring that poor kid hot dogs and beans anyway? I totally forget now.

So what is it really that you want? To walk on ancient land kept pristine and now available for you to get stunning views while helping out an actual Native tribe? Or, can you still not get over the novelty of tax-free packs of smokes and that charming dream catcher which makes you feel, so…um…“spiritual”?

So, pay out your twenty five bucks, step on board, and dig the scenery. Groovy!

My Own Worst Enemy

Me.

I am my own worst enemy. There I said it. I started this thing with a deep fear that over time I'd end up having nothing to write about. Now, I have about thirty, count 'em, thirty items banked for future posting. This doesn't count the everyday things that occur, or the newsworthy stories that will come up.

Naturally, I've already done myself in. See, I drafted and banked an item about generic street fairs here in the city. Last night, I attended a lecture which addressed this very issue. So, I feel like that proposed entry has dried up and I can't think of posting it in the near future. I discussed another item with H about the silly low rent cable channel commercials of our childhood that I have yet to post here. Collecting dust was an item I wrote about the proposed sale of the Starrett City housing development. Now, that deal has fallen through, so my proposed entry has gone and done the same.

Alright, already! I have to bite the bullet and stop hoarding my entries. Or else I'm doing myself in and defeating the purpose of this blog.

Enough said.