A little more than a year ago, we moved across the street from Pinkeye Beach. Seriously, it’s beautiful, and it’s smells all wonderful salt and wet and thick on my face, and I love driving on the highway next to the water, and there’s red tail hawk that hunts from the tree across from our kitchen window sometimes, so majestic, and the campfires smell so wonderful (until someone starts smoking something that smells more like plastic and tar and 151), but really, that water will get you sick.
Never mind that the ocean is nature’s toilet. Never mind that there is always a dead sea lion on the beach (that’s why the dogs always start running as soon as they are off leash–they’re looking for that sweet rotting sea lion). Never mind that there are a million other dead things there; that’s why Pinkeye Beach is covered in crows and pigeons. Kick the bulb of the bull whip kelp and a million flies pour out of it like it’s a corpse’s eyeball.
Never mind all that: there are floaters in the water. You see them every time you go there. The treatment plant is right at the end of Sloat Boulevard. That’s grody. Don’t go in there. At least get a hep-B series first.
Our apartment is one floor up, over the garages, and goes through the building, but it isn’t a railroad, I don’t think. My desk is by the dunes side (we’d have to be on the upper floor to have a view of the beach proper). My boyfriend has the street side. At night, when we eat and watch our stories (y’all, I am just now learning how fucking great Prison Break is. I can’t understand how I slept on this shit for so long), and at night, that’s when this magic happens. A ghost rolls under the windows.
For months and months, we didn’t see it, just heard it. It went too fast to be walking, and too slow to be driving, and too quiet to be on a skateboard. So it had to either be a) disembodied, or b) on a bike. The weird thing: always blasting 1980s hiphop, like Grandmaster Flash, Sugarhill Gang, Kool Moe Dee, and almost always the same ones, like he had a Time Life collection of Greatest Hits CDs, or an 8-track.
It didn’t help that the ghost was fleet of foot. Every time we heard him, we looked, but ghosts get, well, ghost. He was always gone.
Finally: a man rolled by when we were by the window for no reason on a BMX bike, blasting some LL Cool J. He looked young, but it was from far away. Maybe he got hit by the train? Or a car? Maybe he has a message from the 1980s to share with us? A message of peace and freedom through rapping? I can say that hearing Kool Moe Dee and other old school beats made me happy as hell.
Since we saw him once, we see him often. He very much seems male. He is always alone. He is always with music. We can’t tell if other people can see him or not. I want to know his story, since the ones I write for people and ghosts are certainly wrong.
(This is the song I always want the DJ to play, but I think requesting shit from the DJ is rude. I want the ghost to play it, too, but I think requesting shit from a ghost is pointless and rude.)
So I’ve told you once about the first identified bunny, who shall now be called Butterscotch.
And I’ve said I’ll try to make work issues interesting to others, but this is written for one person, really. I keep rewriting this to anonymize it more and more and more, even though I don’t give a fuck, because I don’t want to hurt the people who have to show up on Monday, and my stats tell me people are sharing this work-related shit on Facebook and I can’t tell who it is. Hello, Facebook! Hello to you!
I’m sure some of you have figured out what my profession is (the rest of you don’t have more than the vaguest of interests), but all you need to know is I work at places with databases. In this last place I was at, we have a public facing database of our products. You can search it from the web and see our inventory. Easy-peasy. This is not difficult to understand. And yet, one department in our organization could not fucking grasp it. Or maybe they just couldn’t let go of the pickle and get their hand out of the jar so as to grasp it, I don’t know.
I know, I’ve been absent for a week now! Man alive. A lot happened in the past week. But the most important thing: I am no longer working. I am free.
No longer do I enter the arena every day with someone who feels that due to kanly she is owed a battle with me and who would like to gut me like Feyd-Rautha wanted to draw Atreides blood. I have tried to bend like a reed in the wind. I have tried to look back from the places that they dared not look. I have tried using my weirding ways. They weren’t having it. What was the kanly over? We both competed for the same job, and then I got it and she didn’t. Then two years later, she became my boss! Good times. But you know what? It’s not my problem anymore.
None of it is my problem anymore. I am free. There are only two things that I have immediate feelings over.
“You can’t eat the orange and throw the peel away – a man is not a piece of fruit.”
– Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman, Act 2
There’s a big hubbub around, because Gawker went and put in a new interface it seems most people hate. I think it’s terrible, and I’m really going to miss having Richard Lawson in my life. I didn’t leave them when they fired a good editor (Gabriel Snyder) for doing a good job. I didn’t leave them over the whole password debacle. I will leave them over an ugly, unusable site. Well, I think it’s ugly. Some people think it’s slick. (I’m sure they also liked Hypercolors shirts, if they were alive back then and of shirt-wearing age. Remember those? How they made your armpits glow like nuclear waste? And you’d see assholes wearing them at Great America, riding the rollercoaster, or paying someone six bucks to “guess their age” so they’d win a fifty-cent prize? Yeah. Who’s winning now, assholes? Oh. It isn’t me? Oh dear. Sorry, assholes. Carry on! In your Hummers, with your Crocs, listening to Creed, cutting me off.) I am not exactly sure what their specifications were to the UI designer, but it seems they wanted to:
Man, I am watching this thing all day long. It has everything I love: breakdancing, nice animation, turntabilism. Way fun. I love it.
Quink sent me an email to check on me today. I told her where I was at (in a bad neighborhood–in my mind), and I decided I would go to yoga for the first time in I don’t know how long. All the way there I told myself that it wasn’t too late to start over.
That’s where I go, you know. It’s too late. It’s too late! Oh dear. I’ve fucked up too much. It’s too late to make things right. Well, it isn’t. So long as I’ve got a breath left in my body, the fight is on. Don’t lose the fight. That’s what I learned from the “Surviving Edged Weapons” video (not for the weak of stomach). And don’t fuck with the Gorton’s fisherman when he’s coming down off meth. Trust him, yes, fuck with him, hell no. Really, I learned so much from it, I can’t tell you.
Oh, we all fucking love butterflies so fucking much. “Oh, look at the beautiful butterfly,” people say. “Lovely!” everyone else says. And they shoo the cat away from eating it. Everyone dumbly bobs their heads around, following the stupid thing as it mindlessly twirls around in the air like a lost Kleenex. “Pretty.”
Not a one of you thinks of the poor, ravaged cocoons.