Saturday, July 27, 2002

Birthday.


This day marks the anniversary of the birth of the Supreme Bitch; suffice it to say the Bitch is terribly old and shall soon be carted off to the rendering plant to be turned into gelatin and lipstick, whether or not the Bitch is still living. What is it about a birthday that depresses the fuck out of anyone over the age of consent? I see no new-sprung lines in my face like little hen-scratches, no grey hairs stealing across my scalp like guerilla soldiers through enemy territory. We are young for such a very short time, and old for such a very long time. Ahh, I cannot wait to be a bitter, demanding geriatric. There is something good about birthdays after all! Fuck that old woman who wore a purple dress with a red hat. She's got nothing on me, baby.


I recieved from my upstairs neighbors a rather charming card. The front depicts a vintage photo of a nun in her fine habit, standing serene and stern in front of her Catholic dungeon - or schoolhouse, whichever lie you prefer. "Celebrate your birthday however you like!" she announces in gothic script (what else would a nun use to speak in her word-balloons?) Opening the card, she finishes her statement to me. "You're going to burn in the Eternal Flames anyways."


Delicious.


Not only that, but a hand-made 'coupon' is nestled inside along with a twenty-dollar bill. The coupon announces, "For your (UNDISCLOSED YEARS LIVING) birthday greasefest, you are hereby ordered to gorge yourself on as much Krispy Kreme Donuts and Popeye's Chicken that $20.00 can buy! May you make it to your next birthday, having savored all the fatty goodness of the best of the franchised food industry."


How I love these people, who know me so well. Mazel Tov, all you bitches. I'm off to bloat myself on platters of fried food, only being able to distinguish each shrimp from each chicken finger or biscuit by the shape of the encrusted piece itself. It's the American way.

Friday, July 26, 2002

Inaccuracies.


"You guys did a whole move-around thing, why did you do that?" she petualantly complained to me, as though I were somehow responsible for a great act of hooliganism, a supreme wool-pull-over of her beady, short-sighted eyes.


The pedantic little nit who spat out that at me stared upon my presence as though at any moment I might metamorphose back into my true, ancient demonic form. Well kiddies, the Supreme Bitch is not about do do her 'Buffy' style hokey-pokey for just any old fleshbag, so instead I simply looked back at her and asked what she meant. "Where's this store come from?" was flung at my face like a used diaper. "The other store that used to be next door is now over there," the statement accompanied by appropriate hand-gesturing, a something-wet-and-unpleasant-is-on-my-fingers kind of shake. I do so hate improper grammar, but she was doing such a good job of answering herself, who was I to step in and interrupt the flow of cerebral merit? "Exactly," I smiled and replied, much as one would towards a small child who has proudly announced his bowel movement to a room filled with guests. "You didn't have anything do to with .. oh" the corpulent cow finally stuttered, her train of thought coming to a shuddering, collapsing halt.


Exactly. Well, not quite. Granted, the businesses that occupy this building have done something of a shuffle, one moving out completely, ourselves now occupying another space. But as one can surmise from my feeb counter in the lower left-hand corner, there are many who make presumptions about locations, among other things. Why is it people are so wildly inaccurate, so decidedly unaware of their surroundings, and completely negligent as to everything around them? It truly disturbs me sometimes.

Thursday, July 25, 2002

Creep.


Situated in the tree-shaded Victorian midtown of a moderately-sized urban center, I have been long accustomed to the random bohemian, hippie, tweaker fiend, poor white trash, homeless, or neighborhood freak wandering in to peruse the mechandise or perhaps chat me up. I honestly do not mind continuing a pleasant conversation for a few minutes, as I am genuinely interested in the myriad of diverse peoples that make up the residence of this avenue. Sadly, my politely neutral stance (mostly for fear of midnight retaliation against the unguarded gallery, lest I offend one of these fucking crazies) only encourages the madness to surround me like flies to honey; and the scabby ne'er-do-wells insist on standing at my counter for sometimes forty-five minutes or more as they blather on about such things as their travels back in time one billion years, observing demons springing forth from pedestrian brows, their intolerance to sunlight and the subsequent need to wear four layers of black from fedora to trenchcoat to fingerless gloves to wraparound shades.


Yesterday I reached my tolerance limit. Oh yes, my poppets, I am sure you are well surprised that I have patience in even its smallest increment. One purpose of this journal is to let me pen in its electronic pages that which I simply cannot scream from the top of my lungs, across the entire block, and into the faces of those I so despise. Case in point - even as I type this I just had some mush-mouth toothless wonder and his son come in. "Youknewwhar sainlus med'calbildin'is?" he asked me. Uh, what? After thrice repeating himself, I finally figured out he was asking for Saint Luke medical building. Unfortunately, he's looking for the structure several blocks down the avenue that has been razed to the ground some months ago. Lovely. Why am I the one to inform these people of such circumstances?


I have never seen a body with two lazy eyes, but somehow this woman possessed them. Up and down they would tilt and flutter precariously, completely independent of the other; the left would examine me before sliding downwards, the right staring towards the vicinity of the ceiling. It was most unnerving, and I cannot imagine how the view was from her angle. Her speech was slurred, eratic, and disjointed; and she would ask me the most peculiar, creepy questions. Pointing to a small punched-tin Mexican icon shadowbox, she would ask me for what purpose the piece would serve. Well, let's not kid ourselves - she really asked "Whazzat there? What is dat thing?" ... but I digress. After explaining to her four times, she seemed to understand. Until the old hag asked me, "Doessit have a gun?" I actually was fool enough to repeat the question, and yes, she was asking me just that. "You're very gullible, arencha?" was her reply afterwards, followed by a cackle even the witches of Macbeth would be proud of. Oh, Jeebus, save me now.


Slowly she would shuffle her way about the gallery, picking up this thing and that in a most peculiarly precise system. One object of her interest would be carefully clutched, until she found another pretty to catch her eye. Then the first item would be carefully, oh so delicately settled in lieu of the second object, which was then lucky enough to be carried against her chest. Of course, cautious as she was, every piece she put back was still upside down, backwards, left open and sprawling, or simply dangling to the floor. In an attempt to focus myself not on dismembering her through gales of shrieking laughter, I wrote tag descriptions for newly-arrived products. Each time the computer would print, a recorded voice would announce the printing job in the same manner of a Sigourney Weaver ship's motherbrain. This totally freaked out the woman, who sent her lazy eyes spinning in her rictus expression as though the very wrath of God were descending upon her fucked-up head. I calmly explained to her that it was the computer, though every five minutes when the voice intoned, she seemed to forget the words I had just spoken, and we went through the whole tirade again. I actually turned the volume up as loud as possible, and programmed the system to automatically send through a series of print jobs; I almost had her running for her life, hot damn it was funny to see her scrabble. But still somehow the siren song of my gallery lured her back from the door so she could continue her purveyal.


"Do you take layaway?" the beast asked me all of a sudden. Catching me off-guard, I stupidly opened my mouth and acknowledged that indeed, we accepted layaway with a twenty percent deposit. God-fucking-dammit. That set her off to collect a veritable treasure trove of goodies, her crowing delight informing me of to whom, or for what service, each selection would be. Two hundred fifty dollars later, I tallied up the goods and told her she needed to put fifty dollars down. "I can do that, I can do that," she mumbles to her wad of newspapers (which she brought in as some sort of talisman or luck-charm; it took me fifteen minutes to get her to put them down).


And then came the complex explanation as to why she would have to wait until tomorrow to pay me the money. Eager to have her out of my gallery - I had already told her three times in half an hour that I needed to close, just to get rid of the foul wretch - I told the woman it would be acceptable to come in tomorrow. "I live down at the YWCA a couple blocks away," I am proudly informed as though this is a privelege to know, straining to understand her slurred speech and thick lips, eyes a-goggle as they look at everything but me. One hour later, I manage to shuffle her dirty old ass on out, exhausted to my very core. I had chores to accomplish, tasks to complete; I had to make use of the lavatory and fetch a drink for my parched throat. And I could do none of these things because I had to sit for a goddamn hour and babysit this street freak's battered, drugged-up ass.


Not that I recieved any sympathy from my partner. When he came in to see how the gallery had fared that day, I related to him the horror of this latest visitation. I must seriously have pissed off God in some previous life to earn this retribution now. But alas, no words of comfort do I recieve. "Actually I've taken out a large insurance policy on you and I'm driving you to commit suicide by sending in out of work carnival freaks to harass you!" the little shit announces to me. "At least they were cheap... out of work sideshow people will harass someone for a dollar!"

Today's Photo.




I will swallow your soul!
I think the title says it all. I saved this image as my desktop wallpaper; it snaps me back to reality whenever I feel a genuine emotion begin to melt my frozen, frigid heart. God bless whoever genetically crossed the Joker with this precious kitten. I only wish my teeth were as gleaming, pearly and perfectly white like that fucking hose-beast.

Wednesday, July 24, 2002

Better Pack Your Bags.




An asteroid discovered just weeks ago has become the most threatening object yet detected in space.


A preliminary orbit suggests that 2002 NT7 is on an impact course with Earth and could strike the planet on 1 February, 2019 - although the uncertainties are large.


Astronomers have given the object a rating on the so-called Palermo technical scale of threat of 0.06, making NT7 the first object to be given a positive value.


From its brightness, astronomers estimate it is about two kilometres wide, large enough to cause continent-wide devastation on Earth.


Now, I'm no rocket scientist, or astrometric genius, but I sure as hell can tell that frigging meatball they have pictured slamming into Santa's Workshop is a lot bigger than "two kilometers". Why is it the greasy, slithering presence of sensationalistic media exists even within the scientific community? They might as well also Photoshop in tiny corpses being flung through the outer atmosphere, some nostalgically clutching their hastily-packed suitcases for the shelter, or perhaps their spouses or Gerber babies. After all this hype, and the lovely image, the article is ended thusly:


Dr Donald Yeomans, of the US space agency's (Nasa) Jet Propulsion Laboratory in California, told BBC News Online: "The orbit of this object is rather highly inclined to the Earth's orbit so it has been missed because until recently observers were not looking for such objects in that region of space."


Regarding the possibility of an impact, Dr Yeomans said the uncertainties were large.


"The error in our knowledge of where NT7 will be on 1 February, 2019, is large, several tens of millions of kilometres," he said.


Dr Yeomans said the world would have to get used to finding more objects like NT7 that, on discovery, look threatening, but then become harmless.


Too bad Bruce Willis will be in an assisted-living home being spoon-fed his Geritol by the time this bitch hits. I don't know about you, but I'm sure as hell not laying bets that slacker mophead Keanu Reeves is gonna pull our collective ass from the fires of the cosmos. "Dude, like, thats a bummer!" Well, no shit, Sherlock.

Today's Photo.




I really, really need this.
Not that I have a problem with shoplifting in the gallery; my army of dessicated undead tribal warriors sufficiently devour any foolish, tender fleshbag that tries to slip a soap into their pocket. And they even thoughtfully leave me the heart to suck dry. How sweet life is.

Monday, July 22, 2002

Head Up Her Ass.


Carie Lemak, the 26 year old "president" of the post-9/11 charity "Families of September 11th" lost her mother on that tragic, fateful, horrific day when one of the planet's most recognizeable architectural icons exploded in a cloud of jet fuel, paperwork fluttering down like the clipped wings of broken angels. But this stupid bitch Carie now raises her little flag of free speech to defy history itself and object to the very images that leave witness in our collective conciousness regarding this overwrought tragedy. Nominated for six Emmy awards, CBS aired a special documentary back in March entitled 9/11 and drew an astounding 39 million viewers - nearly one third of all people in America who were watching television at that time. The BBC plans on airing the program on September 11th as a tribute; but Carie says 'nay'. "They're going to show my mom exploding." "We are a country in which we don't show public executions, and that's basically what this boils down to."


Lady, get off your fucking soap-box. Its narrow-minded shit-wits like you that ought to be dragged out into the street and shot right now, before you clutch your little voting ballot and empower yet again another puppet clown into the Oval Office, to dance and caper on strings of money tying his wrinkled, geriatric old white Republican ass to every crooked, filthy, corporate rape company in the country. I am sorry you have lost your mother so sorrowfully, ripped from your arms and your heart in an act of horrific violence. But for fuck's sake, why can you not see that to dissolve such physical memories of these events is to hold above us those who would seek to destroy us all? This is the same principle as deleting the Twin Towers from motion picture footage and media tape, just in case some milksop hand-wringer espies the martyred buildings and is reminded, yes, America is in fact not invincible, and perhaps we do piss people off with our shitty, unfair, favoritist foreign policies, and perhaps we should pull our collective asses out of international situations in which we were neither requested or even wanted to intervene.


To remove the imagery is to erase the memory itself. I sure as fuck don't want my children to grow up not knowing about this massacre, to not understand the complex political regimes that so sculpt our very lives. Other precious, innocent, special little children in Afghanistan, China, Vietnam, Israel, Uzbekistan, Iran, Iraq, Tibet, Korea, Ireland, South Africa, Pakistan, India and Zimbabwe all wake up daily to the horrors that humanity has wrought upon itself. Why should America's citizens, its children, think they are special enough to ignore the blatant, despicable acts that a handful of greedy, soulless fucks wreak upon us all? Why should we sit and feel sorry for ourselves, pretending we do not know why such people would do something like this to us? That we should drape a convenient, PC shroud of ignorance over the whole thing and wait for the carrion-eaters to remove all evidence, until even the bleached bones have turned to dust so we may then re-invent the story into a fictional fairy-tale?


Never close your eyes; never forget. To do so, in my overblown opinion, is to spit upon whatever symbol you wish to name as the sign of all we hold dear.


Here's a little tip from me to you, Carie. If you do not like what you see, turn off your fucking television and let the rest of us learn.