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!!