My Boring Life

I've put these images up in the wrong order, though I am really not prepared to put them up at all.  There is a cover, a preface, and introduction, and two chapter ones.  That will all be fixed.  For now, reassemble at will.

I shot with Drug Skinny last night.  She got new titties and was anxious to start updating her portfolio.  All the old ones go, she said.  Ahh, man, I told her, I liked your old ones.  Boy titties.  She, however, was not swayed.

Before we shot, though, she called.  Her car had crapped out.  She tried to rent a car, but she owed money on her credit card, so they wouldn't rent to her.  Could I pick her up?  So I did.  On a Friday.  When everyone was getting off work.  On the other side of town.  It was awful.  I never drive "on the other side of town," and certainly not at that hour.  I realized how bad the area really was.  The city, the county, the area, is a throbbing open sore.  The people are out of work/underpaid/under-the-table-workers/waitresses/fast food employees/hip-hop-Jersey-Shore-wannabes who are preyed upon twice by the corporations who underpay them.  Apparently.  Because every major street going anywhere near them is full of Ruby Tuesdays/Olive Garden/Wing House/And Other Shit restaurants.  And the underpaid/underemployed love to go to them.

"Last night we ate at Smokey Bones.  Man, it was good."

Okey Dokey.

And they go downtown at night to drink it up in the big, cavernous clubs, filling themselves with drugs and boring tales.

"Last night I got drunk as shit.  I was kissing this guy from Jamaica.  He is a model, too.  Man, I'm still thinking about him.  He was hot.  But I'm feeling like shit now."

When we got back to my part of town, I told D.S. that we needed to get a drink.  She said she was hungry, so I took to the sushi place.  They hadn't opened yet, so we went across the street to an expensive seafood restaurant with a nice bar.  I never go there.  It is not my kind of place at all.  But I was thinking about those martinis I had in D.C. and Skinny told me she drank vodka.

"This is a fancy place," she said when she walked into the dark in her stiletto heals and new boobs.  I didn't care that she looked like a hooker.  In that place, I imagined it was usual.

"Give us two Stoli martinis, a little dirty.  Dust the ice with vermouth.  That O.K. with you?"

She nodded.

"Oh, wow," she said when they came.  "This is good.  I've never had a martini before."

"I thought you liked vodka?  How do you drink it?"

"I like it with juice or sometimes with vanilla coke."

"Oh. . . right.  So you're going to massage school, eh?  How long you been going?"

"Three weeks."

"How long is the program."

"A year."

"A year!?!  You think you're going to do something for a year?"

She gave me a look that said probably not.

"The military is paying me to go to school because my father died," she said.  "As long as I go to school, I get a check."

I thought about what a good idea it was for the government to give Skinny money to go to massage therapy school because her father was in the service for awhile.

"I like that," I said.  "When you're done, you and your girlfriend can open up a place of your own called Happy Endings.  It's a great country.  Plenty of opportunities.

She didn't have a car, so she'd been riding to class with another girl. And now they were "lovers." She showed me a picture of her.  The two of them were in their bras, kissing.

"Who took that?" I asked.

"Our teacher."

"Oh.  Of course.  What was I thinking.  Yea, I see the massage table in the background."

"I have to go to the airport tonight, but we have plenty of time.  I don't have to be there 'til eleven."

"Why?"

"My ex-fiance is flying in.  He's going to stay with me for awhile."

"Really.  So it will be you and your boyfriend and your ex-fiance living in the same apartment?"

"I don't live with my boyfriend."

"Oh.  Where does he live?"

"Across the street."

"Really.  How does he feel about this?"

"I haven't told him yet."

I was having fun trying to get my head around this one.  She loved her boyfriend she had told me the week before.  "What do you like about him," I had asked.  "He's just chill," she said.  He had a good job, too.  He was a manager at a Walmart.

"When do you plan to tell him?  When he comes over later?"

"He left today to go to the Keys for a bachelor party.  He won't be back 'til Monday."

"Oh.  So you're just going to try to cheer him up a bit after all that partying?  Why's your ex-fiance coming down?"

"He just got out of jail.  When I was in trouble, he helped me out.  Now I'm going to help him."

"Do you still like him?"

"I'm crazy about him.  I had the best sex with him ever.  We used to do it like nine hours a day."

I thought about that.  I don't care what anyone says, you'd have to have a high threshold for boredom.

"Are you going to have sex with him now?!"

"Yea.  Like in the airport bathroom when he gets off the plane."

So that was Drug Skinny.  She had a boyfriend but was hot for the Jamaican she was kissing the night before.  She had a girlfriend and her best sex partner ever had gotten out of jail and was moving in with her.

I was already tired and we hadn't even gotten to the studio.  I kept thinking about my boring, boring life, suddenly, with longing.

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One of the good things in life are good college radio stations when you have hip young kids dejaying.  I was driving to the art store listening to the Country Club College station when this came on.  At the end of the song, a young voice said, "And nothing says Cinquo de Mayo like 'The Texas Tornados.'"

Indeed.  I love college radio.  

*     *     *     *     *    

AND. . . nothing says The Kentucky Derby more than Hunter S. Thompson's "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved."