The Laid-Off Peripatetic (LOP)

The MegaMillions jackpot is up to $170, and I have the winning ticket for the next drawing. I can feel it—probably because I did an improvised witchy witchy dance for the Lottery Gods. I think they smiled, or maybe it was laughter. I have no other way of explaining the temporary numbing sensation in my phalanges, the voices and what appeared to be the Snuggles bear pointing skyward. Then again, maybe I should stop licking toads.

Anyway, I’ve put a lot of thought into what I’ll do with the money ($108.5 million after the IRS takes its chunk…thieving bastards). After hiring the obvious financial gurus and gatekeepers (I hear immortals and mole people make the best kind because neither care much about money and are both scary in their own right), I’ll start spending, allocating and doling. I’ll contribute to charity, but I won’t go into details because the gesture fails to be altruistic when it’s promoted.

Next, I would give my parents money so that they can play more in their retirement years. Martin doesn’t leave the farm, so I would have to bring the joy and happiness of what money can buy to him. Though we’ve never spoken about what would make him the happiest, I can speculate after knowing him for a lifetime. I would hire the entire female cast of Baywatch to run through the yard in their bikinis and later wash his tractors while he sat back, drank beer and smoked a few Cuban cigars. Mom would probably just shake her head, but I believe my stoic Dad would actually be giddy. Sure, it’s kind of creepy that I would choose that particular gift, but he’s pushing 75, so he’s entitled.

As for Mom—well, bestowing joy upon her would be easier and less weird. All she wants is a finished, furnished basement and to visit Ireland with her daughters. Ironically, the most difficult aspect of fulfilling that wish has nothing to do with money, which is all of the Burke daughters traveling in harmony for an extended period. Bloody hell, I have hives thinking about it.

As for me, well, I’d charter a jet and fly my friends to some obscure, tsunami-free island where we would stay in a village of huts built on the water. Midget waiters would be involved and they would be dressed in clamshell bras and fur loincloths—ideally they would be able to limbo, but that’s not a requirement.

I’d go on a shopping spree over the course of days; though I’d take great care not to purchase anything designed by Jessica Simpson or Paris Hilton. I’d probably purchase a villa, chateau and beach house because multiple residences is the cool rich person thing to do. I’ll sponsor a baby seal and liberate the poor beasts forced into indentured servitude by Siegfried & Roy, maybe sending the two masters to Africa in cages to become a food source. It’s not like they aren’t used to being inside the mouths of feral cats.

So, that’s my take on the lottery. Even if I have to split the jackpot with another winner, I’ll still have enough to fund at least one more residence with far more square footage and acreage than what is practical.

Here’s to a grandiose. ostentatious lifestyle and the midgets in it.

Blow-up air guitarist

Farmin' Martin

I chatted with Ma and Pa Burke tonight, as I do on most Sunday nights. The conversation with Mom was typical—she gave me both the current and extended weather forecast for Southwestern Kansas, told me what the neighbors were doing, how badly her garden needed rototilled and about the absence of the garlic she so desperately needed to plant. On the upside, no one she knew had died, so I didn’t get the mortality count. To her credit my Mom never asks such annoying questions as “When are you getting married,” “Why aren’t you more like such and such sister,” “Do you have a job.” She is the antithesis of the annoying moms on TV and the screaming ilk in shopping malls everywhere—the kind over which therapists salivate.

Dad is pretty much the same, though when he does pose such a question, it isn’t pressure based. He genuinely wants to know. And so our conversations tend to be a bit more animated, sometimes for the better, sometimes not. Well, tonight he was on very good behavior and was in good spirits as well probably because he’s still on his walkabout high. (For about eight or so years, he has attended the annual beer-fest in Denver, which was last weekend.)

“Have you found a job yet?” he asked.

“Not yet—still looking,” I said.

If I would have said I had a job, I think he would have been disappointed because he had put a tremendous amount of thought into career options that I hadn’t before considered and wanted to share them.

Firefighter: It’s obvious, of course, because California is one, perpetual conflagration—San Bernadino being the latest part of the state to be incinerated. He also thought that my martial arts training would give me an advantage over the other candidates vying for positions. How he arrived at that conclusion, I have no idea.

Soap Opera Actor: You see, he plans his afternoons around watching “Days of Our Lives” and another soap opera—”Guiding Light,” I think. I explained that such a gig would probably require acting training or at least natural talent, but he assured me that none of the actors involved with the program had either, so why would I? Touche.

He was so proud of these epiphanies that he suggested I pass his insight on to the Happy Couple. (And yes, Dad calls them the Happy Couple…the only thing funnier is when he refers to Bob and Dave—the two farm cats Mom named after my gay boys from Chicago. Hysterical.) So, consider my job search officially expanded, especially because he believes that I can do both—soap operas during the week and firefighter on my days off. It might be just crazy enough to work.

It was First Friday last night and though I’m on the mend, I’m not fully functional at 6 p.m. on the real Friday. Messy, but so worth it—this First Friday was one of the wackiest yet. The Happy Couple and I stumbled upon TechNoir, an 80s-themed DJ night at Coach & Horses. Sadly, young Josh’s DJ equipment died, so we improvised with the jukebox. While dancing to Elvis, I met a group of loyal C&H denizens who were equally as inebriated as we were.

D-Man, DJ Josh, me

I met Josh when my curiosity got the better of me—I had to know how badly it hurt to get a throat tattoo. I’m considering one—an arrow pointing down with the word BODACIOUS Bs. Ha ha ha. I kill me. Josh was the ideal source of information because not only has he experienced the pain first-hand, he’s also dealt it out. He’s a tattoo artist. Anyway, he informed me that the throat was was the second-most painful place to get a tattoo. I gasped and looked down at this crotch assuming that locale was number one. I couldn’t help it! It was the first thing that popped into my head (pardon the expression). But he dispelled that assumption rather quickly and gave me the Top 5 list of the most painful places to get a tattoo, listed in order from the most painful to the least:

• Head
• Throat
• Front of the knee
• Back of the kee
• Top of ribs

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. I’m far too wimpy to consider a tattoo on any part of my body, but I thought I’d share just in case there are those of you who are a bit braver.

Foxy the feral cat

It was a year ago last June that I sold my condo, packed everything I owned (mostly) into storage and moved into a furnished apartment sans television. My plan was to move to LA sooner than later, so I told myself that I could live without TV for a month or two or even three. When I had a TV, I rarely watched it save for a few of my favorites: Burn Notice, Monk, The Closer and The Office. “Eh,” I said, “I’ll watch the reruns.”

But around January, I started getting twitchy and fantasized about being reunited with my 22-year-old Magnavox work horse that I donated to Goodwill. I sucked it up, though, and am slightly more well read because of my tube hiatus. However, now that I have a big screen, Tivo and DVR at my disposal, I now understand how people get sucked into the role of channel-surfing vegetable. (You’ll be proud to know that I’ve shown restraint…kind of—M is a bad influence…hee.)

I don’t consider reality TV tempting. In fact, it is the bane of my existence and is partly responsible for the idiot factor in our society. But I appreciate quality acting coupled with fresh, witty writing and there are several shows, in addition to my previous list, with all those characteristics.

I’ve listed a few of my new favorite shows, in addition to my standards—I could never abandon Michael West in all of his firm, spying goodness or Brenda’s surreptitious chocolate indulgences. Anyway…

• Bored to Death
• Eastwick (I’ve only seen one, but it has promise and not only because Paul Gross is in it)
• Psych
• NCIS (not the LA one, from what I can tell, it’s going to be lame…oh yeah, quite lame)
• Vampire Diaries

Now about that last pick…I’m no more proud of the fact that Vampire Diaries is on the list than I am admitting I just mowed through the first three books in the Twilight series in a week and a half (true story…sick, but true). But I love a good vamp-human romance. I’m not sure if it’s a girl thing because M is the only other girl I know who is just as kooky about such a ridiculous story line as I. Then again, neither one of us really fall into the girly-girl category—we don’t ooh and ahhh when we see babies and neither of us giggle and clap when we see a blushing bride in a wedding dress—we just aren’t wired for it.

So why the vampire stories? My only thought is that the vampire is always a dark, brooding, dangerous beau hunk who just wants to be loved for his inner beauty in spite of the fact he’s a bloodsucker. The cool thing these days is to create the character as a vegetarian vampire who feasts on fur-bearing critters in lieu of humans. I vote to create a vampire character who hunts down anyone who has anything to do with reality television.

Why, what a plucky fowl!

In the event you’re reading this and the site is in complete and utter disarray, just know that this discombobulated mess is for the greater good, it is temporary and you’re seeing it because I have no clue how to post one of those “Under Construction” signs. In other words, it is time for a facelift. But while I’m the throes of reorganization, I still want you to chuckle a bit, so here ya go…compliments of La Chicken.

La Chicken - BAWK BAWK

I used to rely on CNN for the majority of my news, save for local. Why? Because it seemed that station was the most credible. Sure, there was fluff on slow news days, but even the worst fluff televised on CNN was far better than, oh, say, FOX at its best. But slowly, CNN has morphed into the crap-slinging station that is FOX, only with a different name.

My boycott of CNN became official the day I received an e-mail alert stating that Britney and K-Fed were getting a divorce. Someone had taken the time to type a special news item about Britney and K-Fed and send it as an alert? Really? I feel nutty saying this, but shouldn’t news alerts be reserved for things that actually matter, something that is actually news worthy? Domestic issues of the two most brainless twits ever to become famous do not fall under the news worthy umbrella; or at least shouldn’t for anyone over the age of 13.

I bring this up now because while at the gym the other day, CNN was on the telly. My boycott had been mostly successful to this point, though I had seen CNN broadcasts here and there—inevitable, really. Anyway, it was airing a study on women’s happiness. The study showed that men are happier than women because women have “too much on their plate.” (Given that there is a war, airing such crap cannot be attributed to a slow news day.) I suppose the only reason someone wasted money on a study such as this is because they knew CNN would air it. But it wasn’t just a mention, no no—there was hour-long coverage and “expert” commentary. My disgust turned to irate revulsion, so I switched treadmills.

Supposedly credible news stations airing crap bothers me (in the event you didn’t pick up on that fact). But if you’ve ever seen the movie “Idiocracy” you’ll know why. Our society is becoming exponentially dumber with each passing day, year, decade. We not only allow shoddy journalism and sensationalistic reporting, we encourage it. People seem to love watching people wallowing in misery, to be entertained by the most inane shit such as reality television and WWF wrestling (yes, it is fake). And what is it with stupid people procreating? (Okay, that’s another tangent, but that really bothers me.)

Sometimes the urge to drag knuckles and laugh at stupid bathroom jokes can be overwhelming. But try to resist. Watch a documentary. Read a book—preferably one without cartoon pictures.

When the D-Man asked if I wanted to attend “An Evening Without Monty Python” I, of course, said yes. And that was even before I knew that Jane Leeves was playing a lead role in the production. (She played the role of Daphne Moon in Frasier). It was very well done—funny, wrong and twisted. In other words, it entailed all the characteristics that make Monty Python great. The show took place at the Ricardo Montalban Theatre, which is an odd venue because it is a Nike shoe store by day. The only hint of it was the telltale Nike “swoosh” behind the bar.

Afterward, we headed back to Vinolio where we had eaten dinner prior to the show to finish off the bottle of wine the waitress so kindly kept for us. (I’m not sure if it was policy to do so, but Deutsch batted his eyes.) While sitting at the bar, I was engaged in conversation by the manager of a Belgian equestrian team. Jacque. John Charles—I really don’t remember. I’m sure he was a stud in his prime, but had since achieved raisin status, a fact of which I don’t think he was aware.

He was humorous enough and he often asked one of his man-boys to translate his French, but it was all good fun. I even used my favorite French phrase that I learned many years ago prior to visitng Montreal. “Peter did not see the bull, but the bull saw Peter.” My pronunciation of French is sad, so it took a few attempts before he understood what I said, but as soon as he did, voila—instant bonding. But had I known I was on borrowed time with the Belgian raisin, I would have spent more time asking him about horse whispering. After a few minutes of broken conversation and Ah Has!!!, I was dismissed. Yes, the call girls had arrived. No matter, we were all still most entertained by the precursor to the down and dirty taking place before us. One of the girls didn’t even feign interest, which I thought was a beautiful thing. The other did, but badly.

Anyway, tonight is a quiet night filled with Monk, Psych and reading the rest of Twilight. M has set a deadline for me to finish the second book in the series by the end of October before the second movie comes out. So far, I’ve finished half of Twilight and I just received it on Tuesday. What amazes me more is that I’m enthralled by a teenage romance novel about a vampire…it’s just that he’s so dreamy. That, and what woman doesn’t fantasize about a preternatural man with superhuman powers who wants to both snack on your blood and ravage you too? Freud would have a field day with that statement…

I received a notice from Craigslist today telling me to cease and desist circumventing their system or I would be banned. I wonder…would I be banned for life, thrown in Craigslist jail or merely detained in their holding cell while being interrogated by a coke-bottle glasses wearing, HTML-loving recluse named Elden? I’m not yet sure because I haven’t been banned…yet.

You see, I’m hunting for freelance writing gigs. So, it would stand to reason that I should search beyond Los Angeles because, well, I can—compliments of that beautiful technology called the Internet. But, the Holiest of Ad Keepers at Craigslist feel differently. I found out the hard way that no one is allowed to post the same ad more than once regardless of whether it’s in a different city or even a different country. I tried Australia, Great Britain, New Zealand, but nada. I even tried to modify the wording, but was still rejected. (Though the Craigslist system doesn’t bother to shun until after you’ve completed about 90 percent of the post…nice).

However, it seems that Craigslist only tracks by e-mail accounts. So, theoretically, you could set up other e-mail accounts…oh, say, in yahoo or gmail. The only tricky part is the phone verification. It has an automated system that either calls or sends a text relaying a super-secret set of digits needed to complete the registration process of any new e-mail address. I’m not suggesting that anyone use such a devious plan to skirt obviously obtuse and pointless safeguards because that would violate a few sacred terms and conditions that were put into place for our safety. But, someone somewhere is dying to hire me as a ghostwriter (the person just doesn’t know it yet). With that said, if my future employer is in Sydney, we might never be united if I were to only rely on Craigslist.

I still feel a bit of affection for my new detractor, but the novelty has faded, as has the thrill of the honeymoon period. Sure, I sold a grill for $20 once and heard first-hand stories from an ex-coworker who used to spend hours taunting other Craigslisters she felt were stupid or who didn’t properly respond to her ads. (I believe she actually was banned.) Hours of amusement and even a little cash flow came out of my past Craigslist relationship.

But now, now I must fly. I must be free to post an ad in whatever freaking city I want—it’s not like I’m selling babies on the black market. My ad merely detailed my skills and want of freelance writing assignments. To that end, I believe Craigslist should embrace the working class and cut us some slack. But, until that happens, I have a few alternatives that I’d like to share. Posting service ads on these sites are free and thus far, I’ve been able to post my ad in whatever city’s listing I want. Giddyup.

• www.kijiji.com
• www.backpage.com
• www.targro.com
• www.oodle.com

If you are having a bad Craigslist day, I hope you will find this sites to be suitable alternatives. Sometimes a fresh start is what you need to make things right. Or at the very least, to stop you from thumping your head against a wall in frustration.

Kumbaya, my people, kumbaya.

We (by now, I assume you know that the “we” is the Happy Couple and myself) went on a scavenger hunt today sponsored by CityRace—Urban Adventure Hunts. I was expecting a few cheesy hints leading us to a plastic frog behind a brick at the end of a street named after Little Running Bear. Not so much—it was actually quite grueling. Here are sampling of some of the 24 questions:

• What three downtown streets intersect where St. Peter turns Japanese?

• This former U.S. Senator is now looked down on by LA’s current mayor.

The starting point was in the Little Tokyo district in downtown Los Angeles, which offered a lovely sight-seeing tour for this LA newbie.

All eleven teams were given a book of clues and things we could collect and/or purchase along the way for bonus points. We didn’t get everything on the list, but we find mochi (some coagulated rice thingy coated in weirdness), a Japanese beverage, a Pokemon magnet and M’s brilliant thought to snag a Korean BBQ menu, which satisfied the “something written in a foreign language other than Chinese, Japanese or Spanish.”

Three hours later, I was wilting under my Cubs hat and had sufficiently toured the area of downtown area. I now know where to find the LA TImes’ office, city hall, an excellent hill that skateboarding gangs use to terrorize drivers and pedestrians, a kimono, Hello Kitty garb, the location of the sake-fest (which I’ll miss because I’ll be in Las Vegas) and water features aplenty. Considering none of us had participated in a scavenger hunt before (I don’t think Easter egg hunts count), Ramjack and the MotoHos (yes, that was our team name) did well coming in at a respectable fourth position. It’s not a podium spot, but we celebrated anyway with a Ramjack and the MotoHos breakdown.

Deutsch asked if I would ever do it again. I said no. It was fun, and I saw nooks and crannies I probably never would have known existed in LA, but being a scavenger isn’t my calling. I can however, say that I did it once. And in the event I decide to become a Buddhist, I now know where the temple is in this glorious city of angels.

Buddhist Temple in Little Tokyo, Los Angeles

Three hours later, we were hungry and thirsty and I was probably even a little bitchy. Imagine that. So, we went to the Wieland Brewery at First and Central. The beer was good, the garlic fries were dreamy (even though they needed a bit of salt) and the salads fresh and delightful—a trite description, but accurate nonetheless. We had the option of watching football on the telly or the horrid spectacle of a mail-order bride bust a move on her husband’s pot-bellied father. We opted for the mail-order fiasco. I guessed her to be around 18 at the most and her husband (or the guy we assumed was her hubby—she kissed him, not grandpa) was a Goliath of a man well into his 40s with a bad mullet and a beer gut that will rival his father’s sooner than later. Eek, if this is an improvement on her life before, I shudder to think what the poor thing endured. I need to call and thank my parents…

I received a request from an old acquaintance to be a “friend” on Facebook, my nemesis (stupid, bloody Facebook). It was from a guy who was in one of my older sisters’ classes, though I don’t remember which one. (I have four sisters, so my inability to identify is completely understandable.) Anyway, Lane used to drive my school bus when I was just a rugrat, linoleum lizard or whatever you want to call a child under the age of 12. He was great—he put up with my endless supply of shit, which included, but was not limited to, obnoxious behavior, mischief, mocking, excessively loud laughter and hormonally induced girl affectations. No one human should have to endure what he did. But he did it with a smile, most of the time. Probably because our parents knew each other.

Fast forward: I mentioned that my old bus driver contacted me on Facebook and the simultaneous response from the Happy Couple was not words really, but a look of disgust. You see, they were under the impression that my bus driver was an adult at the time—someone with extensive driving experience who’d maybe passed a test or two. They were thinking pedophile.

But no. Lane was in high school; and it never occurred to me until just now, that high school kids driving a bus full of youngin’s was probably not the best, most responsible idea for economic stimulus at Brewster High School. It’s funny now. But that’s because Lane never wrecked the bus or drove us head-on into an oncoming train. He always delivered me safely to my door, stopping to let me out instead of just slowing down a little and shoving me out, which is probably what I deserved.

Ah, times have changed. I reminisce about these things because life was simpler in Brewster, KS. The most I had to worry about was whether Ronny had a crush on Kim and was he was going steady with her and if he was going steady with her, would Darren walk me to my bus? That saga only occupied about a week during fourth grade. In high school, I could have cared less. The majority of the boys in my school had been my friends since Kindergarten, so I never once considered the boink factor with any of them. That, and they all had mullets with perms in the back. It was all the rage, but somehow, an inner voice still told me the permed mullet was wrong. Then again, in high school, I didn’t consider the boink factor at all. Huh, times have changed.