Lookit!

My “overheard” was published on Overheard in New York!

What I saw on my walk to the train this morning.

Location: 7th Avenue from 14th Street to 9th Street.

Writing a book is a lot of work.

For example: I just spent three minutes trying to figure out which pen I was supposed to use.

[Looking at the two pens I'd pulled out of my bag] I like pink but it might draw too much attention cause I know that the lady eating yogurt next to me is just DYING to see what I’m writing. But blue is such a crappy color. What is it about blue ink? It seems non-committal for some reason. What does that even mean? But the pen’s in my hand … maybe it’s a sign?

Then, way down deep in my Superhero Supply bag I see the glint of a silver pen clip attached to a totally different pen. A SURE sign. I dropped the first two pens and grabbed for the one at the bottom of my tote and finally started writing my first sentence: Writing a book is a lot of work.

Total time spent? Seventeen minutes.

I have a book inside of me. In my head I know the stories I want to tell, the issues I want to analyze, the work I need to do. But when I think about writing it, I feel so overwhelmed. WRITING A BOOK. Such a daunting task. And it’s not just the writing. It’s the planning and the research. The scariness of re-living my story and revisiting my old injuries. And of course, the ever-present fear of, “What will they think?” raining on every aspect of the book writing parade. But I’m writing it. I’ve been writing it for over twenty years.

She lit a burner on the stove and offered me a pipe
“I thought you’d never say hello” she said
“You look like the silent type”
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burning coal
Pouring off of every page
Like it was written in my soul from me to you
Tangled up in blue

I learned on Rock Band that in concerts Bob Dylan used to introduce Tangled Up in Blue with, “This song took me ten years to live and two years to write.” 12 years for less than 600 words.

Maybe I’m right on schedule.

I have tried and tried, LJ.

But, fuck organic peanut butter.

Fuck it in its oily, mucky, sugarless ear.

I’m working at a new bar. Five days a week - 11AM to 6PM. For those of you who have never visited a bar that functions solely as a bar between the hours of 11AM the traditional 5PM cocktail hour, allow me to give you a glimpse of the world I am living in.

One distinctive quality about my new life is the odor. Bars that function solely as bars tend to smell. A lot. It’s a particular “bar smell” that can only be replicated by years of congealing layers of semi-evaporated beer slime and the foul funk of alcoholism and clinical depression. Eventually I will become immune to the odor, but since I’ve only been working here two weeks, I’m still quite sensitive to it. Yummy.

A fun fact about the new bar is that it doesn’t function soley as a bar all day. At night they serve food! As an employee who has seen the kitchen, my suggestion would be not to eat it.

Now, as you know, bartenders rely on tips for their living. I get a nominal shift pay and then I depend on the generosity of my customers to make money. Being a daytime bartender during the work week, the customers I depend on are problem drinkers. Sure, from time to time there’s the tourist who’s on vacation or the local who’s got the day off, but in general, my clientele are — and I say this without judgment — drunks.

There are the guys who work for the plant around the corner. One drops by on his lunch break two or three times a week. He has three beers (Bud draft) (I charge him for two), tips me $5 and goes back to work. The other shows up around 12:30. Everyday. Every. Day. He comes in by 1PM and leaves sometime after my shift is over. Every. Day. He brings in his laptop sometimes. Mostly he does his work over the phone. Apparently he’s been “working” from the bar for about five years. He’s currently under investigation by his company for drinking on the job.

His drink of choice is Bud draft with a shot of Jameson. Times six. At least. And no matter where he is in the process, he takes his business calls. He runs to the sound system, turns the TV volume down and heads to the back bar. “Mr. M! How can I help you?” He fancies himself a big shot. Especially on the rare occasion we get some girls in. “Lemme get these girls a drink, Susan!” He lies and says that he’s the owner. He hands out pitchers of beer and shots of tequila and then at the end of the night I get the talk.

Him: Susan. Commere. What’s wit dis bill? You gotta start chargin’ me less.

Me: Then you gotta start ordering less. Your bill’s only $45. You should be paying $75

Him: No. You can’t pay no attention to the retail pricin’. I need you to cut it in half.

Then he tips me $10. Five hours, 12+ drinks, a 40% discount and he tips me $10. How DARE he ask for more of a discount. It makes me want to call his boss.”Oh yeah, he’s here. He’s alllllways here. Come get his cheap, drunk ass.”

Then last Wednesday there was C. C came in talking of how he had been with some Iraq War Vets earlier that day.

A Vietnam vet himself, C (pint-sized Bloody Mary) spends a lot of time at the VA Hospital. He walks with a cane, he has scars from bullet wounds and he has no teeth. None. Not one. Well, he had some … in his pocket. After vodka number two he told me how he had to wait four months to get his new dentures which is why he was sitting there with no teeth. After vodka four he showed me his upper plate. He didn’t like wearing it because it hurt. I told him he looked fine without it. Then around vodka six …

You know. I had a psychotic break.

Sweet.

In addition to the whole denture thing, C spent quite a bit of time telling me stories about being in Vietnam. Early on his stories were sad, vague accounts of how hard war is and how so much of the struggle happens once you come back home. Circa vodka number three, details became more graphic and horrific and I heard things I never wanted to know about what war is like up close. Horrendous, macabre details I wish I could un-hear and accounts I will never repeat. These stories were what led C to tell me about his psychotic break.

I don’t know. I was a fucking kid. You understand? But I couldn’t stop seeing the faces. I could see every one of them. And I had to make them go away. You understand? It was just so fucking horrible. The children. The women. All of them … but you had to … you didn’t know … you couldn’t fucking trust anyone. You understand? And so I had to burn it off. You see? Here. Look.

He stretches the neck of his dirty sweatshirt down to reveal a scarred shoulder.

See that? I had a tattoo marking all of them. I had the count. You understand? Of all of them. My kills. And I kept hearing them. And seeing them. You understand?  I thought if I got rid of it, I could make it stop. So I burned it off with an iron.

He pushes his empty glass towards me.

I’ll take another.

Retirement home for well-loved stuffies.

Location: 14th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues

My friend K just sent me a link to this video:

Best comedy video ever. Right?

Wrong. It’s real.

www.shakeweight.com

Do you guys know what trichotillomania is? It’s been in the media lately so maybe you’ve heard of it. For example, Tom, Kathy Griffin’s assistant has it. There was also an intense and totally grody episode of “Obsessed,” about a woman who had it.

From www.abcnews.com.

According to Google Health, “Trichotillomania is hair loss caused by compulsive pulling or twisting of the hair until it breaks off.” Symptoms are:

• An uneven appearance to the hair
• Bare patches or all around (diffuse) loss of hair
• Bowel blockage (obstruction) if people eat the hair they pull out
• Constant tugging, pulling, or twisting of hair
• Denying the hair pulling
• Hair regrowth that feels like stubble in the bare spots
• Increasing sense of tension before the hair pulling
• Other self-injury behaviors
• Sense of relief, pleasure, or gratification after the hair pulling

So, why all the talk about trichotillomania? Because we’ve had an outbreak of it at our house.

Chulo’s always been a nervous dog. Ever since we rescued his pitiful ass from the streets of Queens, he’s displayed neurotic behaviors. He’s got a thing about pacing and whining with favorite toys in his mouth. He’s scared of wind and plastic bags. But he was an abused dog who was homeless in New York City for who knows how long so we’ve just accepted that he has some quirks and try to work with him. However, this trichotillomania thing has taken it too far.

Last night I didn’t sleep for more than two hours because of this:

Around three o’clock this morning I awoke to a, “Slurrrrrrrp, smack! Slurrrrrp, smack!,” loop coming from the dog bed. Using my iPhone as a flashlight I found Chulo lying on his side, toes and nose in a big wet spot. His front paws were in prayer position and you could see his tongue darting out between them as he laid there licking and pulling contentedly at the hair on his front right foot.

See his left foot? That’s what his right one looked like before we went to bed. The butt issue he has has been around for a while. Usually around mid-Summer Chulo will begin to attack his back haunch and before long we end up with a Bichon with a bald spot on his ass. What sucks about it, besides the obvious discomfort to Chulo and the worrying Erica and I do in our attempts to prevent it, is that it’s embarrassing. When we walk him around the neighborhood people ask what’s wrong with him. We end up in conversations about hot spots and cones and dermatological creams and it’s time consuming and we look like we’re bad parents and it sucks. However, he tends to chew his butt when we’re not around. This foot thing has become a nighttime ritual. It started as simply licking, sans hair pulling. A few pokes and one or two, “Stop it!”’s would usually calm him down. But last night, my little man was on a mission.

Sleepless hours went by, “Slurrrrrrp, smack! Slurrrrrrrp, smack!” Every once in a while I tried the poking/”Stop it!” method, but the little bastard would growl ferociously causing Erica (who has a real job and has to be up at a normal morning hour) to wake up and growl incoherently herself. After being growled at him to the bathroom sink and tried to wash off any offending matter he may have been trying to get at. I checked for fleas, splinters, crumbs … anything that might be causing him to be so dedicated in his pursuit of foot licking. We went back to bed and he was finally quiet.

For about three minutes.

“Slurrrrrrrrrp, smack! Slurrrrrrrrrp, smack!” I wrestled him back out of his bed. He growled, Erica growled and I think I may have whimpered in frustration and exhaustion. But I got him and I fought his ass until I had him pinned in a full-Nelson with his slimy little paws trapped in my hand. He growled, Erica growled. He struggled and groaned for a little bit, then finally, at last, mercifully … there was silence.

Then … there was Erica’s alarm.