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Showing posts with label Life With Creepy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life With Creepy. Show all posts

Sunday, March 11, 2012

State-Sponsored Communists In My Mailbox

U.S. Postal Service trademarked Pony Express logoImage via Wikipedia
I have friends in overalls whose friendship I would not swap for the favor of the kings of the world.
---Thomas Edison


The Arconians decided to add 14 more hours to my 12 hour work week this week, so I guess I won't have to shag it at Labor Ready for a while.

My roommate Creepy was sulking today when he found out I get a 15% employee discount over at the Arco even when I'm not working there and free drinks while I am. It's just not fair, you see, that I should get something he doesn't get. It's really upset him.

What? Was he raised by communists, socialists or Democrats or somethin'?

Speaking of communists, that fine Irish actor, the Postmaster Dufus, is on TV again saying with a straight clown face that the taxpayers shouldn't bear the burden of safe mail, but that the government should pay for it. Where does that clown think the government gets its money from? Bake sales?

Then he clarifies his Newspeak, saying the postal customers (junk mailers) shouldn't foot the bill, the taxpayers should. Oh, now I get it. He's trying to protect the profits of the junkmailers by adding a post office tax on working people's paychecks.

Five billion dollars, please. Screw him. Triple the price of stamps if that's what it takes. Don't take it out of my Labor Ready paycheck. If the U.S. Post Office can't compete with Fedex, let them go bankrupt like capitalism dictates. Let's see how long that Postmaster lasts in a REAL job, the #$%& corporate welfare bum.

In case you didn't know, the "patriotic" U.S. airlines have bumped so much U.S. mail off their planes in favor of more profitable cargo that the U.S. Postal service subcontracts its airmail to Fedex anyway. Let's cut out the middleman (the frikkin' U.S. Post Office). It's an anachronistic institution that we should have dismantled years ago.

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Friday, February 24, 2012

Life With Creepy




For any of yall who are getting tired of this American Arcology series, I'm starting a new series on my other blog: "Life With Creepy".

Creepy is the kind of factotum bum who would do anything to avoid getting a job. Because he had a kind of annoying Boo Radley/Jerry Lewis personality, most employers were happy to oblige him on his stay-at-home goal.

He "worked" mostly as a movie extra, but going to school at the age of 50 to skittle college grant and loan money wasn't beneath him, either. He is the only person I ever met who actually got a community college scholarship designed for people who score poorly on their entrance exams: a Stupidity Scholarship.

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Wednesday, March 16, 2011

No Man Is A Gas Island

Old gas pumps from Soviet Union.Image via Wikipedia

Seize the day.---Horace
Okay, now that I've got the fugger, whatcha want me to do with it? ---Mudhead

by James Jarvis
from My Arcology
Nov 23, 2001

     Seven hours humping beer and soda cases; scrubbing floors, sidewalks and gas pumps; counting cigarettes, filling propane tanks, selling gas, bagging groceries, fronting shelves, smiling at assholes, showing little old ladies how to pump gas, emptying trash, breaking down cardboard boxes, sweeping, filling bags with ice, running the boogeyman beggars off the gas islands and mopping, mopping, mopping.

      That's a lot of work on a Monday for $43.50 minus taxes. Better be losing weight.

      Got two box dinners today: one from Broke Fingers (aka the night man Day, a co-worker named Day who works the graveyard shift) and another one from a customer. I think they appreciate how I have run the most vicious of the panhandlers off the gas islands (where they scare the crap out of the customers using the old Intimidation-Bum-In-Your-Face scam) and they want to keep my strength up.

      The box lunches came right on time. I was starving and broke. Guess I needed these acts on kindness. Guess no man is a gas island.

     My crack motel ex-roommate Creepy ate at the Sizzler today. He made a special trip over to my workplace to let me know that he's eating OUT of the box. Creepy visits the Arco daily to check up on me and brag about some fine meal he’s had on a movie set where he was 'working' as an extra or at the El Camino Community College where he majors in Financial Aid.

      I need to fix up a special box for that asshole and there won't be sandwiches in it.
 

No Man Is An Island Part 2
Nov 25

    One of my email buddies wrote to me:

    “Look at the bright side...yes, it's only $45 bucks but you can swipe cigs, pump free gas, and get free gifts from customers once they acquired your friendship and trust. Plus Creepio is out of your hair. Personally, I think he occupies too much of your time and thought.”

    To which I felt compelled to reply:

    “I'll have you know that in the month I've been working in Arconia, I've only swiped $16 worth of cigarettes and three cans of Red Bull. There are video cameras covering the cash register / cigarette area and the owner, a Pepperdine University Arab, does monitor the tapes.

     As far as my roommate getting into my head,  it's hard not to notice a lip smacking, constantly whining, obsessive-compulsive, swisher-sweet fruit bowl roommate who won't shut up morning, noon and night.”

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Wednesday, March 09, 2011

A Man With No Friends Doesn't Need Visitors


Life is a grindstone, and whether it grinds a man down or polishes him up depends on the stuff he's made of. ---Josh Billings

I saw Creepy last night. For those of you who don't know, Creepy was my old roommate when I lived in room 118 of the Motel Marquis crack motel on Crenshaw Boulevard in Gardena, California.

The Motel Marquis was an interesting place. It was sort of a halfway house in reverse. Instead of being transitional housing for felons getting out of prison, it was transitional housing for those about to go in.

I was over at the Motel Marquis exchanging tax returns I'd done for the dying, bedridden woman in 117 for some cash: $75. I no sooner walked into the front foyer than Creepy called out from the second floor walkway.

"Heeeeeello, James," he said. He said it a tone that implied someone caught with their hand in the cookie jar. It's probably a tone his mother used with him a lot when he came out of her attic and tried to sneak-thief something out of her refrigerator. He lived in his mother's attic in Patterson, New Jersey for the first 42 years of his life. His name is Wojdyla (rhymes with boy-thriller). James Wojdyla. Jim Woyt is his movie extra name.

"Hello, Cre--uh, Jim," I answered. I answered in the tone of a person bumping in to a pesky burial insurance salesman.

Creepy swished downstairs quickly in his trademark latent homosexual gait, popped in to his room so that he could stick his head out the door and say what he always says since I moved out a year and a half ago:

"I'd invite you in, but we got a rule about not allowing any visitors in."

I had moved out a year and a half ago in part because Creepy had thrown a hissy fit one night when I let Homeless Grace sleep on the floor in my room. Since then, Creepy has had an ironclad rule about nether him or his roommates allowing ANY visitors in the motel room.

What a sad way to live, I thought. Pathetic. Living in a place where none of your friends can ever visit. What a grind that must be to come home to your crack motel room after a hard day's labor and only being able to talk to this polymorphic pervert.

I concluded my business as quickly as I could with the dying, bedridden old woman next door in room 117, with Creepy standing in the woman's doorway, interrupting our business with the lurid details of his latest drama: his toilet backed up three days ago.

Creepy followed me all the way out to the curb outside where I had parked my truck, detailing with every step the sounds and smells and dangers of toilet overflow-ery. When he saw my truck which he has seen me in a couple of times before, he changed the subject.

"Oh, is that your truck?"

I hastily jumped in my truck.

"Hey, that's a good truck."

I cranked the big diesel engine.

"You can be homeless again in that truck," he raised his pitch to try to cover the sound of my truck's engine. I pulled away from the curb. I knew what was coming.

"It's a good thing you have that truck, James . . ."

I hit second gear just as he finished up, calling after me:

" . . . because as you know, we don't allow visitors!"

Monday, March 07, 2011

14 Pumps And 400 Feet Of Register Tape

Fire Island Michael Nonie Rafael David and ErnestoImage by david_shankbone via Flickr

by James Jarvis
from My Arcology
November 11, 2001

    Uuuuggggh! It turned out to be 10 hours in Arconia today. Ten hours on my fracturing heels processing pump orders. Processing, processing, processing. Hell is a lot of things. Yes. There are many levels of hell. One of them is 14 gas pumps and 400 feet of cash register tape.

    To make matters worse, Creepy brought me a surprise plate of spaghetti around 5. He sashayed over here from the Motel Marquis crack motel in his fire engine red Daisey Duke bluejean cutoffs and it looked like the reopening of Fire Island right here in south central crackland.

     It looked way too snugly wugly domestic to my Arco co-workers and they started teasing me about being gay. Said my "wife" brought me dinner. How sweet. That's true love.

    Screw it. I don’t care what they think. I was hungry and my roommate makes a mean plate of spaghetti.

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Communists In My Mailbox

Cutler style Mail Chute for multi-story office...Image via Wikipedia

by James Jarvis
from Offline Journal Of The Damned
Nov 9, 2001

    The Arconians decided to add 14 more hours to my 12 hour work week this week, so I guess I won't have to shag it at the Labor Ready day labor hall for a while. My roommate was sulking today when he found out I get a 15% employee discount over at the Arco where I work part time even when I'm not working there and free drinks while I am.

     It's just not fair, you see, that I should get something he doesn't get. It's really upset him. I know he's upset. You can't miss it when my roommate Creepy is upset, but why? What? Was he raised by communists or democrats or somethin'?

    Speaking of communists, that fine Irish actor, the Postmaster Dufus, is on TV again saying with a straight clown face that the taxpayers shouldn't bear the burden of safe mail, the government should pay for it. Where does that clown think the government gets its money from? Bake sales?

    Then he clarifies his Newspeak, saying the postal customers (junk mailers) shouldn't foot the bill, the taxpayers should. Five billion dollars, please. Screw him. Triple the price of stamps if that's what it takes. Don't take it out of my Labor Ready paycheck.

     If the U.S. Post Office can't compete with Fedex, let them go bankrupt like capitalism dictates. Let's see how long that Postmaster lasts in a REAL job, the corporate welfare bum.

    In case you didn't know, the "patriotic" U.S. airlines have bumped so much U.S. mail off their planes in favor of more profitable cargo that the U.S. Postal service subcontracts its airmail to Fedex anyway. Let's cut out the middleman (the U.S. Post Office). It's an anachronistic institution we should have dismantled years ago.

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If Democracy Lets Actors Vote, It Deserves What It Gets


by James Jarvis
from Life With Creepy

  I revisited this journal entry for you to help explain the subculture from which my roommate comes. He is, after all, the classically untrained Hollywood movie extra waiting to be discovered.

    Whenever I see some actor on TV pontificating about some political issue or another, I think of my roommate, a brain stem damaged idiot with the ego of The Jolly Green Giant, and I change the channel.

    I bring all this up because my roommate is all excited about voting in March 5th's primary election. They moved his voting place to the BHS drug rehabilitation center next door and it will be a short, very convenient walk for him.

    There's something ironic, beyond ironic, about my idiot/savant 'actor' roommate voting ---helping to decide the future course of our government and qualty of life--- in a halfway house for drug addicts and nutjobs.

     If Democracy lets actors vote, it deserves what it gets.
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Creepacism # 9,172: Antique Tennis Balls


by James Jarvis
from Life With Creepy

My roommate pops his head out of his room today and asks me from out of nowhere:

    "James, do you know what I can do with my antique tennis balls?"

    "Pardon?"

    "My antique tennis balls!"

    "You have antique tennis balls?"

    "Of course!"

    "Is it a medical problem?"

    "No! The balls! You know. To play tennis with. I've got 'em. Old ones. Must be antique by now!"

    "Oh. I didn't know there was such a thing."

    "Sure. I have two packs of them in the trunk of my car, still sealed after 25 years. They must be worth something!"

    Oh, uh, write the manufacturer. Maybe they'd like their balls back."

    "Yeah," my roommate said, "And they're gonna pay for my balls!"

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Sunday, March 06, 2011

Willie The Lion Had Luggage

The Great Day of His WrathImage via Wikipedia
by James Jarvis
from Offline Journal Of The Damned

  I was watching a PBS documentary on piano man Willie 'The Lion' Smith called "Portrait of a Lion" I only caught a few minutes of the broadcast because my roommate came in blabbering about fragrance rocks and colored quartz and other swap meet bargains he had scored today. My roommate will stand right next to the TV I'm watching yakking just loud enough to keep me from hearing whatever I'm watching. If I leave the room, he follows me.

    One of the experts on Willie 'The Lion' said, "Willie would become angry. Angry for hours. Many artists become angry. It's a substitute for depression."

    AHA, I thought. THAT explains all the anger and hostility I carry around with me like Samsonite luggage (the big bags, African safari size). Humor and hostility. These are my two anti-depressants. Willie The Lion used them. The Mad Turk uses them. I use them. 
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Saturday, March 05, 2011

No Respect For Cognitive Reverie

by James Jarvis
02/10/02

I saw a vision of beauty today,
a young Asian sitting with her boyfriend
on the smokers' bench at the entrance to the South Bay mall,
a young woman so imbued with the juice of life
so radiant in her youthful clime of soft petaled lovejoy
that her sunrise smile warmed my cold war bones
and took my breath away
and I yearned to accomplish nothing less
than to put my lips gently on hers
and suck her angelic soul into mine
and live in the reverie of her forev--
Bugs!
What?
Have you seen any bugs? I know we got bugs!
My roommate interrupts my reverie,
my writing table, do not disturb reverie
all the time.
He has no respect for cognitive reverie,
ever.

Why should we have bugs? I ask, foolishly,
my mind gone supine
under the invidious suspicions of my roommate.
We had bugs before, he explains.
Why now? I ask, knowing further reverie is futile.
We had them before, remember?
Yes.
So maybe they're back is all.

I sit at my writing table
my do not disturb me
with the banal mundacities of bugs writing table
knowing that I really don't have
any dogs in this fight
between my fastidious roommate
and his real or imagined insectuous intruders,
wondering not now about
the gift women give men
when they are so beautiful
it inspires men to conquer the world,
no, not contemplating THAT ethereal question any longer,
now, NOW,
sitting at my writing table,
my do not disturb me writing table,
I am wondering
what was wrong with my roommate's mother
that she taught him no respect,
none whatsoever,
for cognitive reveries.

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My Roommate's College English Teacher Is Stupid


by James Jarvis
from Life With Creepy

  My roommate got back his essay on "Legal Aspects of Advertising" (which I wrote for him) from his English teacher. She is stupid.

     She marked up his paper incorrectly. She had no trouble with "his" content, just "his" punctuation. She wanted him to capitalize some nouns and de-capitalize some proper pronouns, insert semi colons where colons belong and insert possessive apostrophes where none belonged.

    Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. For $75 an hour, I would tutor this English professor on correct English punctuation. Nothing less than $75. Apparently, the imbecile professor needs a lot of work. A college English professor who doesn't know correct English punctuation is bad enough, but the fact that she is passing her ignorance on to the next generation is kinda irksome.

    On the other hand, I must remind myself that in this case, no harm was done. This errant English professor passed her ignorance on to MY roommate and if you've been paying attention to my stories about my roommate Creepy, you know that in the case of my roommate, ignorance is bliss.
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Movie Extra


by James Jarvis
02/11/02

My 52 year-old roommate,
waiting to be discovered by Hollywood
or abducted by talent-spotting aliens,
thinks that Hollywood will probably not pick him
to be the next James Bond
because,
my roommate informs me,
he may not be tall enough for the role,
but he talks to Marilyn Monroe
at the St. John's Church in North Hollywood,
where he goes to meet her,
and she says
he may yet get the role.

He is an industry trooper,
my roommate,
this movie extra,
who was ashed in "Volcano",
blown off his feet
in an explosion in "Collateral Damage",
asphyxiated at Universal Studios,
fed bad tuna on a dozen other sets
and attacked by other movie extras
who just wanted him to shut up on the set
about his blossoming movie career.

When he's not working as a background extra
in a TV sitcom
commercial or feature film,
my roommate
is often yakking in my ear
about whether or not
he's going to be the next James Bond.

Alien abductors,
wherefor art thou?
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Friday, March 04, 2011

Letting Creepy Rot From The Root Up


by James Jarvis
from Life With Creepy

    Creepy comes in the door all atwitter today.

    "Gotta wash all my underwear in hot water," he declares as a greeting.

    "Oh?" I answer, amused because I know the reason why . . . amused because once again, for the 900th time, Creepy has discovered that I was right and he was wrong . . . and THIS time, his ignorant arrogance caused HIM the discomfort, not me. About time.

    A couple of months ago, Creepy got the crotch rot. First he blamed the shower curtains, ranting and raving about the irresponsibility of those damned maids and how he was going to call the health department and yada yada yada until I thought the manager was going to throw us out. But Creepy kept at the manager, so he replaced the shower curtains for us.

     Then Creepy blamed the proximity of my pumice soap to his assortments of lavender and glycerin and aloe vera and God-knows-what-else collection of soaps and skin care products, so I moved my soap to a place of safety.

     Then he blamed the motel towels and promptly went down to the 99 Cent Store and bought some "quality linen".

    Of course he went to the school doctor, who prescribed various creams and lotions. But being who he is, my roommate went a step further. He declared that the fungus must be eradicated from all his underwear by a good washing or two or three in cold water.

    "Cold water?" I asked, "I thought it was supposed to be hot water. Really hot water."

    Creepy laughed. He laughed the laugh of someone dealing with a humorously backward soul.

    "Oh no, James," he giggled, "don't you know anything? Fungus GROWS in hot water for God's sake. They like the heat. The only way you can get rid of them is to wash in COLD water. Really cold. Didn't you know that? (hee hee) I'm surprised you didn't know that. Didn't you ever do laundry? I do laundry all the time."

    So I held my tongue these last few months while Creepy's fungus got worse and worse. I'm such a bastard? Not really. No amount of persuasion or logic can deter Creepy from his . . .uh . . .proclamations of all knowingness . . . until a "professional" says otherwise. Sometimes not even then. And he's got this other thing, too. He refuses to remember that I ever suggested hot water. Never happened. What are you talkin' about, James? You got a bad memory.

    So I let him rot . . . from the root up. Sue me.
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Geek Talk: Thinking Outside The Box


by James Jarvis
from Life With Creepy

  This is why they pay me the big bucks (relatively speaking) when I do computer software systems consulting: I intuited a fix for my dead Firewire hard drive today. Those of you bored by geek talk can skip this now . . . except that my roommate was peripherally involved in the solution and that is usually a bit funny.

    I sat in my broken crack motel room barcolounger today, staring at my dead hard drive. I turned it over and over in my hands, like it was a Rubik's Cube. I turned it over until the EUREKA! came.

    I remembered that the drive was having a hard time mounting before it capitulated, so I erased my laptop's PRAM, found an old utility software which allows one to see the invisible housekeeping files that operating systems have, erased all of those (which made my laptop temporarily inoperable), then I reinstalled the laptop operating system off an emergency CD and installed a new mounting program onto the Firewire hard drive by assigning the Firewire a new custom icon and repartitioning only the nonMac partition.

    Eureka! My Firewire is back and I lost nothing!

    Sometimes I see the answer before I understand the question. That makes me an idiot savant of sorts. Hee hee. I've already fessed up to the idiot part long ago. It was about time the savant part did me some good.

    And I have my roommate to thank for this hard drive breakthrough. He came out to my room complaining that he had spent an hour on this one math problem in his homework and hinted around that I should help him. Here was the problem: A box has a length of 15 inches and a width of 20 inches. The designer wants a surface area of 1510 square inches for his graphics. What must the height of the box be?
    "Thirteen," I said.

    "Wrong," my roommate said immediately without having any idea of what the right answer was, "this is a volume problem. You have to do it in cubes."

    "I think you can do it with reverse addition," I suggested.

    "There's no such thing," Creepy groused, weary of my tendacy to just make stuff up out of the thin sky.

    "Okay, I'm just going to look it up."

    "Whaddya mean, 'look it up'?"

    "They got the answers in the back," he said as he started flipping pages in his math book.

    "Whu . . .well, uh, why didn't you just look it up before?" I asked impatiently.

     My roommate looked at me like I had never seen the inside of a college math book.

    "They only give you the numerical answer," he chided me, "but I've gotta show how I got it, this number ... which issssssssss," he said as he found it, "thirteen . . . no, excuse me, that's the wrong one . . . no, it IS. It IS thirteen. Good guess . . . but it's useless unless I can show I actually did it."

    "It's a box, right?"

    "We KNOW that, James," he said, "it's right here in the problem. A box. So what?"

    " A box has a top and a bottom, right?"

    "Yeah, the box is 300, James. I DID that math. 15 times 20 is 300. So what?"

    "Well, the bottom of a box is the same size as the top, right?"

    "Yeah?'

    "So the top is 300 and the bottom is 300, so that's 600 we can deduct from the total of 1510 right?"

    "I don't know what you're talking about, James."

    "1510 minus 600 is 910. That's the top and bottom. That leaves the sides, the heights of the box."

    "So 910 divided by 4?" he asked.

    "Well no. Two sides are 20 inches wide and two sides are 15 inches wide. 20 plus 20 is 40 and 15 plus 15 is 30 so 70 times something equals 910. Turn it around and divide 910 by 70 and you get . . ."

    I waited for my roommate to see the light, to answer the question.

    "Cubic inches?" he asked.

    "Thirteen," I answered.

    "That's not the right way to do it," my roommate said.

    "Probably not, but it gets you the answer," I said, and then thought, "Thirteen. Unlucky number for a box. Like my unlucky box (the hard drive). Hmmm. I've been trying to get my box to work using all the accepted ways, the right ways, to fix it. Hmmm. Maybe I should try the wrong way."

    So I went out to my broken crack motel room barcolounger and looked at my box. Finally, it hit me. My box, my hard drive, was too young to have died. Subtract that from 1510 and you get the answer: it was a communication problem between my laptop and my box that was the culprit. Finally! I was thinking outside the box.
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