Grasshoppers!

Grasshoppers everywhere!

My spirit otter

The mentality that Alaskan bush pilots don’t make money because they earn approximately $40,000 a season (four months) is driven by pure sloth and greed. If you’re doing something that gives you pleasure, that makes you happy, that earns you an honest income, who in their right mind wouldn’t be satisfied making $10,000 a month? I could easily live on $10,000 a month. 

I read an online forum regarding Alaskan pilots where they don’t like being called bush pilots. Too bad. They prefer “Air Taxi” but that corporate name can go straight to hell. BUSH PILOT! You heard me! 

Dick Proenneke. He was my spirit otter. 

The more I read on him, the more parallel our lives seem to be. We’re both from the Midwest. I’m from Minnesota. He’s from Iowa. We both grew up primarily outdoors. We both absolutely love nature. We respect it. We know how to live in it. Survive it. At the age of 51 Proenneke reportedly moved to Alaska to be a naturalist, to be in solitude. I turned 50 years old last January. I want to move to Alaska to be in solitude. Peace and quiet. Harmony. He lived alone in his Alaskan cabin for thirty years. I see myself doing the same. It seems Alaska is the last wild frontier. Heaven on earth. My peace. My sanctuary. My little house on the prairie.

Unlike Proenneke, however, I need plumbing and electricity. The cabin he built and lived in for 30 years didn’t have plumbing or electricity. I want both. I’ve gotten use to it. I enjoy it. Must have plumbing and access to WiFi. A few backup generators. Propane and propane accessories. That, and I don’t hunt. I used to fish but there’s grocery stores with plenty of food in them. I don’t need to murder animals for sport or nutrition. I get that Proenneke didn’t work. He had little if any money. He lived entirely off the land. He hunt to feed himself. I get that.

I’m hoping in Alaskan solitude, or remote Bay Area solitude, I’ll be able to memoir how to enjoy a simple life again. Either that or I’ll go completely mad. Madness might be more interesting? The Galapagos Affair! 

Astronomers say I’m a Rooster and Goat, if you believe in such things. Charles Darwin didn’t. Be that, he too found himself in Alaska to test his Darwinian philosophy. Its interesting to me the familiar routes we all take seeking enlightenment. Buddhists. Darwinism. Naturalists. Scholars. Philosophers. First we try meditation, then spiritualism, acupuncture, drugs, isolation, deprivation, etc, all things to force open the other 90%, or whatever large percent, of the brain humans don’t use to better understand the meaning of it all. 

Big bang theory

Aliens! As in from outer space bacteria that evolved into a planet, into water, into life form, into plant life, into animals, into humans, into beauty, into destruction, into filth, into nothingness. Evolution. Was that the plan? 

How are human beings today so uneducated, so unsophisticated, so greedy, that they absolutely cannot process a simple fact like - if you open a door to outside sometimes a fly might fly in, or a bee, a moth, a butterfly, a bird, even a stray cat. 

The number of people who have zero interest of life beyond the front doors to their houses, fast food joints, and work places, is not only weird, it’s horrifying. 

I hope kids today in Minnesota are still being taught how to ice skate in kindergarten. 

Every time I see some poor little kid being dragged around Las Vegas at 1am, I just want to beat the hell out of their parents. Take that kid camping up north. Read books together. Play baseball together. Roast hotdogs and marshmallows over a campfire together. Fucking scumbags dragging their five year olds around Las Vegas Blvd at 1am so mommy and daddy can see the bright neon lights of casinos. Ooooh casinos! Take that kid to an orchard, pick fruit together, or buy a telescope, check out some truly spectacular bright lights, moon and stars, give your kids some real memories of mom and dad to hold on to and cherish for the rest of their lives. But no, you greedy filthy poor excuses for parents will instead drag your toddlers around Las Vegas casinos. Crackerjack parenting. 

I happened upon (movie) KINGSMAN: THE GOLDEN CIRCLE. Great movie. Love the fight scenes. And I especially love the portrayal of Americans from Kentucky. Git ‘er done. All hat no cattle. And if that dog don’t hunt, send ‘er back! 

Bushwacker

The homeless people who live in front of the closed gay bar, few blocks from my apartment, have a nicer sofa than I do. 

I hate guns. I wish we didn’t need them. That said, where in Alaska I want to live, alone, by myself, requires guns. I’ll put $600 aside for a decent 12 gauge shotgun. And I think I saw online where I could get a tranquilizer gun for $300. Tranquilizer gun for bears. 12 gauge shotgun to thwart off hunters, hippies, politicians, and other undesirable trespassers. 

As I’m researching job options in Alaska, it seems bush pilots really are big deal. They are in fact the number one travel resource getting to and from the airport, delivering UPS style packages, and transporting goods and merchandise to stores and businesses. Damn, Maggie. I knew I watched every episode of NORTHERN EXPOSURE for a reason. Maybe I’ll meet a high strung twitchy New York Jewish doctor? God I hope not. 12 gauge! 

Even if I don’t live in Alaska, I can still work there during my present job’s off season, November through March. Yes, I’m seriously considering this. It’s far more interesting than rotting away at a senior community home in Palm Springs, which is where I was headed in 4 1/2 years.

You really do turn old overnight. My dad was a very handsome man-about-town until one day he simply wasn’t anymore. He just got old, decisively. The same thing happened to me. I still look amazing, genetics, but I ache to live in a log cabin with a fireplace, out in the middle of nowhere, me and a rocking chair surrounded by nature, quiet simplicity. A couple of dogs. A cat. Johnny Cash, playing on the turn table. Fuck my peace, you get the 12 gauge.

I started a new large scale drawing. This is only the outline. Oh sure it just looks like a bunch of lines but that’s all drawings are. Wait for it. It gets better as I go. It always does.

Fava beans

And a nice Chianti! 

The cold Alaskan winters will probably kill me, but since I got bronchitis in the barren desert wasteland, I suppose it doesn’t matter where I live. There’s also beautiful quiet little hideaways in the Bay Area, too. 

Saskatoon, anyone? 

If I live in Alaska I’ll have to buy a few different guns. Tranquilizer guns to ward off bears. 12 gage shotguns to ward off hunters, hippies, and all the other unwelcome humans. Anyone got a saw? Guess I’ll have to buy a few of those too. 

He easily weighs 350 pounds. It’s 100 degrees but he’s wearing a thick red sweatshirt and loose blue sweat shorts. He has an old man’s seat-walker but sets it aside. He’s trying to hustle some pretty young girl into thinking he’s the greatest man to ever live. Won’t be needing the seat-walker for this con job. And the entire time he’s talking to her he keeps boldly grabbing his crotch and fondling his balls in front of her. She’s polite, sweet, young. She let’s him touch her hands and face after he boldly scratches and jerks at his testicles. Ah to be young and polite again. 

I was a nice girl once

Once upon a time

We all know how this fairytale ends, don’t we? There’s no handsome prince. No happily ever after. Just a lifetime of disgust. Perversion. Filth. Growing old and accepting your friends challenge of who can boobytrap their house the best. “It puts the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again!” 

Time to go

I’m not a huge Burt Reynolds, fan, but THE LAST MOVIE STAR was amazing. It’s how we all want to be remembered isn’t it? One final brilliant piece of art before we die. 

Yesterday Miso stray cat paid me a visit all day. He came over around 10am, and left around 10pm. He stopped by again today around 9am but left ten minutes later. I haven’t see him since. He prefers the neighbor’s lawn. Does he want to be my kitty cat, or not? Sorry kitty, I have to leave Las Vegas. You need to decide if you come with me or not.

The only two places that really interest me are Alaska, and the Bay Area. 

I’m torn about taking Miso stray cat with me. There are days when I think he wants to be my cat, but then there are days like today when the only thing he knows is this neighborhood. How distressing would it be for him to leave the only thing he knows? I think I’m the only one who can love him, and take care of him, but that’s not true. He’s not with me every day. Like today, it’s 109 degrees out today and he wanted to leave the comforts of my air conditioned apartment, clean water, and food, to go who knows where. 

A friend and I briefly talked about moving back to Los Angeles, but I know my friend, he’s talked about divorcing his wife and moving back to LA since July 2017. All my friends who currently want to get divorces have been talking about getting divorces for years. They won’t. And I don’t blame them. I’ve been alone since 2012. It’s hard at our age to be alone. Very hard. The only reason I’m good at it is because I was alone before I got married in 2003. Whereas my friends have always had someone. Have always wanted to be with someone. All I’ve ever wanted was my art. I got married because I wanted to share a normal life with someone. I wanted the normal life rather than the man who came along. I should have gotten a cat then. 

Single men in their 50’s and older are completely insane with desperation. More fearful than usual. They’re desperate to find someone to take care of them. I don’t blame them. Taking care of yourself when you’re sick is hard. Last winter I had bronchitis and laryngitis, both times with a scorching fever, and it was very hard getting myself on the mend both times, alone. But I’m not going to be the one to take care of you when you’re sick. Sorry. If I can do it by myself, so can you. I still want a relaxing normal life with someone but I think it’s going to be with cats. 

SO

Alaska, or a small part of the Bay Area?

“Most girls are...”

Greetings from 103F at night 🌵

Men like their friends. 

Women...

Never get in line behind groups of women friends buying movie tickets, or anything. They each have to pay for their own movie ticket. The concept of one friend buying movie tickets, another friend buying popcorn and sodas, another friend driving and paying for parking, or whatever, doesn’t make sense to groups of women friends because, logic. Women are too busy nickel and dime’ing each other. Women will buy themselves a pair of $300 shoes to wear to the movies with their girlfriends, simply for showing off, but they absolutely will not pay for their girlfriends movie tickets; their girlfriends who they loooove and adore on social media but in real life, “They can pay for their own stuff. Make the lines unnecessarily longer. I don’t give a fuck.” 

Men will fight to pay a $160 bill among their male friends, associates, and acquaintances. “No bro, I got this. You bought food and drinks last night.” 

Women, on the other hand, will split a $24 check four ways.

Women should not be allowed credit cards if they don’t know how to use a credit card machine. And it’s always the small groups of women who individually have to pay for their own $6 coffees at Starbucks that never know how to use a credit card machine. None of them. Not one intelligent life form among the five of you women. And you all say the exact same thing when it’s your turn to pay with a credit card.

“Why is it beeping at me? I don’t understand. What’s going on? I swiped my card already. Is it a chip? Do I have to use the chip? Where’s the chip on my card? Is that the slot down there for the chip? See, it’s still beeping at me. Why can’t I just swipe my card? Why’s it still beeping at me?”

No no, that’s ok, take your time, work through the problem, sound it out. You five women can individually credit card your $6 coffees, all good, because god knows you don’t like each other enough to spend $24 on your friends, your friends who you worship, adore, and love on Twitter but not enough to buy coffee for.

If you want to know why my girlfriends and I look at you women like you’re the biggest morons on the planet, it’s because... 

“It says remove card. So what do I do?”

🤔

Entirely for your amusement

Greetings from the barren wasteland.🌵

 

Oh no

It’s 6:30am and I’m seeing nothing but girl after girl in whorish dresses doing the embarrassing walk of shame in bright sunlight, Saturday morning. Girl, where your shoes? Why you barefoot? Yeesh. Never catch me barefoot on the Vegas strip. Flesh eating bacteria! At the very least. No self respect. 

I absolutely hate working on the strip. I’d maybe like it if it was 1985. But in this day and age I gotta be a bouncer just to get people to pay their tabs. Why is this? If you walk into a restaurant, a bar, a nightclub, and order food and drink, you have to pay the tab. There’s no negotiating here. Pay your tab, or get the fuck out and never come back. 

The following is a classic example of what I go through at least once a night. Once a night for the last twenty-five years.

I’m calling these two moron bitches PING and PONG. They’re maybe eighteen years old. Possibly Hispanic. And the world apparently owes them. 

PING and PONG came to Vegas looking for daddies over the 4th of July weekend but failed miserably because, well, not one attractive feature between the two of them.  

PING is junkie scrawny, twitchy, with shoulder length brown wiry hair. She tried to put some green dye in her hair, but all the dye is plopped on the top of her head with terrible streaks running down. Looks like a sick bird pooped on her head. 

I have no idea why girls think green hair dye is pretty. If you’re in Vegas and want to hustle, don’t dye your hair green.

PONG is chunky with long curly brown hair. She has a very fat masculine face. Her eyes are glued to her cell phone the entire time the following occurred.

Both are dressed like they’ve worn the same clothes every day for the past five years. The fabric is faded. Nothing feminine about their attire or appearance whatsoever.

FYI boys and girls, here’s how not to walk out on a check. 

While sitting at their table after they’re done eating, PING looks nervously around. I know this look. They don’t have money to pay and are looking for an escape route. They know they have to pass me to get out the doors. They don’t yet have the experience of ditching on a check but are making their first attempt, poorly.

Cautiously they approach me. Approaching me is their first mistake.

“I think I left my money in the bathroom.” PING said, leaving PONG with me. PING then walks to the bathroom nervously looking for an escape route out of the building. When none could be found PING came back to PONG. 

“My money’s not in the bathroom.” She nervously announced.

“Do you have Apple Pay?” PONG asked confidently, her eyes glued to her cell phone.

Sure do. I’ll set it up for you. There you go. It’s ready when you are. - After a few minutes pass PONG clearly doesn’t have Apple Pay. Her eyes are still glued to her cell phone. She makes no attempt to even pretend to try using Apple Pay.

“It’s ready when you are.” I tell her. 

PONG just stares at her phone.

“It’s ready when you are.” I tell PONG again. But she continues to stare into her phone.

“What are you going to do here ladies?” I ask.

“It’s only a $7 bill!” PONG yells at me.   

Yes. I know. How are you going to pay it?

“She’s going to go back to the room and get the money. I’m going to wait here. Fuck!” PONG yells. “All over a $7 check!” She yells. Then they both get on their cell phones. 

“Ok. That’s fine.” I say. “Get your money.”

“It’s only $7!” PONG again protests, getting very angry that they should have to pay their check. “It’s not like anybody eats here anyway!” PONG tried to hustle.

Aside from the fact you’re so horribly wrong, chubs, that’s your reason for not paying your bill? Look bitch, we’re not friends. We’re not family. Pay your god damn bill. 

I don’t say that of course. Instead I let my boss take over with PING and PONG. I had other guests to attend to. I ignored the girls and went about my business. 

“You’re a rude bitch!” PONG yells after me.

Aaaaand you still have to pay your bill, you ugly fat whore. 

“It’s just $7!” PONG yells again while staring into her cell phone.

I thought we already settled this. 

PING was calling a Lyft back to their room to get the money, while PONG stayed behind. Isn’t that your plan? Isn’t that what we agreed on?

“I can’t believe you’re making us go through all this over $7!” PONG loudly objects.

“Don’t say anything more to them.” My boss says. Agreed. They’re clearly trying to get something for free now, aside from not paying their check. So neither me or my boss say anything more to them. 

“You create all this drama over $7! It’s only $7!” PONG keeps yelling over and over.

But rather than paying, rather than simply walking out the door, I mean hello, PING and PONG just hang out at the door. PING is growing increasingly edgy. She’s starting to get afraid. I can see it in her face. She sees the cameras everywhere and thinks the cops will come after them. PING and PONG are not a sophisticated pair. 

PONG’s eyes are glued to her cell phone. 

“We can’t pay the bill.” PONG finally admits.

No shit. 

They were hoping someone would come along, hear their bullshit and pay their bill for them. No one helped them. Like I said, not one pretty feature between the two of them. Time to get a new hustle ladies. 

“I guess we can go back to the room and get some money?” PING nervously suggests. 

Swell idea. Wasn’t that your plan five minutes ago?

I was done. I walked away and let my boss deal with them. I went to the bathroom. When I came out both PING and PONG were gone. I guess PONG decided she wasn’t going to stay behind after all. I asked my boss if they paid. He said no. He didn’t expect they would.

In the end, they did come back to supposedly pay their bill. Actually they just came back to complain to someone else about me. But by this time their check was considered a walk-out. All PING and PONG had to do was say, “We left our money in our room. We’ll go get it and come back.” And then leave. Come back. Don’t come back. But no, they hung around to see if they could get something else for free. And when no one offered to pay their bill, they got mad, and so expected me to pay their bill apparently. They didn’t think they should have to pay their check because, “It’s only $7!” 

Their Lyft rides cost more money than their bill. 

Smart.

Crackerjack job raising with these two idiot kids, mom. 

It’s not just eighteen year old young women. I have to deal with the same shit from thirty-five year old women who think they shouldn’t have to pay when they don’t have money simply because they’re women. They think they’re entitled to get things they order for free. From me? Are you really that stupid?

I’m noticing more and more at the end of the night it’s just men hanging out together buying each other breakfast and drinks, having a great time laughing, celebrating life. No women. 

See, it’s not just me who are sick of your shit, ladies. 

This isn’t anything new, mind you. I’ve been collecting money for bars, nightclubs, restaurants, charity, festivals, and concert venues, for the past twenty-five years. Grown women back in 1991 didn’t think they should have to pay a $10 cover charge because they’re women. No bitch. PAY. The only difference is, these women who feel so entitled to get everything for free, get uglier and fatter each year. Not one attractive/sexy feature on their entire bodies. At least be attractive if you’re going to have the audacity to approach with me with an entitled attitude. I’ll still say no. But at least have a dumbass reason for feeling entitled. 

Collecting money for charities was just as bad. Back in the day, when the internet was new, people post photos of $100 checks on myspace, to build a women’s shelter or what have you, friends and strangers would praise their generosity, but then when it came to cashing the checks half of them bounced or were cancelled. Nice huh? 

FYI, Good looking women have money and can pay their way. 

I said GOOD LOOKING WOMEN have money.

“Your business would die without women like me hanging out in your establishment. My pussy brings in the men.”

Wrong! 

Any pussy brings in the men. They’re just not going to pay your tab simply for having one. You actually have to have other redeeming qualities.

That’s why these days more women get hired rather than men to handle money and work the doors. Pay bitch, or get the fuck out. No dick for you to suck here. 

8:22pm, July 5th. Another aftershock in Vegas. 40 minutes earlier and I would have been in the shower. Old lady in the shower during an aftershock. Not quite the death I had in mind but, you can’t have everything you want in life now can you. How boring would it be if you could.

Independence

Greetings from the desert 🌵 Happy 4th! 🇺🇸🎉

Around 3am I heard a cat screech. It didn’t sound like Miso so I didn’t get up to check. I heard enough late night cat howling in Los Angeles to not be bothered by it. When the sun rose I went outside and called Miso for his usual big breakfast. A day had past without seeing him. I was relieved when I saw Miso trot over from the neighbor’s yard to ate. When he was finished eating we both lounged on the front stoop and watched the homeless across the yard mill about with their shopping carts. Early morning is the only time you can enjoy the sunlight this time of year. Vegas gets into the 90’s by 9am. As Miso and I lounged on the stoop I plucked brush from his fur. He lifted his head to nudge my hand as I pet his head, and that’s when I saw it. Dried brown blood on his neck fur. Not a lot. Nonetheless, the other cat clearly got him by the jugular. I hope Miso killed that cat.

There’s an older mangy fat orange stray cat my neighbor on the next stoop over takes care of. It’s a mess of a cat. But then again my neighbor is a mess of an old man. It’s the same cat I threw a rock at (intentionally missing it) when it jumped out from the bushes and attacked Miso as he was leaving my building. I would never kill a cat, but I could this one. I love my stray cat so much, other cats can die if it means he lives. No doubt that’s who Miso got into a scramble with. 

The homeless black guy from my previous blog was no longer camped outside my building. He’s moved up the street two blocks. No doubt the heat got to him. In a day or so it’ll just be another homeless guy. And then another. And then another. And another after that. How did this country become so plagued with human throwaways? Does no one take care of their own families anymore? What’s Venice beach, CA, looking like these days? 

The only light at the end of the tunnel...

Death is our final lot in life. So be the will of God, Darwin, fate, Dharma, aliens, King Kong, whatever you believe, take your pick. So be it’s will. (Sigh) Thankfully. 

I’m listening to little kids blow up fireworks. Think their uncaring fat disheveled mothers will take them to the ER when fingers get blown off? 

OHM movies movies movies

OHM movies movies movies

One of my favorite French films is BROTHERHOOD OF THE WOLF. Released in 2001. It stars, among others, Vincent Cassel, and Monica Bellucci, who is easily among the top five most beautiful women in the world. These two also starred together in a movie five years prior called The Apartment. Released in 1996. It’s always interesting for me seeing actors in a different movie environment from how I first saw them. I saw BOTW first. It’s is a visually stunning, gloriously made, artistic movie, whereas The Apartment, could have been performed on a stage. Both good films in their own ways, but it always throws me off when I see artistic period piece actors become real people. Know what I mean? Read Carl Jung. I’m a classic case of his psychology. Chronic dreamer. Artist. Wanting what I can’t have. I don’t belong in the real world. 

Earthquake? 

Around 10:45am today, Thursday, July 4th, my apartment started to sway back and forth. I live on a second floor walk-up. I turned on the news and learned California had another quake. 6.4 in the desert I think it was reported. An aftershock reached us in Las Vegas, about an hour later. 

The media and their hype. “Was this California’s big one?” 

Um. 

Is everyone dead in the ocean? 

No?

Than no. This was not the big one.

Not one fuck

 “I don’t tip anymore.” He said. “What if they voted for Trump? Nope. That’s why I don’t tip anymore.”

Excuse me? What? You’re an asshole. I couldn’t care less who someone votes for when it comes to be waited on. If you’re pleasant and I get my drink and/or food, I’m tipping you. One has nothing to do with the other. People in the hospitality industry rely on tips. What a dick. Seriously if you don’t tip your bartender/server, you’re a creep. Fucking people.

Last night some homeless guy followed me home from the 7-11 behind my building. Giant fat black guy, 20-something, with his pants pulled down in the back. Full exposed butt crack. Not one fuck given.

This morning when I woke up to see If stray cat Miso wanted some breakfast, the homeless guy was camped outside my front door. Two full shopping carts filled with black Hefty bags of junk. His eyes lit up light Christmas lights when he saw me walking down the stoop. “Good morning! Good morning! Good morning!” He sang, hoping I would invite him in to come live with me. 

Um. No.

I don’t doubt this homeless guy could have done something with his life if he had just one decent parent. I don’t have to stretch my imagination as to the type of mother he had. I can look out my apartment windows any given hour and see at least one fat disheveled mom, quickly walking ahead, ignoring her baseball team of kids as they struggle to keep up with her. She’ll scream at them to walk faster, but won’t bother turning around to check on their welfare, not even when speeding cars go by. Those kids, if they live that long, will be homeless adults in no time. The daughters will be just like mom, looking for love in the wrong places, breeding a bunch of unwanted kids. A never ending cycle.

We’ll see how long homeless guy remains camped outside my building. Usually it’s less than a week before one of my neighbors, or the heat, drives them away. If he’s out there again tomorrow I’ll give this homeless guy a name, Mr. Black Jack. Because he’s black. Because we’re in Vegas. And I’m a racist (or so unsophisticated, uneducated white women are constantly telling me). 

Las Vegas rivals Venice beach, CA, regarding homeless people. The street I live on swarms with homeless until about 11am. They just aimlessly push their shopping carts filled with hefty bags of garbage until it gets too hot, or too cold, depending on the season. Then they scatter like roaches by 11am to, who knows where. There’s no underground tunnel opening where I live. That’s the first thing I check for when I move into a new neighborhood out here. I always look for underground tunnel openings. I imagine the homeless just go to Fremont Street, to the air conditioned/heated casinos and tourists. 

Being fake military, and fake homeless, are two big time hustles out here in Vegas. Fake homeless stick to hustling the strip, of course. And they always have clean hair and nice teeth. You’d think they wouldn’t shower all week to at least get the desert stench and grime on them. But no, they have things to do mid week, a different hustle that requires them to bathe. Still, tourists fall for it all the time. If they didn’t, Las Vegas homeless would just migrate to Los Angeles, with the rest of the west coast homeless. Nicer weather. Beaches. Bleeding heart liberals. 

There is no solution for our country’s homeless population. There just isn’t. It’s too far gone now. There’s more homeless than middle class. That’s why there is no middle class anymore. We have this talk all time about enabling homeless people with handouts. But what’s the alternative? Letting them die on the streets? I know a lot of people say yes. Let them die.

Vegas has a homeless relocation program. I’ve seen people dump homeless, mentally ill, and handicapped people off on my street. The cars pull up, an unwanted get pushed out with nothing but the clothes on their back, and the cars drive away. Leaving the unwanted confused, alone, with no one and nowhere to go. I witnessed one guy try getting back in the car but the car sped away almost running him over. 

If this love-struck homeless guy murders me one night as I’m coming home from work, or as I’m leaving to go out, than all those “let the homeless die in the street” voters would use that to further their agenda on social media, both pro and against I suppose. I’m simply collateral damage. 

Remember friends, when I’m dead, speedily collect my body, chop it up, and dispense my body parts into varied public locations across town, and make sure to anonymously contact the media or the value of my art will have no hope of going up. All my birth marks and ink will identify my body parts.

My divorce beat the hell out of me. I didn’t start saving for my divorce like a college fund when I got married. Who does? But that’s what divorce is. A tool for the vengeful bitter party to use against you. It’s not enough to just say, “Fuck it. We hate each other. Split it all in half from the time we married. Fair. Legal. Goodbye.” No, the bitter party has to drag you to court FOUR god damn times, intentionally pour beers into a portfolio filled with a half dozen new drawings, one more fuck you I suppose, and make your life miserable every day for two more years over petty nickels and dimes, just to make certain you’ll have absolutely nothing left when all is said and done.

If it wasn’t for my amazing friends, I’d be pushing one of those shopping carts myself with a hefty bag half full of junk. Just one bag, half full. I have no idea why homeless people horde. 

I have late night chats with my long time friend Brian, who I’ve known since we were 20 years old. He keeps me company while I’m commuting home from work. He’s on his fourth and final wife. He too had the snot kicked out of him by a divorce, wife #3. I’m impressed he married again.

I intentionally married late in life. I was 34 years old. My young and adorable days were behind me. I wanted to settle down. Routine. Make art. Have a home with someone. Grow old together. Invite friends over for dinner. Have pet dogs. A cat. Have some normalcy after much stupidity of youth. But no. That was not to be. He wanted to be nineteen years old forever. A thirty-five year old man going on nineteen. It’s amazing to me how relationships change with a blink of an eye from dating, to living together, to marriage. 

I will never give up having my own place ever again. Even if, and that’s a huge if, I fall madly in love again, I will never give up my own place. Never again. Nope. My keys. My mailbox. My place. MINE. 

I wonder, if more women had said, “I will never give up having my own place no matter how small, so long as I have some place to go,” I can’t help but wonder how many women could have spared themselves from being homeless. Once you move into his house, you’re at his mercy. He has all the power. It’s his house. You guys break up, where will you go? 

I see these homeless women on the streets, and some of them could have been very beautiful once upon a time, and I can’t help but wonder, how many are homeless because they moved into his house. 

Anyway

Miso kitty wasn’t around this morning. Cats have the best hustle. He reminds me of, well, me when I was his age. Back when I was young and adorable. Truth be told Miso and I had another fight. I let him upstairs the other morning to feed him his usual big breakfast. Then I brushed him, cleaned him up a bit. I always check him for bugs and worms. And then he either crashes out, or leaves, but the other morning after he ate, after our routine, he sat beside me, cleaned his paws, then suddenly stopped, looked at me, squinted, squared back his ears, and then hissed at me for no reason, twice. He does that sometimes. He’ll rub up against my legs, then suddenly attack them, bite them, and hiss at me. I don’t know why. Anyway, I shoed him out. Haven’t seen him since.

I’m off this weekend. Guess I’ll troll the casinos for perverted old men with candy. 

Or just drink.

Or draw. 

Probably draw. And drink.

And watch movies. 

And wait for death to come. 

“I’m giving you the weekends off so you can go out and party. Enjoy your life.” My boss insists. She’s one year younger than me and hates it when I call myself an old lady. “Go out! Meet a man!” She scolds. 

Sigh.

I appreciate the sentiment, boss. You’re a beautiful young 49 year old Filipino woman with tons of energy, happiness, and will to live. Whereas I... 

I bought the movie LOVE ACTUALLY just to watch Hugh Grant dance for ten seconds. That’s the extent of my love life. That, and perverted old men with candy. And I don’t even like candy. 

Hugh Grant is beautiful in that movie.

That’s true by the way. I don’t like candy. Not traditional candy. Not even as a kid. On Halloween I loved roasted pumpkin seeds, and jawbreakers. I wouldn’t dare eat one now. My old lady teeth would feel all that processed sugar and fall out in protest. Love fondue. Fresh fruit dipped in a little bit of chocolate. And on rare occasion Mochi ice cream, or pistachio nut ice cream. I miss ice cream hangouts with Aramis. 

Aramis!!

Is Le’Fondue, in Studio City, still open? Remember that place? *Sigh*

That’s it. This weekend I’m searching Las Vegas for fondue. A fondue pilgrimage. Cheese and/or chocolate. Could never get into meat fondue. But I do like French dip sandwiches. 

Anyway

Vegas fondue

Vegas

Fondue 

What could possibly go wrong?

NOSE MOLE!!