Since the other day was the longest day of the year, it was my chance to
sleep till noon do as many stupid things as humanly possible in one short day. And it seems that other people have the same idea.
Like when I went to the library and there was this little girl about six who was standing in front of a water fountain, which was exactly the perfect height for her to drink from. But for some godforsaken reason, she was screaming at the top of her tiny yet powerful lungs (I guess practicing for when she eventually gets married), that she wanted a cup. Her father was standing there trying to calm her down, but everytime he stepped near her, she’d scream even louder and then she’d do the famous bratty child dance which is kind of a combination of someone having a seizure and someone drowning ya know. And all of this because she didn’t want to drink out of a freakin’ water fountain. Naturally the entire library had come to a total stand still staring in utter fascination.
I’m sure some of us were rooting for her put-upon Daddy to just get the little brat a damn cup somewhere, to shut her up and then there were others, like me perhaps, hoping against all odds that the little Princess might possibly stumble and whack her head ever-so-slightly on the metallic water fountain. Now wouldn’t that be funny? Come on you know it would be.
So I tried to blot out the screaming and crying as I was sitting at the library computer. And I was thinking, Man, if I ever did that as a kid, my mother would have yanked my arm out of the socket and dragged me outside and beat the shit out of me. Ahhh, the good old days. That of course, was before parents had to constantly tell their kids “Good job” for absolutely everything they do. Granted, I think thats a fabulous idea and I think many more kids will grow up with good self esteem, but when I heard a mom recently tell their kid “Good job” when they pooped in the bathroom stall next to me at the grocery store, I thought I was going to burst out laughing.
So anyways, suddenly all the crying and screaming stopped abruptly. I looked over and guess what? Go ahead guess? The Dad had gone over to the latte cafe (yeah, our library is so yuppiefied, they serve lattes at the entrance) and he had gotten her a cup to drink out of. Wasn’t that nice of him? So lesson learned…crying and stomping and acting like a general asshole will get you what you want. Yay!
I’ve really got to learn that one, because I have a list about a mile long of things that make me want to scream and stomp in public places. And yet do I ever say anything? No. Oh I do have that fierce passive aggressive “wittykitty silence treatment” thingie. Ooooohh! Can you feel the chill? Does anyone even notice they’re getting it? Well, I guess Charlemagne did last week. Ha ha!
I guess generally I just can’t tell people when they’re bothering me until I’m at the Mt. Fuji eruption point and totally fuck things up. Right now, for instance, I’m pretty depressed which is making me more sensitive than usual.
Like yesterday for instance when my neighbor to the right was blaring their rock music and I was getting their delightful “thumpthump..thump…..de-de- thumpthump thumppp” through the wall. I’ve had neighbors that were far worse, so theirs is just slightly annoying. And then there’s my neighbor on my other side who had her TV blaring. So I finally went out on my back porch to paint. It was a beautiful summer day and what do I hear? Garden Hacker Guy, who lives downstairs, but one over, blasting opera music at top volume out on his porch. I guess he wants people to think he has “cultcha” (that’s how my favorite College Professor used to say it at least. Oh, he was so hot! He was having a fling with one of his students [bad professor BAD] and I used to watch them go get in his car for a “nooner” every day. How I’d see that? Well I was just the geeky library assistant repairing books overlooking the parking lot who SAW EVERYTHING. Evil laughter. Incidentally, that Professor eventually “fell” down some stairs at the college and got severely brain damaged and eventually died. Knowing his penchant for the ladies, I think he was probably pushed.
Anyhoo, so yesterday, it was like the Battle of the Bands. Rock music banging to the right. Weeping opera music downstairs. TV to the left. Oy! I hate living in apartments and being too whimpy to say anything. I think that’s why I walk so much. Just to get out of this noise-haven.
And my whimpiness knows no bounds, since I have now made up with Charlemagne. I know. My mother dropped me on my head a few dozen times evidently. He came over to my apartment last Sunday and installed a copy of Photoshop which I’ve been waiting for for almost two months. And now he’s back to calling and chatting about himself. Friday was closing night for
our HIS art show over on the other side of town. He kept bugging me, and calling me, making sure I was going to come. I had to anyways, since I had 7 paintings hanging in a big, old stinky, moldy fire hazard warehouse and I didn’t want to see them get destroyed or stolen.
But one thing in one of our conversation stuck in my craw. I asked him in Handyman was going to be there and he laughed and said “Oh course!” and then he admonished me for dating him and said he had told me not to. Huh? I truly did not want to see that dickwad. True he’s a very innocuous man in person. But I just didn’t want to see him in a social setting. I’m not doing that well emotionally. In fact, I’m in pretty bad shape. I’m sleeping til noon and crying alot. The only thing I’m doing healthy is walking 2 miles a day and doing lots of art, like this drawing I did Wednesday night in my class.
At least I have art and some new art supplies thanks to Scotvalkrie who sent me a gift card to a local art supply store. Thanks!! Thanks too, to HissandTell for being there. You guys are awesome and I’m very lucky to have you!
Anyways, the night of “Charlemagne’s Art Extravaganza” I had to waste several hours in town after a trip to the dirty, icky Section Eight gangsta office. So after that I went down to the artsy, cool part of town to cleanse myself and finally found the place where two of my paintings have been accepted for an art show opening on July 11th. …”The Screaming Cat” (a take-off on Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” and a painting of a Blue Heron). This is my third show in that neighborhood in less than a year. So I looked in the windows of the place (its a bakery — tee, hee) since it was already closed and it looks like a pretty cool place. They have a photo show hanging there right now.
Anyways, I was walking along the sidewalk there and nearly stumbled over this huge A-frame out on the sidewalk advertising another upcoming art show a couple of doors down. The opening is June 29th. Blah, blah, blah. It’s at the trendiest place in the trendiest part of town. Guess who it is? Married Guy’s little spoiled wifie! I couldn’t believe it. The poster for it was huge, as was the lettering of her name. She never did take Married Guy’s last name. Her former husband had a “cooler” artist name than boring old Married Guy’s name, so she kept his.
For some reason seeing that big fancy poster and her artwork out on the sidewalk made me really depressed. It just brought up all the Married Guy stuff and how she used to talk down to me when I mentioned I was starting to do artwork. She’d like pat me on the head, metaphorically speaking, and say “that’s nice, witty, here’s some crayons. Go play now.”
How ironic, that we’ll have artwork hanging two doors from each other. Of course mine is part of a show. Her’s IS a show.
After that I went and had some Chinese food at the yuppie grocery store, trying to waste time until Charlemagne’s thing. It started at 6 p.m., but I didn’t want to bump into Snerkwitz and I knew he’d be going to his favorite dancing event at 8, so I stupidly, and I do mean stupidly, waited out in the grocery store parking lot in my car until 7:30. An hour and a half. Yay me!!
Parking lots are totally fascinating you know. So much goes on there. People almost getting hit because they walk directly behind cars that are pulling out. Two of the grocery cart kids were chatting by my car. I don’t think they knew I was sitting in my car.
First Kid: “Hey I saw that picture of you passed out with puke on you. Ha ha ha!!!” Second Kid: “Where??” First Kid: “On your MySpace Pictures, Dude!!” Second Kid: “Oh yeah!!”
I finally went to the warehouse at 7:30. I saw two women from my art class on the first floor. I asked them if they had seen a nondescript 40 something guy with glasses upstairs. After some head scratching they finally said no. So I cautiously walked upstairs and fortunately there was no Handyman. Charlemagne screeched, “Glad you could FINALLY make it.” I didn’t stay long though, especially after some woman asked me if my Bob Dylan painting was a self portrait.
Yeah, I can definitely see the resemblance, you freakin’ idiot.
I finally just started taking my artwork down. Charlemagne managed to tear himself away from the teenaged girl brigade that was hanging out and said, “Dude, its only 8, the show runs until 10.” I told him I was tired and people were really only there for him. And it was true. Just like the original show. Nobody was looking at my work. So he turned and walked away and I packed everything away and rolled it to the elevator on an office chair. Some guy who lives in the building helped me load it off the loading dock.
Did I mention my art career is going really well?