Don the Mechanic said he’ll have my car done around 1. He offered a shuttle service if I needed to go somewhere, which was really nice and makes me wanna be loyal for life, but I declined and said that I’d just wander around the area. Don and I have known each other for a week, but he’s really natural and it feels like we’ve known each other for at least a month. He told me he’s excited for Halloween because he’s gonna dress up as Batman and his daughter is gonna be Batgirl.

     “This is her first Halloween,” he said.

     With squinty eyes and a lazy grin I replied, “That’s really nice.” I was still groggy from last night’s edible.

     “Are you getting over a cold?” he asked concerningly.

     Whoa Don, I know we’re cool but it’s a little early to be saying I look sick.

     “No. I’m just normally not up this early.”

     ”Cool beans,” he said.

     His shop is located a block from Santa Monica Community College, so I decided to go to the library and take a nap while I waited. I love libraries, sadly not for the same reason Rosie loves them. I love them for the reasons a homeless man would— quiet public areas where you know nobody is gonna throw a banana at you while you sleep. One of my favorite activities in between classes during college was to go to Allen Library, find a corner cubby on the second to top floor (the top floor of anything is always too crowded), with a view that overlooked Grieg Gardens, and daydream about what it was gonna be like after college until I’d drift off into a comfortable sleep. So this is what it’s like after college— still sleeping in libraries, only this one is a little grittier.


     Why did I ever move on from Mark Sanchez? He’s perfect. Here he is making a suggestion to starting quarter Nick Foles. His hands are my favorite. 


My Mother Reads Me…To Filth

      I am speechless. This is Mom’s response to my post about her not reading my blog, and it’s magical:  

THIS IS NOT YOUR MOTHER MARY: but the other side (the guy side), Tuff Mudder. Now I need you to listen carefully.  You are too naive. When a goucho’ pumps your butt you bend over to reach something on the back of the counter…..this lets ‘m know you are just as hard as he is and had to quickly pull your boner away from smashing into the counter. Be aloof not like nose in the air but like ahhh I got it and liked it. Keep on the move.  You never let HIM know you are going upstairs personally, make it public but near him so he hears you. He’ll get it.  Now the damn unzipping thing is a biiiig mistake…toooo eager, you’re worth more.  He stopped you just in time so you wouldnt find the truth right then……the real PACKAGE under his whitie tighties was a  perfectly shaped zuckini, sorry james maybe next time. You keep trying my son. LOVE YA.

     This truly made me happy. And a little embarrassed, but I deserved it.  Leave it to Mom to throw the filthy in my face and still make me feel loved.


      The Georgian walked into work today and showed me a picture of my car parked next to a temporary construction tow-away zone. I’m taking full responsibility. I was bummed the entire shift thinking about how I’d have to take money from tomorrow’s 8 a.m. mechanic fund and put it into tonight’s bail-out fund.
      “I’ve been praying to God all morning, James,” the Georgian said.
      “If my car doesn’t get towed, we’re going to an Ethiopian church tonight.”
      “No, we’re not, James. I don’t need you disrespecting the place.”
      “I’m not gonna disrespect it,” I said bitingly. “I’ll take it seriously.”
      I got phased early, bought an edible from a co-worker, and made my way home. I was extremely happy when I turned the corner and saw The Panther, still there, without a ticket.
      “Goes to show that the Lord is present,” The Georgian said as he walked though the door. He was so proud that the Lord came through. I’m not gonna hear the end of it. “But we don’t have to go to church. I do need to go to the bank, though.”
      We’re taking his car this time. The metal fork in the console is magical.       

      The Georgian walked into work today and showed me a picture of my car parked next to a temporary construction tow-away zone. I’m taking full responsibility. I was bummed the entire shift thinking about how I’d have to take money from tomorrow’s 8 a.m. mechanic fund and put it into tonight’s bail-out fund.

      “I’ve been praying to God all morning, James,” the Georgian said.

      “If my car doesn’t get towed, we’re going to an Ethiopian church tonight.”

      “No, we’re not, James. I don’t need you disrespecting the place.”

      “I’m not gonna disrespect it,” I said bitingly. “I’ll take it seriously.”

      I got phased early, bought an edible from a co-worker, and made my way home. I was extremely happy when I turned the corner and saw The Panther, still there, without a ticket.

      “Goes to show that the Lord is present,” The Georgian said as he walked though the door. He was so proud that the Lord came through. I’m not gonna hear the end of it. “But we don’t have to go to church. I do need to go to the bank, though.”

      We’re taking his car this time. The metal fork in the console is magical.       



Queer Like Me

     I was sitting on my couch listening to a podcast when I heard someone come up the stairs, slide something under my door, then leave. I went over and picked it up. It was a four-page letter titled  ”Queer Like Me: My Relationship With James ‘Jim’ Marti,” signed by The Georgian. He said he’s been working on this for the last three weeks. I think this is a thoroughly interesting read:

      When I first met Jim I had just recently transferred to the Beverly Hills location from the Grove. I was excited and much relieved to leave the rat race of the Grove. Don’t get me wrong, the Grove was a happening place but its social façade and shallowness can take its toll on a person. My general manager had recently got the position and I was excited to work under his leadership again.  He and I had built a solid relationship during my time at the Grove and I held more of a trust and security with him than I would any other manager – it’s just kind of the way things played out.  Another thing that would play out would be meeting James ‘Jim’ Marti.

     Jim from the physical perception was a good looking guy, more than likely came from a posh background, and probably never traveled outside of his comfort zone, given what his comfort zone was.  However, an extremely important lesson about life is that things are not always what they seem.  I never really cared for Jim at first, to me he came off initially as not caring to who I was and I’m the type of person who doesn’t really care to know you, especially if you have the same attitude; little by little though this absence of communication was to start being cracked.

     One of the first times I started taking notice to Jim and liking him was some of his introspective comments about people.  It takes a certain mind and allures to have the social comments and critiques he did.  Nobody else at the restaurant had this skill, aside from me.  I became more interested, but then I was to find out three things that somewhat made sense to me of why he was like this: he was a homosexual, left-handed, and a writer.  Is this a generalization – yes, however, a good one.  Not every gay left-handed person is socially inquisitive and aware, but a writer is. 

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     I was sitting out back with the boys, listening to them speak dialect, picking up a few words here and there, as well as picking stuff out of my teeth. Rusty likes to make fun of me because I’m always picking my teeth and whenever I find something, I look at it then put it back in my mouth and eat it. What? It’s rude to flick it. 

      My teeth. I swear, the minute I say something is my moneymaker, they go to hell. Within the last month, three people have commented on how they’re NOT my moneymaker. “Your teeth aren’t nice. They’re too spaced apart,” an annoying whore so politely put. The other night after dinner with Ronnie, we went to a gay bar for a nightcap. The bartender, who was a thousand leagues under the sea, kept flirting with me. He was giving us free shots, so I had no problems with it. At one point he seductively leaned over the bar and said, “I’m obsessed with your teeth. I think gaps are sexy.” I hit the floor. 

      My teeth were once my moneymaker, but with time and age, they’ve deteriorated. From grinding, I suppose. The last time I went to the dentist he was concerned because my gums were slowly receding and he saw early stages of gum disease. I fantasize about having dentures and how easy it would be to take them out at night so they don’t cause me pain in the morning.  But if I lose my teeth, then what will I have to rely on as my moneymaker? My personality? Ugh, gag me.