Things I didn't say It's probably for the best The gimpy edition

I was weighed down carrying two bags this morning and was diverted into a small pathway due to a construction area. I passed a woman and she turned around and started screaming at me.

"What's the matter with you? You can't walk in a straight line?"

5 years ago I had an accident and consequently I walk with a slight limp. It's not something I often talk about. It doesn't so much make me feel deformed or less able, however it is more promounced with I carry bags or heavy awkward things.
In this situation I chose to keep walking as though I didn't hear the woman.

A tiny voice in my head however screemed "I was in an accident and walk with a fucking limp. What's your excuse for being a nasty cunt?"

please pardon the foul language of the little voice in my head most especially its use of the "c" word. I mean no disrespect to women by its usage here. I know how distasteful it is and thus, it's probably for the best that the little voice remained in my head, though now it's had its say on my blog as well.

Sigh.

The Drain/Ghosts

Life seems to be comprised of cycles, a swirling pool that spins round and round until you're finally sucked down the drain. Perhaps you hang on like a hairball until someone calls a plumber to clear the path you are blocking. Wow, doesn't that sound so delightfully pleasant? Each revolution round the whirlpool seems to bring me back to a time and place and/or to a person. They are older each time and a bit further from the glitter of our inital introduction. We don't fully recoginize each another. The whirlpool spins us round another time. Each time, the original picture fades a bit, until all is black

I went through a rough patch a few years back and that's putting it lightly. I'm generally more prone to exageration than understatement, but for this paragraph, I shall embrace subtelty. This rough patch if you will was a very specific bubble of existence for me with a group of people, a drinking problem (aka drowning your sorrows) and a feeling of death. I died inside. My life ended but my feet kept moving and my heart kept beating, but make no mistake that I died in 2003. Ok I'm back to exageration. Was it 2003? I'm not quite sure. It's all a blur at this point.

"You left my ass in Arizona with 15 bucks and half a corona" and needless to say, I ran into your ass on the street the other day and I cringed with every uncomfortable muscle in my body. You smiled like it was good to see me. You are so oblivious. It is not nor will it ever be good to see you.

So please, if you see me on the street, there is no need for a hello, because I am a toddler crawling through my second life. You are a ghost from my first. There are good memories that wash down the drain with the bad, but that which as gone down the drain is not meant to return. It drifts away to the sewer or the water treatment plant. Perhaps it shall live again in a glass of drinking water or an ice cube.





Now, I... I was reborn in 2007

Faggot Bitch

Photo by Carrie Thomas

Last night I was walking down the steps to the subway platform to try and catch the train. At the bottom of the steps, the woman in front of me slowed down abruptly, causing me to step on her flip flop. Her foot slipped out and touched the floor of platform. She began to yell.

"Goddammit, Goddammit"

I stopped, acknowledged her and apologized but she kept yelling. She seemed kind of crazy. I apologized again and said that it was an accident.
She was still yelling so I started to walk away.

She yelled as I walked away

"it wouldn'a happened if you hadn' been ridin' my muthafuckin ass, you faggot bitch."
(Pause)...
"DID YOU HEAR ME?"

I kept walking as though I did not hear her until there was enough distance between us that I felt there would be no confrontation.

Though it would not normally matter, it is important to note that this woman was african american. The reason I imbue importance upon her race is that her use of the F-word in my mind seems incongruous to a people who suffered years of persecution, segregation and degradation under lashful tongues armed with the N-word.

My mind began to flip the situation. Had I been wearing flip flops, experienced the same situation from her perspective and turned to weak-minded hate speech substitute, the N-Word for the F-Word coming from a white man, there would have been a riot/murder on the subway platform.

I know that the best thing in this situation was to walk away from crazy, low-class, feeble-minded hatred, but regardless I felt violated.

The words echoed through my head. I found myself taken back to a place where I was 13 years old and scared to walk down the hallway at school because I knew that I would be called a faggot. Almost every day it happened. Many days I cried. I did not cry yesterday, but I will say this. As much as I do not have the right to use the N-word, unless you are of the homosexual persuasion, you do not have the right to use the F-word. So, nameless trashy lady, I doubt that you will read this, but I address this do you.

Don't you call me a motherfuckin' faggot. You don't have the right to use that word unless you want to give motherfuckin' faggots the right to use your word and I don't think you do, so back it off. You need to deal with your anger and your hatred. It is brewing underneath the surface and having your fucking flip flop come off does not give you the right to spew your venom on me. I forgive you for your ignorance, your prejudice and your hatred. I hope that one day, you are able to rise above it and behave like an adult. If you are unable to pursue that point of enlightenment, I suggest that you either stay home or keep it to yourself. There is no room for it in my world.

Sam Ash, a place where customer service goes to die. A.K.A. The Story behind the donkey or The Longest Blog Title Ever

As many of you know I have been building a studio for recording music in my apartment.
I must say that I've come a long way from the demos recorded on minidisc with a radio shack microphone and the sound of a broken smoke detector beeping in the background. K, btw is one of the only people allowed to listen to those recordings.
They reside in the vault, next to the skeletons on the top shelf of my closet.

Talk about B-sides. Lord help you all.

So, as I was saying... I'm building a studio and working on demos.
There is one piece of equipment that I have needed very badly for
sound consistency and quality sake. It is a preamp, in fact the same
one that was used on part of Sirens of Brooklyn and for all the tracks on Sunrise.

After much investigation and saving of money, I decided to suck it up and eat rice for a while as I have to finish this project. It is not a choice, but a necessity. I am being pulled toward my third album and I have to put these songs on the second album before I lose focus.

I stepped into Sam Ash on July 16th in hopes of buying the preamp. It's something they carry on their website but did not have in the store. The salesguy, named Robert, said he could special order it which would take 7-10 days. The guy who helped me ( I use the word help, very loosely and with a heavy smattering of sarcasm) was talking on his cellphone the entire time, further evidence that society is surely crumbling under our feet.

So, I put down a deposit equal to about half my monthly rent and trotted away from the store, eager to receive a call in 7-10 days telling me that the preamp had arrived at Sam Ash.

Day 13(the beginning of the end)

I decided to call my salesguy on day 13 because it's my lucky number and I was eager to get the preamp so that I could work on tracks.
After giving him my order number, i got an unsettling feeling when he began asking me questions like
What did you order? What's your name? What's a phone number where I can call you back. To clarify this was preceeded by awkward stuttering. He said he would call me back in a few minutes. He did not call me back.

Three hours later, I call the store. My sales guy abruptly tells me that there was a mistake with the ordering and my order will be in soon. I ask him what soon means. His answer:7 to 10 days.

I tell him that it's already been 13 days since he told me 7 to 10 days.
He proceeds to yell at me DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT A MISTAKE IS?
suddenly every tiny hair on the back of my neck stands at attention like a cat that is about to hiss.

I restrain myself and instead say that yes, I do understand what a mistake is, but I either need the order in the next couple of days or I need to cancel the order and get the preamp somewhere else. He starts yelling again.
OH! YOU THINK YOU CAN GET IT SOMEWHERE ELSE?! YOU'RE NOT GONNA GET IT SOMEWHERE ELSE.

i respond by saying that I'm not going to be yelled at and that I need to speak to his manager.

I explain to the manger what has happened. The manager, named Tony tells me that the order was processed incorrectly and the item was shipped to the wrong store. He tells me that he will call the company that manufactures the preamp and try to get it overnighted at no cost to me. He promises me that I will have the preamp before the end of the week. This is Tuesday, btw. On Thursday, I get a call that goes to voicemail. It is the salesperson, Robert. He leaves a message telling me that the preamp will be in the store tomorrow and that I can come in and get it then.

Day 16(aka an hour of my life is wasted)

I arrived at Sam Ash Friday evening to pick up the preamp, which my saleseguy since my salesguy went out of his way to leave me a message telling me would be in the store.

I arrive at the register with my receipt. I am told by the cashier that I have to pay the balance on the order. I hand the cashier an amount of money equal to two months rent. A woman runs to the back, presumably to retrieve my preamp. She returns and asks me who told me that the item was in the store. I reply that it was my salesperson and that if it's not in the store, we've got a real problem. My skin begins to burn and my blood begins to boil. The manager, tony who promised that it would be in at the end of the week starts going into this thing about how it's a special order and it's hard to tell when it will come in and I ask him why his salesperson told me to come into the store and get it. I tell the manager that I feel like I've been lied to. He argues and says I haven't been lied to. After being unable to get any sort of anwer as to when the item will come into the store, I tell the manager that I want my money back and that I will never shop at Sam Ash again. He says that he understands and they will take care of it. The cashier tries to cancel the order and refund the money. He says he can't do it, that the order is "locked". The manager, named Richard comes over and tries to cancel it and he can't. They tell me that they can't cancel the order or refund my money until the item arrives in the store. At this point, I have been at Sam Ash for an hour. I decide that to prevent me from losing a grip I need to walk away from the store. The manger Richard tells me that the item should come into the store either Saturday or Sunday but at the latest monday. I say ok, whatever and I leave.

I met with Rob Martin, the director of the last music video and Michael (AKA Chic, AKA one of the nurses in the video).
We discussed concepts for 3 possible music videos for the next album. I drank two martinis and ate nachos. It took way too long to shake the irritation of the Sam Ash experience. I decided to relax for the weekend and try not to think about the preamp. Afterall, there are starving children and much more pressing issues in the world than my need for a metal box to fulfill my artistic whims.

(To be continued)
.....and then Day 19

On Monday, I decided to call the store and speak to Tony, the manager who promised the preamp by week's end. I was informed that he had left for 10 days of vacation. That's just great for him. I'm sure he deserves it and I really hope he doesn't get sunburned or stung my jelly fish or trapped in a hotel resort elevator with an extraordinarily smelly man for 10 hours. I kid of course. I do not wish anyone at Sam Ash ill will. I just wish that they had treated me like a valued customer.

There is nothing worse than that feeling where you know that now you have to explain everything that has happened from the beginning to a new person, essentially bringing you back to square one. The lovely thing about Sam Ash is that apparently none of the managers communicate customer issues with one another nor does it seem that they really take responsibility for a customer's issue. They just take off for 10 days vacation and let the chips fall where they may.

So, I tried to speak to the closest thing to a manager who knew what was going on, the guy named Richard. Richard said he would look into the order for me, but kept telling me that he would call me back in 5 minutes or 15 minutes and would never call me back. So I would wait and hour or two hours and call him back, so as to not be an absolute psycho about the whole thing, but seriously. Why do people say they will call in 5 minutes then not call when they know someone is already an upset dissatisfied customer? Richard assured me that the preamp was being couriered from Long Island and would arrive "Today".
I asked if it was being couriered by donkey. He said, perhaps it was. He said he was taking personal responsibility and that when I came to pick up the merchandise, I would be credited at the register for my trouble.

Fast forward to day 20. I call the store 3 hours after they open to speak with Richard. I ask the guy who answers the phone, a gentleman by the name of Alexander, if he could check on my order. He tells me that my preamp has been shipped to a store in Florida. I ask for Richard. I am told that he is off for the day. I ask if there is another manager. I am handed over to the store manager, Bobby. I now have to explain everything again to a new manager. How awesome is that?So, to be fair, Bobby is apparently the only manager at the NYC Sam Ash who has any sort of customer service skills. He not only apologized for everything, but also managed to call me back when he said he would and within an hour of speaking with him, I was told that the preamp was in the store.

I went to pick up the preamp immediately, crossing my fingers on my way. When I got to the store, the cashier grabbed the box and started to put it in the bag, but then decided to ask the other cashier who had been there on Friday if it was indeed the right item. She said that it was then proceeded to tell me that it had arrived on Friday right after I left the store. I asked her why if it had arrived on Friday was it being couriered from Long Island on Monday. I then asked the cashier about the credit to my order, which Richard had promised. Of course, He had no knowledge of it. He said I'd have to speak with Richard, but Richard wasn't here. I internally said Fuck it, grabbed my merchandise and walked out of the store.

And this my dear readers is why, after years of spending way too much money at Sam Ash in New York, I will never shop there again. They have the absolute worst customer service I think I've ever encountered. It seems to be a growing trend that customers are no longer valued or treated like people. Sam Ash is the latest victim of this trend.

On a happier lighter note, I'll let you know my feelings about the preamp shortly? Was it worth it? haha. God, I hope so.

The Death of Customer Service

After a slow and agonizing battle with apathy and disgruntledness,
customer service was pronounced dead today at around 3:15 Eastern Standard Time.
Being a long time fan of customer service, I mourned the loss like many,
by asking to speak with customer service's supervisor.
The supervisor promised to call me back, but alas,
I have held my breath until a tinge of blue has enveloped my entire body.
Perhaps the supervisor also fell victim to a similar malady to that which cut short the life of customer service.
I would call back to confirm my suspicions, but I fear that the zombified corpse of customer service might answer the phone and pulverize my brains with a subsonic death rattle.

I have resigned myself to never special order anything ever again.
I have also asked jesus to give me the serinity to accept the fact that
my expectations should remain as low as a hooker's panties
following a night at the bingo parlor.

The thin line between love and murder

I once again find myself stumbling through the world quite sleep deprived.
The last few nights I've been tossing and turning. I woke up last night very suddenly to see that both alarm clocks, which are next to each other read 4:44 4:44.

This freaked me out. What is the universe trying to tell me? What is the signifigance of the 4's. The two alarm clocks run a minute apart and are only in sync for a few seconds. There is obviously some secret message from the deep, but what is it?

Last night K was snoring like a freight train rattling my skull. I'm not a violent person, but sometimes I hit him while in my half conscious state. I should clariy. it's more of a nudge, a firm nudge. There is a thin line between love and murder. For me, it is in the form of breathe right nasal strips. Sometimes I wonder if K would have been beaten to death in his sleep if it weren't for these little marvels of modern science. I kid.

Though the strips failed me last night and yet my boyfriend's life has been spared. I have reisted my half concious instincts to shove and hit him. I managed to gently roll him over onto his side with the knowledge that this disturbance in sleep was only temporary.

I wonder if putting two strips on his nose instead of one would make them doubly effective. We will have to do further testing to find out.

You can stand under my umbrella

It's April in New York. In fact, it's April everywhere, well unless you live an an alternate dimension, but then again according the the show sliders, time is consistent in parallel dimensions so it would only not be April if the residents of said alternate dimension have developed a different calendar, which is totally plausable.
I digress.

The heavens have opened their floodgates pouring forth the nourishing showers that wash away the smell of urine and give life to spring flowers. An unfortunate consequence of this soppy month, other than rainsoaked uggs that smell like wet dog is the emergence of the super umbrella. Please see image above.

The super umbrella is the most selfish act of hatred perpetrated against the citizens of a city where space is limited and highly valued. These sociopaths have taken it on themselves to carry a personal tent that will knock you into the gutter and stab you in the eye as they open it coming up the subway stairs. You could fit a three ring circus with syncronized dancing baby seals under these damn things. I respect a person's right and need to stay dry during inclimate weather, but seriously, you people who assault innocent pedestrians with your barnum and baily brellas need to get up out of my grill, cuz I do have a dull nail file, and I will cut you. I kid, of course. I don't promote or condone violence toward assholes.

On another note, I'm pleased to announce that after months of searching for the perfect avacado, I have struck gold. Frequent trips to the produce section had proved to be unfruitful with avocados ranging from hard as a rock to soft as a sponge with little inbetween. I had become convinced that there was an army of mexicans who took all the edible avocados out of the stores at 4 am while I was sleeping. I however, am ok with this. Their need for good Avocados far outweighs mine and there are times when you have to suck it up for the greater good. Please note, not all mexicans eat avocados, in fact there may be some of our friends from south of the border who like bratwurst and KasseKuchen. This comment on avocados in no way should be taken as a blanket statement about Mexicans.

I do not condone or promote violence over avocados. I did however once fight a woman for a free ham at the local pathmark. She was black, I mean african american, actually she could have been jamaican, but I would have fought her for the ham if she were chinese or white. Actually, if she were chinese and old, I might have let her take the ham. I have a softspot in my heart for older asian women after reading Joy Luck Club. This should not be taken as a blanket statement about old asian women. Some are sweet as pie and some will claw your eyes out over a ham. Sometimes you have to make a judgement call, weighing your need for the prize ham against the need to keep your eyes. I won the hamfight, btw, and I've never had a ham that tasted so good.

***Disclaimer: The above post is in no way intented to disparage, degrade or otherwise stereotype any mentioned racial groups. I strongly believe in equality and respect for all people regardless of age, sex, race, sexual orientation, religion, lack of religion, and despite questionable fashion choices. I think laughter is the best medicine but should not come at the cost of hurting others. If you have found this article in any way, offensive, please let me know. I will enlist my half greek boyfriend in our predominantly carribean neighborhood to alter this posting in a way that will remove any offensive material***

Crossing Lines

You have crossed lines that you shouldn't.
How dare you wave and smile,
all the while you lied and cheated me.

I did everything in my power to sheild you,
to give you the chance to make things right,
but you have spat on my good intentions.
You have burned my money
as though it is funny that I don't attack,
but I am not out for anyone's blood and yours is tainted.

I wave goodbye to you.
I have things to do.

I have wiped your bootprints off my face.

Coming Soon....

"Northworst Airlines"
The gripping tale of a tour, a flight, a lost guitar and a man in a turban screaming outside a Brooklyn window. You will laugh. You will cry. You will join me in never flying Northwest airlines again EVER!!!!

The Sociopath and my reaction to the creamy wet spot on my pants

Photo taken during the shooting of my first music video for the song Open Wide

From the title You'd think I had something titilating up my sleeve or down my drawers, but really I just have a tale for you of last night's encounter with a couple at the local Duane Reede pharmacy.
I'm sure that while recounting my reaction to the "situation" I will give myself away as being slightly crazy, but then again when have I knocked door to door selling sane?

I decided to take a break from my sleep deprived haggared existence and treat myself to a night of pampering.
This somehow brought me to the soap isle of the pharmacy, staring blankly at the multitude of choices in shower gel. I wanted something that would both exfoliate and moisturize but be gentle on my skin. Let me just tell you that the options were a bit overwhelming and I almost gave up on any thoughts of pampering myself alltogether.

I heard a woman at the other end of the isle say to a man that she needed to get some shower gel.
I was joined by this pair who were also engaged in the daunting task of indecisiveness.
The man was in his mid thirties with an obvious goofy quality to him. He began grabbing bottles of shower gel and saying stupid things which I can't recall. He proceeded to grab a botttle of the creamiest shower substance known to man, which he brilliantly shook back and forth until the cap came off, shooting white gooey wetness all over my leg.

As I mentioned before, the title hints at something much more titilating than reality.

I looked down at my pants and looked at the guy. He and the girl started laughing. I was not amused.

ME: Umm...not to be a dick, but you need to grab a napkin or papertowel or something and clean this up.
(I totally sounded like a dick, yes, I know)

The man grabbed a piece of plastic out of his bag and then smeared the stuff across my pants just making the mess bigger. He then smiled and said he was sorry while laughing and ran away. I was a bit bewildered at what had happened. I tried to focus on the task of buying shower gel, but my concentration had been broken. I tried to get it back when i heard laughing in the next isle.

Girl: Oh my god, this is so funny. I have to call someone and tell them about this.
(more laughing)

I proceeded to walk to the next Isle

ME: Excuse me, but if you're going to squirt shit all over my leg and leave it to soak into my pants and then laugh about it, you might might want to go far enough away that I can't hear you.

They both turned pale and then red, lowering their heads. This is when I could take a moment to question my own sanity or just go completely postal,but instead,I walked back to the shower gel to try and make a decision and get back to the task of self-pampering.

Let me remind you that the girl of the couple came to get shower gel. I started to chuckle ever so silently as I noticed that she was lurking at the end of the isle waiting for me to leave so that she could get shower gel, but of course I was lost in my indecisiveness and hell bent and determined to take my sweet time in choosing. Eventually she was forced to stand next to me and join me in my task. She apologized for her man who was hiding in the next isle.

Of course fate decided to put us right next to each other in the checkout lines. The guy felt so uncomfortable that he left the store. I bought my shower gel, a lufa and Queen Helene's Mint Julep face mask. If you're gonna do crazy, it doesn't mean you have to sacrifice that fresh, squeeky clean feeling that can only come from a relaxing night of pampering.

Connecticut and other Near Death Experiences

Saturday I did a show in Connecticut at a sweet little space called Jitters. I addictively sipped peppermint tea throughout the night and did two sets followed by a third short set. If you notice on the setlist, I played flapjacks twice, breaking a sacred rule of not repeating the same song in the same venue on the same night. However, to defend myself, Flapjacks was such a big hit with the people of Jitters...and when people start throwing their panties and screaming for flapjacks, I heat up the griddle like any good cook in the kitchen. It was also the owner of the venue, a sweet woman named Shirley who requested the song. Now how could I refuse? Thank You Shirley for having us. Thank you, Mr. Carpentier for driving me to the show and as always for being the best friend I could ever ask for.

I tip the biggest of hats To Mr McWiggens Chesteraurther III(Chris) for coming all the way down from Vermont to do the pyrotechnics(sound). Once again, to the woman in the red dress. I am really sorry for setting your poodle on fire during the Acoustic Black Sabath tribute.

After the show, we decided to drop by a local bar for a post performance drink. Though the loud hiphop and unfriendly stares initially had me on edge, I thought I would try to just blend in and relax as best I could. I am very white, by the way. I'm like one step away from being an albino.

I hadn't even taken 3 sips when a bar brawl broke out. You know it's bad news when there is a girl on her back on the floor and there are fists flying. I thought people were going to pull out guns. The fight kept shifting around the bar so that we couldn't find a clear path to the exit. I wondered if this was really it? "Oh Jesus, please please please. don't let them pop a cap in my ass."
Would I die in Connecticut? Luckily, we were able to escape.

It is rather funny that people perceive New York as being a dangerous place. The perception of Connecticut is that of someplace more wooded and quiet with chirping birds and cute little farms. Oh Connecticut, with your underbelly of violence, I applaud you for flashing my life before my eyes. Who knew I would one day breath easy arriving in the safety of Brooklyn?

Santa Baby

Photo byCarrie Thomas

Every year I usually do some sort of holiday performance. This year I sang a song the last two nights to start off Hedda Lettuce's Christmas Show.
On the opening night of the show, I sat on a bench at the west 4th street subway station waiting for the train and listening to Eartha Kitt's rendition of Santa Baby. The next thing I knew someone was behind me whispering into my ear... "It's a small world"

I turned around and felt the blood rush from my head to my stomach. It was my stalker. I will not go into detail as to how this made me feel as it is possible he may read this. I will merely say that the encounter involved my ipod headphones being violently and painfully ripped out of my ears.

After escaping the subway and thinking I could leave the incident behind, I stood at soundcheck unable to remember any of the words to Santa Baby. This is not like me. I instead started the show with Little Altar Boy, my mother's favorite song off The Carpenter's Christmas album.

Last night I am pleased to say that I sang Santa Baby flawlessly,unhindered by the violent subway encounter.
It was a triumph over the power that this man tries to weild. Fear can be a potent weapon. I choose to not give him that power. A soon to be issued restraining order is an equally powerful tool in the battle for self preservation.

Though it has been a rather violent week with fire and stalkers, I feel so blessed this holiday season. I have been given a loving family and a great group of supportive friends. I look to the New Year with anticipation and excitement. Most of all though, I look forward to baking chocolate chip cookies, pouring a tall glass of milk and falling asleep by the fireplace in hopes of catching a glimpse of a fat brightly dressed man who is the ultimate symbol of american greed and commercialism.
As the change drawers in cash registers across the nation jingle like so many bells, I hold my breath, light the yulelog and softly say...

Hurry Down the chimney.....tonight

Violent Touch

I had the good fortune of being roommates with a girl who was studying massage at the Swedish institute. The only problem is that every time she would massage me I would scream and laugh to the point of needing to be gagged. It's not that the massage didn't feel good. It is just that the sensations were too intense to process in a manner which didn't sound like a tickle torture tantrum.

For better or worse I have always been sensitive to touch.
Yesterday, a woman rammed a briefcase into my shin and kept walking as if it never happened. I couldn't really fathom that she was unable feel the throbbing pain pulsating in my leg. How someone can hit a person so hard with a briefcase and keep walking amazes me.

Recently a friend poked me very hard in an extremely tender part of my body without realizing it had happened. It sent shocks of pain up through my stomach and raised the finest hairs on my body to razor sharp attention. For a moment I felt like I could vomit. When I pointed it out, I was told that I was not poked in my tender parts. The dismissal of my pain brought my emotional tenderness to the surface. I feel so open, exposed and raw at times.

Violent touch awakens memories from the past,
small words to deaf ears,
things I don't talk about.

These things didn't happen to me.

Full Moon

I was riding the F train from Manhattan to Brookyn last night when a crazy man got on the train. He was a harmless nutter butter,randomly yelling phrases or advice that made no sense. The one that stuck was "You can't smoke reefer on the train. You have to go on the platform for that."




I may have fallen a bit behind on advances in the penal code, but I think you probably can't smoke reefer on the platform either.

Regardless, this man was somewhat entertaining. He started yelling stuff about food, which of course caused me to feel immediate bond. He knows the way to my heart.

Just when I had gotten used to the rants of one crazy, a second crazy man stumbled into the train car clutching a photograph of Paris Hilton he had obviously ripped from the pages of a tabloid. He was yelling something something very important and totally garbled. I appreciated his passion, but still have no idea what he was saying.

It's so typical that I would end up being the meat in a crazy sandwich during the full moon, when I should be squatting in the woods naked writing poetry to the goddess, beating a drum with my pagan sisters. Oh my pagan sisters, take me into your loving bossoms.

Photograph by my lovely sister by choice Carrie Thomas