I'm going to end this part if the story here, and explain how this event came to past, another day. I only mention it now because my steel toe black shoe becomes relevant later on in this blog, which is about to get choppy, but it all comes together in the end.
In the meantime,
I cleaned my shoe best I could until I got back to my friends place where I could give it a proper wash. Vigorously washing my hands under scalding hot water.
Fucking vile.
But,
Before I got my back to my friend's place,
Before then,
Before stepping in poop and vomit,
Earlier that morning, while drinking caffeine, I read in the French online paper that France had finally deflated Paul McCarthy's tree sculpture, or more appropriately what France was referring to as "the giant butt plug".
Apparently France disapproved of the butt-plug sculpture. Is France surprised this is what Paul McCarthy, created? I know France has THEE internet. France could have done a background check via THEE internet on Paul McCarthy's past work. He's not an artist. Not by my definition anyway.
It's like Marvel, are they shocked over the reaction of Milo Manara's new Spider-Woman painting where she's dangling her vagina over a high rise building? No. Of course not. You guys know who Milo Manara, is right? I'm guessing Marvel has THEE internet. I'm guessing Marvel even knows how to operate THEE internet. Milo Manara. Heavy Metal. Brilliant gorgeous sensual erotic art. Marvel knew what it was doing hiring Manara to illustrate Spider-Woman. Sooooo, que pasa, Marvel fans?
Art (or rather why I enjoy art) is to feel something, connect, bond, resolve, live, relive. Take us there, or take us back again, some place we long to be.
Artists become artists, for the same reasons art lovers become art lovers, because the every day norm just isn't good enough.
When I made art I wanted people to look at it and feel alive, intrigued, fantasize, be someone else, want something else, but only for the better. I don't understand "shock art". Being shocked is usually just above being disgusted. Why would you want someone to look at your art and be disgusted? It's not exactly incentive for them to buy your work and hang it on their wall.
THEE internet,
It's like, watching 5 hours of CNN explaining what Ebola, is. We have THEE internet. We can Wiki
Ebola anytime we want.
I find myself glued to my headsets more and more, blasting French lessons in my ear drums, ignoring the world and it's hysterics over Ebola, Spider-Woman's vagina, France's giant butt plug,
And let's not forget the unaffordable wealth that is $1.50.
You read correctly. $1.50. Six quarters. Perhaps I should explain. It leads up to the part about the poop on my shoes.
No.
Wait.
First I'm going to say this one thing.
I knew right away when news broke of dads condition there was going to be problems with family and work. Meaning my work was going to have problems with my dad's condition.
My bosses want my dad's condition, and my family, to both coordinate around my work schedule. Because my current employers think they're more important than my family.
Work thinks they need me, and are entitled to me before my family. It's fucking hilarious. I'm not a rocket scientist. Hire someone else.
I don't care if my bosses give a damn about my dad. We're not friends. I'm just a mule to them. They're a paycheck to me. That's it. That's how it works. All the same, I can get work anywhere. I say this because I know my solid work ethic. And because I always get work when I want it. You won't like me, you just won't (trust me) but who cares, you'll like my work. That's all that matters. However, make no mistake my family, as irritating as they are, in rare situations like this always come first. I've said "no" to my family about many things, many times, but not this, and this time.
Which leads me to,
When I saw him I did a double-take. I know that guy. I remember him. First day on the job he was so nice to me. 50 people telling me how everything I did was wrong, too much this, not enough that, and that looks awful how the hell did you get this job, etc. But not that guy. That guy was nice to me. "You're doing fine, kid. People just have to complain. Makes them feel important. Ya know?"
I know. But it was still a nice thing to say.
So when I saw him again I immediately started to walk over to him. I just wanted to say thank you. I wanted to shake his hand. I wanted him to know I never forgot how nice he was to me on my first day on the job. Probably doesn't mean anything to him, just being himself, just another day, but it meant something to me. Still does. It helped me get through my first day. So I started to walk over to him just to say thank you.
"Hey [Simone!!]" this other guy yells out. "Hey [Simone! Simone!] Over here! Over here!"
I looked around. Saw this 2nd guy waving me over. Great. The 2nd guy is friends with the people who sign my paychecks. He doesn't even like me. I don't like him. We don't like each other at all. But since he sees me walking towards someone else, he has to interrupt my path and grab my attention for himself. What a clown.
I make a quick detour. Fucking politics.
I tell myself; one minute, just say hello, and leave.
Instead,
The clown talked about himself for a solid ten minutes before he finally says, "Ok sweetheart, I'd love to sit here and talk to you all day, but I have things to do. I'm a busy man." and then brushes me off without saying goodbye.
Dick.
Free from the clown's self loving verbal vice grip, I turned to find the nice man I originally wanted to talk to.
But of course... He was gone.
This happened last week and I'm still pissed off about it.
Anyway back to $1.50 and the poop on my shoe:
On this long unfortunate list, very (very) few things bother me more than cheap people. And by cheap, I mean people who complain about anything under $20. If I go out to eat, or go to the movies, or go to a bar, or clothes shopping, if I go to any of these places and my bill is less than $20, throw a parade! I go out expecting to spend money, or I don't go out. I don't go out and then complain I'm spending money, that's just stupid. Especially over $1.50? Here's six quarters, bitches, get over it.
By 3pm I had almost forgotten about the poop on my shoe. I was guilted into visiting a friend's girlfriend at work. I can't stand her, if you want to know the truth, no one can but I made the mistake of telling my friend I was in the neighborhood, so he told me stop by his girlfriend's work and say hello. She'd really like it, he said.
(Dude, she doesn't care.)
Anyway,
I go. I stop into her work place. It's a dive bar restaurant. The kind of place people sweatpants and bring coupons to.
So I'm sitting in her station, drinking tea with potential to give you more strands of hepatitis than licking the bottom of my poop shoe, when my friends girlfriend leans over my table and with a miserable expression on her face says, "See those women over there, they've been bitching at me for two minutes over $1.50. One fucking dollar and fifty cents!"
Everyone wants stuff for for free. When they realize the 5th basket of bread is going to cost them $1.50, they act like, "Oh well we wouldn't have asked for 5 basket of bread if we knew you were going to charge us after the 4th one!"
Fuck off.
And now that my attention had been brought to these two cheap women, I watched them gesturing their disapproval of being charged $1.50.
"Hey. Did I tell you how my day started this morning?" I ask my friend's annoying girlfriend. "Well, I opened this blue door as I've done many times in the past, only this time, right as I open the door and stepped inside, I stepped in fresh human poop and vomit..." I tell her. "Hey, what did those cheap bitches order anyway?"
Now that I think about it, my friend's annoying girlfriend didn't ask how I had come to step in human poop and vomit. (I'm offended.)
Anyway,
No. We didn't scrape poop off my shoe and put it in their food. But we considered it for as long as they bitched about the $1.50.
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