Notes From Joblessville's Open Salon Blog

UNHINGED

Thu, 9 Sep 2010 17:09:57 -0400

I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind

There was something so present about that place

Even your emotions have an echo, and so much space

And when you’re out there, without care, yeah, I was out of touch

But it wasn’t because I didn’t know enough, I just knew too much

Does that make my crazy? Does that my crazy? Does that me crazy?

Possibly…

Gnarls Barkley, “Crazy” from the album St. Elsewhere

The sky was layered with color. As the sun rose, I lay in bed, my mind momentarily stilled as I watched the pastel hues grow deeper and richer, then fade and finally settle into the startling blue of a hot summer’s day.

This was the third morning in a row I’d been up to greet the sunrise. I hadn’t slept in 72 hours; or for the sake of accuracy, I had, perhaps, drifted off for about a total of 3 hours. Those were stolen hours. My brain, so abused for almost 6 days, would simply shut down as some primitive survival mechanism kicked in when my exhaustion became too great. It wasn’t enough down time to restore me. I craved more, bereft that I was unable to find the rest I was sure would calm my racing heart.

I was 6 days into withdrawal and I was hurting.

I had no one to blame but myself for not topping off the medication I’d been daily taking for 14 years. A bad case of Strep throat had floored me for two weeks, and I’d missed my appointment to see the psychiatrist who prescribed my various meds. In the past, when I’d run out, I was able to call and have him phone the pharmacy for just enough pills to get me through until my next visit. This time, I was hesitant to get in touch. I owed him a lot of money, I was always missing appointments and he’d done this for me often. His lectures had become more strident since this particular drug is a controlled substance and he feared I’d become dependent. Shame kept me from making the call, certain he’d say no.

My doctor, however, had called it correctly; I was completely addicted to this drug.

Seriously, a person doesn’t take a medication for 14 years, especially a drug where the indications in the literature repeats over and over, danger of dependency, and then walk away from it cold turkey. Not without paying an incredibly high price.

In 1994 I took my first half a milligram of what I would call my Calm Your Ass Down pill, or CYAD. I’d experienced a massive psychotic episode, or as I like to describe it, I took “My Trip to Crazy Town”. It began in a very public venue among 400 of my closet business associates, included an action-packed thrill ride in an ambulance during which I opened a window and shouted “O.J.’s Innocent!” (I was out of my mind, remember?), much to the amusement of the paramedics and people on the street, or the hilarity that ensued when I entered the Emergency Room, threw up my arms and hollered, "Everybody, take the day off!" I was, I’m proud to say, a fun-loving crazy person!

Ultimately, I made stops ad two different facilities during my 19 days of travel in Crazy Town. Finally, a medication cocktail was mixed that allowed me to pull myself together enough to re-enter society. Included in the fistful of meds was the CYAD pill.

I had been gifted with an idiopathic diagnosis that I’ve since discovered is freely bandied about by doctors when they have no clue what the hell is going on. Honestly, I didn’t mind. It was the disease of choice among smart, tortured creative types, a group I was happy to include myself.

Unlike many of those arty, smarty pants who spurned their drugs, (“They stifle my creativity!”) I never, ever messed around with my meds. I took them every single day, without fail. During the subsequent years, many of the medications changed as I paddled my way through a pond of doctors, all of whom had their favorite psychotropic fixes. The only constant was the CYAD pill. It kept me calm and calm was good for everyone concerned.

This past week, however, my pharmaceutical crutch had been knocked out from under me. “Tough it out,” I thought. Was that arrogance or foolishness? A bit of both, I suppose, but that's me in a nutshell.

It wasn’t until Day Two, that I began to recognize the symptoms of being without the CYAD. It started with a blinding headache, building anxiety, accompanied by long, blank moments while I processed information, and a growing restlessness. I was able to sleep that night but only with the help of a sleeping pill.

Day Three saw me up at dawn, playing fiercely with my kats before it was time to go to work. The anxiety had ratcheted up several notches but that was tempered by an intense joy that swelled within me. I greeted my co-workers with noisy enthusiasm, bouncily welcomed the customers and led them by the hand to the Wasabi Mayonnaise.

At the cash register, I was all about providing the best check-out experience ever. “How the heck are ya?” I’d cry, or comment, “Oh wow, this soy yogurt is the best!” I couldn’t shut up. One customer called me “Perky”. “Perky”? Only a few months earlier I’d had a discussion with my “mentor” that my sometimes frustrated countenance could be off-putting to both my co-workers and customers alike, even if I was unaware of my beetled brows and pursed lips. Now, I was "Perky!" Three days without my CYAD, and my job performance had dramatically improved. Hmmm. Note to Self: Withdrawal as a possible career path?

My boyfriend knew I had run out of the drug, but I don’t think he grasped the ramifications of what it meant. That night on the phone, I babbled unceasingly about every little thing that had happened that day. Normally, he was incredibly indulgent and found my unorthodox behavior endearing (believe me, I know how lucky I am). That night, however, I could hear impatience in his voice, and he cut the conversation short. As wired as I was, I knew that wasn’t good. “Oh God, don’t let me scare away the Best Guy Ever”, I prayed!

That was my first sleepless night, and I had to be at work at 6:00am on Day Four. I relinquished my struggle to sleep, left the house and by 5:00am I was sitting in my car outside the store, drinking coffee and eating a bagel. When I finally went in, I was already cranking!

I took my cash till and literally skipped to my assigned register where I proceeded to WOW the customers, and then forgot to give them their change. My cheerful but contrite apologies kept them from getting really angry with me as I called over managers time after time. People started to avoid me. Somehow, by sheer strength of will, I muddled through.

When I saw my boyfriend that evening, I held him for 5 minutes, just breathing. He has always exuded a pheromone that calms me down. I can't explain it but it works. The roar of my heart wasn’t filling my head, I couldn’t actually “see” my pulse jumping in my wrists and my skin quit trying to crawl off my body. I knew a modicum of calm for the first time in four days. Those pheromones lulled me to sleep, but my bullet-train brain soon woke me up and I lay there, trying not to toss and turn. He knows instantly if I get out of bed, and I didn’t want to bother him. Eventually, I tried the Spoon method, tucking myself in behind him, and that was the last couple of hours of sleep I would know.

Day 5 was the first time when I thought I might actually lose it. I was very, very close to booking a seat on that Crazy Train, and I knew it.

Happily, I had an appointment with my Therapist, and I was hoping that she would prescribe just enough of the CYAD to get me through until I could see my psychomaracologist.

It was an epic battle from the word "go". Entrenched Freudian that she is she wanted to discuss why I was having so much difficulty dealing with my anxiety. “Are you kidding?" I asked, dumfounded, "I’m going through freaking withdrawal!” In her infuriatingly calm way, she suggested Tylenol PM and Yoga. It was all I could not to shake her. “Listen,” I said through my teeth,” I’ll be happy to discuss over-the-counter drugs and I promise to take Yoga in a steamy room every damn day. We can talk about my screwed up childhood, and about the stress I feel because I haven’t got a dime, and am working at a job that pays me a nickel. BUT NOT TODAY! TODAY I NEED THAT DAMNED PILL RIGHT NOW, OR YOU’RE GOING TO BE TALKING TO ME THROUGH A LITTLE PLEXIGLASS WINDOW!!!!!” That did the trick. With prescription in hand, I practically ran out of the office.

Already late for work, I dropped the prescription off at the pharmacy, planning to pick it up afterward.

That was a very, very long day on the job. I was moving faster, sweating profusely, babbling more, and shaking fiercely. It certainly didn’t help that there were a mazillion people in the store and the lines were obscenely long. I was in “Fast Forward” mode, blabbing a little too loud, I was a bit wild-eyed, and my laugh was a touch hysterical. By now, I had full-fledged tremors, and when I handed change to a customer the coins actually jingled. There was no hiding my manic intensity. One kind woman patted my hand and told me to slow down. I appreciated it, but I really wanted to shriek, “I can’t slow down! I’m a runaway train!”

I bulled my through it. I hadn’t had much to eat for days and I was running on fumes. I bolted from the store to get my CYAD!

The pharmacy was closed! CLOSED! Relief had been within reach, and because I hadn’t checked the hours, I had to wait until 9:00am the following morning. Now my teeth were chattering and I was terrified!

I went home and watched as my football team got beaten severely about head and shoulders. For those who care, I was aware it was a pre-season game but I was undone! I had yet another unsatisfactory conversation with my boyfriend. He probably couldn’t understand a word I said. I knew at this point that he was concerned, but I was able to convince him that I was fine. In many ways, there's no one cannier than an addict or a person on the brink of madness. I could also say that’s exactly what he wanted to hear. Is that unkind? Oh well. I continued to shout at the TV, cursing my beleaguered team, my kats hid under the bed, and I knew for sure I would get no rest.

All night, my mind played films of every screwed up moment in my life, with regrets following as special features on a DVD. I began to feel ill, my joints ached, a small scratch on my forearm seemed hot and swollen, my shoulders and neck were so stiff I couldn’t roll my head without squawking. Stupid with exhaustion, I began to catch movement in the periphery of my vision. When I looked closer, I couldn't see the person I'd spotted from the corner of my eye, or find that kat that had died two years ago and had meowed for my attention The lines between what was and what they were to become were beginning to blur.

Sunrise on Day 6 brought the horrific realization that I was to have another 6:00am start at work. Now firmly perched on the brink of disaster, I recognized that familiar feeling of falling with nothing to hang on to. Since I had already taken the Crazy Train once in my life, I clearly remembered how I felt on the days leading up to it, and I knew I was in trouble. I needed my CYAD ASAP. I had to get to that Pharmacy!

My condition meant I couldn’t possibly operate my car as it now qualified as Heavy Machinery. By 5:00am I was scrolling through my contacts, thinking, "Who can I call for help"? I was raving incoherently, and feeling utterly lost as I realized I had no close friends nearby. I did not want to call the Best Man Ever because I was so terrified that I was now holding The Straw, and breaking that Camel’s Back would be the end of me.

I called my Mommy.

I'm 51. My Mom’s 86. She has told me all my life that she will always worry about me; not so much because I was a mess (I was), but because I’m her baby girl and that’s a Mother’s prerogative. So, as long as she was on this earth, coherent and willing to listen, I was going to milk that baby girl card as much as possible.

I called and cried the way I had wanted to for the past six days. Gulping, gasping, stuttering, I managed to tell her what was going on. She listened calmly until I had wrung myself out, and then got right to the crux of the matter.

“You have to take that pill. Do whatever you have to get it. Take a cab.”

Sniffle. “Mommy, I don’t have the cash to do that and pay for the prescription.” (See? A mess, I tell you!)

“Then walk to the pharmacy if you must.”

She also agreed with me about not calling the Best Man Ever. We both feared there might be a threshold there, and neither of us wanted to find out.

At last, it came to me to ask my very kind neighbors to drive me to the pharmacy. Hubby took me. It was hard to make conversation, which I needed because my knee was jiggling at 120 RPMs a second and I required the distraction. We settled on football, always a safe topic for me. He had attended “The U”, The University of Miami, during the Jim Kelly era, and told me how Kelly used to randomly chuck rocks at other students. That stopped my knee for a second.

And then, miraculously, I had the Calm Your Ass Down pill in my hands. I didn’t even wait until I got home to take them. I’d brought a bottle of water, and standing right there in the pharmacy, I gulped down those itty bitty pills. I know it wasn't physically possible, but within moments, I felt better.

Once safely back in my apartment, I sank onto my couch, let my mind go, managed to eat something, and truthfully, I don’t remember what happened after that. Apparently, I made it to the bed, and slept without moving or dreaming for about 3-1/2 hours. When I opened my eyes, I felt as rested as if I had slept a full 8 hours. I took stock. My mind had cycled down, and my heart was no longer clattering like runaway horses. The greatest terrors had been beaten back by the miracle of pharmacology. I was still shaky but I knew the worst had passed.

My absolute greatest fear had been averted; I wasn’t going to lose my mind again. It was close, though. Very close.

My therapist and I are going to work out a plan for a long term withdrawal from this malevolent drug. In fact, she wants me to blog about my experience on her website. Hey, it’s New York, of course therapists have websites! We’ll see.

In retrospect, it seems odd that when I went starkers in 1994, I wasn’t the least bit frightened. I had no clue what was happening to me back then. In fact, I had a lot more fun than I had any right to because I left a trail of destruction for a lot of people to deal with. Yet, I can say with total honestly that letting go and floating about in the weightless space of insanity was incredibly liberating. I might have drifted away forever but luckily, I came back down to earth. Perversely, it was both the worst and best thing that ever happened to me.

In 2010, however, that past experience created a crippling fear that overwhelmed me. I don’t think that Tylenol PM, Yoga or even my fierce will could have kept me from being swept out on the tide of madness.

I won't take that chance again because I’m not certain I would come back. I learn my lessons hard and this time it might have cost me a price I might not have been able to pay.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bd2B6SjMh_w&feature=related

Couldn't embed it, but it's worth a listen.

Schvitzing: A Cautionary Tale with Kute Kat Piktures

Tue, 6 Jul 2010 12:07:57 -0400

For almost a year now, I’ve been stewing in a big, steaming vat of limbo. I haven’t done any writing of consequence. I work at a job I like though it rarely challenges me and I don’t actually make a living. I spend time with my boyfriend who, by the grace of God, exudes a “No, you’re not entirely insane” pheromone, making it possible to for me behave as though I’m not entirely insane when I’m with him. I rarely see any of my friends, and I’ve quit giving a damn about my physical appearance. I’m fat and have roots; ‘nuff said? I have excluded myself from the world at large and I’m pretty sure the world at large doesn’t much care. For now…

Is it a low-grade depression, perhaps, or simply a lull in the action? Who knows? I’m now old enough to appreciate that it’s the life I’m currently living. At some point, I’ll be living some other kind of life. It’s not so bad, existing. It’s been a lot worse.

I have to admit, however, that the one thing I do with some consistency is spend an inordinate amount of time playing with,

talking to,photographing,

and obsessing about my kats.

Since they acquired me in June of 2009, my kats, Boris and Natasha, aka The Fiends, have provided me with great joy, huge belly laughs, and most importantly, excellent, non-judgmental companionship! They don’t care that I’m living way below the poverty level and far beyond my means, that I work at a blue-collar job, am not meeting my potential, have stopped riding my bike, don’t see my friends, clean my house or read anything but alternate reality sci-fi. They DO care that I feed them, water them, play with them, and provide them with a place to poop with some dignity. They would, if necessary, poop anywhere, but kats have an unerring sense of what is right and proper.

Neither kat cares if I’m writing. In fact, The Fiends hate it when I

sit at my computer, since it takes my attention away from them.

I will happily claim, without hesitation, that The Fiends are seriously enabling me in my Not-Getting-Anywhere lifestyle choices.

The Fiends were kittens when they entered my life, and I didn’t quite know how to handle them. As a result, I became deeply involved in an online Kat Forum. My rapid evolution into a KrayZee Kat Laydee provided me with the handy excuse that the many hours I spent on this forum were useful and productive.

In all honesty, I know that posting cute photos of Boris and Natasha, discussing their foibles and quality of their poopage was not actually purposeful. I’m not entirely witless…yet.

What follows is a cautionary tale of how leading a life of nothing, then becoming a KrayZee Kat Laydee brought me to a new…place. Fortunately, both my sense of humor and the absurd remained firmly intact.

The Schvitz Cure

My kat, Boris, had some type of respiratory problem. He arrived with what they call Kennel Cough, something rescued kats or dogs can catch from less healthy animals in a shelter. He was sneezing constantly, had a runny nose, and I could hear him wheezing from across the room.

Despite this condition, he had an unearthly amount of energy, particularly at 4:11am when he was driven to find, and play with all the toys with bells in them,

try on my clothes or play with my make up, ...Um...Huh.

Still, I was concerned and spent money I don’t have (it can be done!) on vets who gave me vile nose drops to dispense and taught me how to swaddle Boris in heavy canvas – well, almost - to apply them. It drove us both................. a bit mad...

Luckily, I made some good friends on the Kat Forum. In the same way I connected with a few people on OS, I’d been able to find a few like-minded souls who “got” me. After posting my tremendous concern to one particularly dear friend about Boris’ condition, she suggested that I set up a steam bath, something not unlike those treatments used in the early 19^th century for “consumption or the ague.” “Turn on the taps in the bathroom”, she wrote, “and allow the cleansing mists to drive the phlegm from his lungs.” I later learned she was half in the bag when she recommended this course of action. Never drink while replying, a wise man once said, though obviously not in her hearing! Still, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I decided to attempt this cure one early morning. Unfortunately, this was following a night of carousing at the Sands Casino in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. My beau and I, we're crazy enough to drive an hour-and-a- half for a decent cut of meat, and our destination was Emeril’s Chop House. Once there, I did, Indeed, enjoy a good chop, many beers, a fine glass of Port and some kind of desserty evilness I will call Choco-Death.

Now, we don't gamble but one cannot enter such an establishment and not throw some shekels down the Maw of the Beast! 4 minutes later, I had tossed thirty badly needed dollars down the nickel slot’s gullet. Remorse set in immediately!

I returned home, stomach churning with guilt and alcohol (Port? What the hell was I thinking?), determined to repent by curing my kat!

Turning both my shower and sink full blast to hot, hot, hot, I dragged the nasaly-challenged Boris into my tiny bathroom. We took our places on the floor, and I stuffed rugs into the inch-wide opening under the door in an effort to keep out the killer draft.

We waited.

After 10 minutes, it became clear that I didn't have enough water pressure to do much besides peel the plaster off the ceiling.

Sigh.

In the meantime, Boris was having a ball.

While snacking on my very nice satin robe, he got in a bit of a snag. After several pitiful glances my way, I gave in and set him free.

Deprived of destructive fun, Boris cried out in supplication.

Damn that Natasha! Ever protective of her little brother, she would mewl in distress when I gave him his nose drops, and sniff the bottle afterwards to make sure I had not dosed him with some dire poison. In answer to Boris’ pleas, she began to affect his escape by pushing the rug out of her way.

ENOUGH! I was finally convinced that I wasting my time, energy, and our world's finite water resources. And I was the only one doing any sweating!

I set the damned wee-zing beastie free and he was joyously reunited with his meddlesome sister.

I was now forced to consider the Cold War Era Sunbeam Ultrasonic Cool Spray Humidifier that has been in my boyfriend's attic since 1953. I was a little frightened of it. Even the notoriously cold-blooded Fiends showed some reservations as could be noted by the look on Natasha’s little face.

It sits on the floor even now.

And so it comes to pass that my beloved Boris, my pet, the creature I have sworn to care for, protect, nurture, feed and provide untold sums of nip mice for, is still not cured. Cowardice has kept me off the Kat Forum. Those Laydees have a nose for failure; they can sniff out lackadaisical kat care from mere meters away and they will circle like sharks and nose in for the kill!!!!! I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve participated in such feeding frenzies and I’m steering clear as it is very easy to become a genuinely KrayZee Kat Laydee! In the meantime, Boris sneezes, I wipe his nose (it's just weird, okay?), he looks at me impatiently, and goes about his business.

Keeping the World Safe from Feet

and Cleaning Implements Everywhere.

As current lives go, I'll take it.

Who's NOT Your Daddy?

Tue, 6 Oct 2009 16:10:56 -0400

Part One in an Already Spiraling Out of Control Series

Not-My-Daddy with Not-Me and my Not-Family

On Mother’s Day, 1976, my Mother sat down on my bed, woke me up and said, “Your Father is alive.”

This was big news. From first memory, I had believed my father had died in a fiery automobile crash on a Louisiana back road just days before my birth. That was the story that I’d been told from the start. That was the story corroborated by my closest family members. That had been my reality for 17 years.

The circumstances of his death made a vague and solemn tale, rarely told, and never elaborated upon. I imbued the shadowy story with a tragic romance, and chose to believe that overwhelming grief and loss made the telling so difficult that it would it be unseemly to press for details. This worked well as I came from a family of very poor communicators.

More importantly, however, it allowed me to create my own vision of my father. With nothing concrete to work with, I was able to conjure up the most heroic, handsome, devoted, and loving father ever. MY father would never drink, or raise a hand to me, or make me nervous when he touched me, and he would never, ever frighten my mother with threats so dire that she would hurriedly bundle my sister and me into the car where we would sleep while she drove aimlessly through the night to keep us out of harm’s way. MY father would never be capable of such things.

This picture was the holy relic I held up before me in the face of the evil represented by my pseudo-step-father (they were never married). I beat back my fear and sadness by clinging to the image of a man who would have loved me unstintingly.

On Mothers' Day, 1976, my perfect father would become a lie.

My new reality was this; my extremely imperfect father took off running in the opposite direction when he learned my mother had become pregnant following a casual night spent together. He immediately severed all contact with her, never acknowledged my existence, deftly dodged her legal attempts for child support, and married a very wealthy woman who was able to help keep my mother at bay for the rest of his life. I never met or spoke to him. I share his last name because that was the only thing of his my Mother could give me.

I have never clearly understood why my Mother chose that particular day, or that method, to tell me the truth. The morning is a smeary memory. I know I was shocked. I know I was angry and hurt. I know it happened. I just have no remembrance of what actually took place.

What evolved from that revelation were feelings of deep and abiding pain, betrayal, anger, mistrust, and finally, of utter abandonment that informed the rest of my life. There was also an almost immediate sense of “AHA! “, as pieces began falling together. I’d like to say that I had my suspicions all along but it wouldn’t be true. I was just a miserable kid who had cobbled together a happy fantasy to substitute for an unhappy reality.

On the upside, when I finally worked up the nerve to tell someone, it became abidingly clear that I was in possession of a pretty good story.

Ground-breaking Gal journalist gets pregnant in 1959 – societal suicide! With her ambition and career in jeopardy, she makes the brave decision to have the child anyway. In order to make an infant's appearance viable, she enlists the aid of her new boyfriend, a man purported to be deeply involved in the city’s shady underworld. With his help, they plan a daring subterfuge involving misdirection, frequent trips to Mexico, red herrings, actors, fantastical coincidences, and lies upon lies upon lies. Family, friends and co-workers are brought in to play their parts. My seven year old half-sister is in on the act. A terrific amount of time, energy and money is spent to create the theater that makes up the first 17 years of my life.

My mother’s career is saved, her boyfriend becomes the de facto step-father), and tormentor of my youth, my sister never forgives me for coming along and messing up her seven year run of being the adored only child and is still making me pay for it. I spend years in therapy unraveling the tangled strands of lies and truth and mangled feelings.

And that’s just a thumbnail sketch! This is tabloid worthy stuff!

Not so very long ago, I developed an odd habit of buying bins of old photos from eBay. I put them in cheap but elegant frames I purchased at Target and placed them all over apartment. Some are formal portraits, others are more candid. None of them are taken after 1960, and all of them are of men.

Not-My-Daddy with his Army Chum

It was my mother’s outraged question, “Who are all these strange men on your walls?” followed by her furious demand, “I want to see your photos of our actual family!” – I had none- that forced me to make the connection between the hobby and my enduring need to find the Perfect Dad of my dreams. Who knew? I just thought the photos were interesting. Huh. If I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned my subconscious will make an idiot of me any chance it gets.

The communication and information dissemination strategy within my family had been, and still is, less is more. Due to my Mother’s “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, the bi-polar nature of my relationship with my half-sister, and the implacable “you aren’t the boss of me” stone face I showed my now deceased fake-step-father, I never gathered as many facts as I could. I don’t think it matters in any case, since the main players didn’t seem to have much of an acquaintance with the truth. I doubt there’s anyone alive who knows all the facts and details. And the older I get, the more I learn I’m a lot like my Mother in my disregard for hard facts and details.

Truthfully, the whole” Who’s Your Daddy” mishigas has long since lost its power to hurt or heal. Emotionally, it’s a done deal. Anger has given way to indifference, hurt is acknowledged with a passing nod.

What’s left is a gothic family saga. Everyone has one. I hope I’ll do mine justice.

A Gaggle of Not-My-Daddys

How to Behave on the 4th of July: The Memo

Fri, 3 Jul 2009 13:07:47 -0400

YOUR CRANKY AUNT APARTMENT MANAGEMENT

YOU'D BETTER BEHAVE!

You! You Residents, you!

Again, with a memo! I thought I was finished after the Swimming Pool thing, but no, here I am again, talking to you like I would a five year old. I’m telling you, if my husband, Morty, were alive…forget it, the shame!

Okay, for those of you who don’t know, tomorrow is the 4^th of July. Don’t roll your eyes at me! There are people in this building who ask me every day which apartment they live in!

Pay attention, because this is big news! The High and Mighty City of New York has finally acknowledged that right across that big river called the Hudson, is a whole other state! New Jersey! Woo Hoo! Thanks for nothing, Mayor Michael Bloomberg. We’re still paying that commuter tax to come labor in your great city, right? Feh.

Whatever. What this means is the Macy’s 4^th of July Fireworks Extravaganza will be taking place on the Hudson this year.

Oh, you’re all excited, aren’t you? Huh. Don’t you understand what a huge pain in the bahunda this is? Noooo. All you can think about is how great it is that you live in an apartment building with an unobstructed view of the Hudson. You’ll be busy “oohing” and “ahhhing” at the pretty sparkles while my lovey cats, Skinny and Skanky, are quivering under the bed! Selfish residents! Best view in town, and I don’t want to hear complaints about a rent increase next year!

This is how it’s going to go and I want no back talk, got me?

First of all, there are the road closures. Because you’re lucky enough to live on a street that will afford the best view of the Hudson, you’re not going to be able to drive on it! Righty-right! The County Sherriff’s office says, get your rear-end home by 2:00pm and stay there. If you don’t get home by that time, you better have your driver’s license, your passport, and prepare for a retinal scan, because they’re serious about this. Everybody else in New Jersey who doesn’t have this view is heading our way. And most of them, I can tell you, are Troublemakers with a capital “T”!

And don’t think you’re going to be sneaking up to the roof to watch. I’ve already had motion sensors installed that trigger these little taser things my cousin, Rudy, got from an army surplus place in Passaic. He says they’ll hurt some but there shouldn’t be any loss of vision. So, stay off the damn roof, or you could get a shock in the rear, and I’m not liable – I checked with my brother-law, Felton, the notary. He says I’m free and clear.

About the pool…you all know how I feel about the abuses that take place at the pool! Well, unfortunately, the pool area does have a pretty good vantage point to watch the fireworks, and there’s nothing legal I can do to keep you from going down there to watch the show. But I CAN make it as miserable for you as possible.

1. No swimming after 8:00pm. I don’t even want to think about the naughty hi-jinks that might take place in the dark. You’re supposed to be being patriotic, not “erotic”! Get it?

2. You have 1 apartment in the building, right? That means you can only bring 2 guests with you. I don’t care if you live in the duplex penthouse and 16 of your relatives from Mingus, Texas, are visiting, you only get to bring 2 of them down. It’s all about the apartment. 1 apartment equals 2 guests. That ought to start some of your own family fireworks. (I’m smiling huge here!)

3. No glass, food, or alcoholic beverages are allowed in the Pool area. I don’t even have to explain how not fun that’s going to be.

4. If you leave the Pool area to use the facilities, don’t plan on coming back. This is NOT a Bruce Springsteen concert!

As for those of you who are going to hide out in your apartment, keep this in mind: Do not allow more than 5 people on your balcony at any time. This is a 35 year old building. I’ve been here for all 35 years and I don’t remember when they ~~ever~~ last shored up those balconies and, well…I’m trying to be nice here and say you only want maybe 1 or 2 of the remaining 14 cousins from Mingus, Texas, on the balcony. Ever. Seriously.

Hey, what’s the 4^th of July without a Big Ole BBQ? Well, you’re going to find out because there will be no grilling or cooking allowed on the balcony! Tell your family from Mingus they can just put those slabs of beef right back in the freezer. Fredo, the doorman, will be standing across the street doing a continual sweep of the building with a pair of infrared binoculars Rudy got at that same surplus store. We also got those walkie-talkie phones so Fredo can alert me if he sees even a spark. Rudy’s been training him to tell the difference between a flame from a grill and the glow from a cigarette so I won’t have to be running all over the place with the Fire Marshall breaking down doors. Besides, you shouldn’t smoke, it’s a filthy habit!

I want you to read this memo a couple of times because there a lot of chuckleheads that live in this building and I don’t want to have to ruin my holiday by reminding you how to behave like a good American apartment dweller!

God Bless America, and watch your butts, ‘cause I got my eye on you!

I Learn Something New Everyday

Thu, 2 Jul 2009 09:07:08 -0400

I'd never heard of this group until today.

This is an incredible piece that made my heart soar.

Perpetuum Jazzile is an a cappella jazz choir from Slovenia. Their take on a very familiar song is incredibly special. The rain storm they create at the start is pure inspiration.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

"Africa" - Toto, 1982