What would you do for free?

During my usual 3 minute commute home, I heard a NPR segment of a career adviser suggesting recently laid off folks NOT pursue a job in their same field but, instead, ask themselves what they would do if they had to work for free? If you absolutely had to work for no pay, what would you choose to do? The adviser explained creative thinking might inspire a new career path.
In a second, I completed the exercise and had my answer. Sales in the decorative plumbing industry, with a fabulous employee discount while working 2-3 hours a day*. My last 11 working years have been somewhat easy but boring to the point of draining. Maybe I was due for a change.
With no plan or goal, the "what would you do for free" question stuck in my head.
Not even a month later, I was picking up a repair part at a local business and offered a job on the spot: doing the very thing I did in the past, which was, selling pretty shiny plumbing stuff!
Much angst, many sleepless nights with the oh-shit-did-I-really-quit-my-job panic attacks have occurred. The last 5 weeks have been muy stressful.
NOT knowing how the hell to access the hopelessly idiotic DOS quotation and inventory computer system, I told my new boss I wish I could spend 5 minutes with the guy that designed it.
"Do you really think you could learn it from him in only 5 minutes?"
"Fuck no!" I say, "I just want 5 minutes with the asshole because the guy who wrote this cumbersome and retarded piece of shit system is someone I KNOW I can take. I am confident I could beat the shit outta him."
The boss thinks I am funny. I'm glad he does but I wasn't joking. Please, mother fucker that is making my life miserable, please visit our location soon. I'll smile and be professional and when heads are turned, I'll do a 4" thick product catalog karate chop right into his pencil neck and then I'll perform a #6 on him, that's where I go a-ridin' into town, a whompin' and stompin' every livin' thing that moves within an inch of its life.
But I digress.
New job stress level is sometimes likened to a move or divorce and although I knew the transition would be tough, my time is not my own and I am still struggling to find my rhythm and mojo. The once welcome outlet of volunteer work is weighing heavily upon me and I am eager to be rid of some tasks. Earlier mornings and longer commutes are encroaching on my craft room time and ME time.
It has taken 5 weeks to feel a degree of contribution but fulfillment? Got plenty of that.
Helping folks select shiny stuff for their new house or remodel? That's like getting paid to spend other people's money. Which is what I would do for free.

*2 out 3 ain't bad.

Efficiency expert

Chrysanthemum and I were chatting last night and still marveling over the fact men don't seem to understand how much action they could rake in by VOLUNTARILY doing the dishes, vacuuming or fixing shit.
I've been on my own for so long, if a dude changed a lightbulb for me, I'd probably pleasure him while he were still on the ladder.
Then she and I went down the grass-always-greener route when Chrysanthemum declared if a man afforded her the lifestyle of staying home all day, she would gladly bestow him with a blow job every single day upon his arrival home. I snorted and supposed aloud she would kick in her time management skills to cap fellatio time to less than 4 minutes to completion.
"Heck yeah! I would record a porno mix tape for him to listen to on the ride home so when he walked in the door, we would already have wood," she proudly exclaimed.

Quote of the day

Give a man a fish and you feed him for one day.
Don't teach a man to fish and you feed yourself.
He's a grown man.
And fishing is not that hard.

--Ron Swanson
(played by Nick Offerman)
on NBC's "Parks and Recreation"

Just so you didn't think you knew everything

Louis Armstrong recorded
"Blueberry Hill"
seven years
before Fats Domino.

Click HERE
to view and hear Satchmo.

Busting balls at Tipitina's

Dawn's man Sam was all hepped up to see the Mother Truckers at Tip's the night before Mardi Gras (Lundi Gras). The band was good but the music was much too loud and the room entirely too smoky so Dawn and I left Sam inside and tripped outdoors to hang out on the picnic tables to talk and catch up.

An inebriated frat boy type stumbled onto our area and drunkenly slurred a question. I could tell it was a question by the way his voice went up at the end but in no way could I translate his garbled request. Drunk boy repeated himself.

Oooohhh, you want tickets to the show?
Yes.
The show has already begun so you can get in free now. Just go to that door and walk in, I say.
He is so excited. Free?
Yep.
Which door?
That one.
He walks off in that drunk spaghetti leg fashion that we've all done at some point of our drunken careers.
"You know that's the backstage door, right?" Dawn asked.
"Shit yeah, I know. I just wanted to see if he'd do it", I answer.

Dawn smokes her cigarette and I drink my beer as we watch Drunk Boy open the backstage door only to get pushed back and yelled at by the bouncer. The bouncer points toward the ticket window and entry door and shuts the door.

Drunk Boy apparently doesn't have enough energy to walk toward the ticket window and returns to us.

"They wouldn't let me in. I think I had the wrong door," he slurs.
"Hell no, son! They don't know who you are. Go to that door. Act like you own the joint and walk in. If you act as if you know where you're going, they'll let you through," I instruct him.
"Sssssshure, I can't wait to sssshhhee THE MOTHER TRUCKERS!!! I LOVE THEM, MAN!"
"I don't know . . . ." heard from Dawn.
He's off.

This time, he rips the door open so hard, it bounces off the outside wall, hits him in the back and sends him flying smack dab into the already aggravated bouncer. Dawn and I are laughing so hard we're crying but we feel the need to muffle ourselves so we're not thought to be in cohoots with the rabblerouser.
The bouncer is pissed. The door opens and a blast of sound comes with it. We can't hear the bouncer's words but we see his index finger hitting Drunk Boy's chest many times as instructions are repeated to go to the ticket window.
Drunk Boy actually gets to the ticket window and pulls out his pockets to find not enough funds. He is dejected and of course, comes back to our picnic table.
"I lost some money. I had lots of cash earlier but I don't have it now. Damn! I really want to see the show."

In a moment of tenderness, Dawn asks where he is from.
Ohio/Iowa/Utah.
(I forget, one of those four letter states beginning with a vowel.)
Where are your friends?
I don't know.
Where are you staying?
At some guy's house.
Do you know where?
No.
You don't know the address?
No.
How will you get back there tonight?
I'll find it. I was real messed up last night and found it so tonight's no problem.

He walks off toward the entry door and is gone awhile. They must have let him in, how about that, I think only to see him coming back with a beer in his hand.

Drunk Boy tells us he ordered a beer at the bar but when they noticed his lack of a wristband, he's thrown out.

"I'm gonna go see that band", he avows as he stands up and looks toward the backstage door.
"I wouldn't . . ." Dawn attempts to warn.
He gives her the shut-up-arm wave and ambles toward the door and opens it.
The light and sound streaks out on the sidewalk and the bouncer is on him. The bouncer grips Drunk Boy's shirt but Drunk Boy is headed inside like a cow returning to the barn. With a couple heaves, the bouncer gets Drunk Boy outside and shouts toward the entry door for assistance. No one hears him over the din of the Mother Trucker's 18 minute guitar ride and Drunk Boy detaches himself from the bouncer hug. I'm laughing so hard, beer comes out my nose.

Guess where he heads?
You got it.
Towards us.
The bouncer now has the attention of the uniformed but off-patrol NOPD officer sitting at the front door.
"Get the hell out of here NOW!" we both tell Drunk Boy, "They're gonna take you in."
"They can't arressss' me. I didn't get to see the Mother Truckerssssss!"
The bouncer sees Drunk Boy and points the cop toward us. Here comes the fuzz.
"Go!" we hiss with clenched teeth.
All the sudden, Drunk Boy catches a snap and bolts down Napoleon Avenue like a sprint runner. A cab passes him, brakes and we hear a car door open and slam. Drunk Boy escaped!
New Orleans Finest approaches and asks, "He's gone?"
We shrug. Seems so.

Drunk Boy, wherever you are, we hope you made it back to whatever vowel letter state you're from. We hope you had a good time in New Orleans and a fun Mardi Gras. We wondered if you were the tourist that woke up in an ice-filled bathtub, without a kidney. We want you to know your antics still make us laugh when Dawn and I get together. That was some Funny Ass Shit.

Fats Domino and memories of New Orleans

Just watched Fats Domino: Walkin' Back to New Orleans documentary (2007) on PBS and loved seeing his history and post-Katrina performance at Tipitina's. Guess who was in the documentary? My buddy Allen Toussaint! The documentary induced a few New Orleans memories.
Back when I was working in chilly Gentilly, in the early 1990's, a co-worker mentioned passing by Fats Domino's neighborhood at lunchtime. He told me where to find it and I planned to surprise my mom and aunt with a scenic tour during their upcoming weekend visit.

We left for the day's activities and I drove Mom's car. Getting deeper and deeper in the Ninth Ward, I finally had to reveal where we were headed. Aunt Jan was excited and pulled out her brand new fancy schmancy camera. --photo, post-Katrina

Of course, three white ladies in a shiny brand new Lexus attracted a bit of attention in the 'hood so when Aunt Jan requested another drive down the street for a better photo, I was a bit nervous.
When I turned the car around, the milling characters in the street took notice. Aunt Jan rolled down her window and pointed the camera towards Fats Domino's childhood home when a voice asked, "You ladies need some help with that camera?" Yikes! Fats Domino's music is in the soundtrack of my childhood but photo or not, we scrammed.

-check back tomorrow for page 2 of music and NOLA-

The darker side

Have you seen the new Allstate "Mayhem" commercials?



Dark and sarcastic, me likey!
And I knew I recognized the Mayhem actor as Tommy Gaven's (dead cop) brother from Rescue Me (Dean Winters)!
Here's another for your viewing pleasure.

Look at that face

My mom says men with thin lips are cruel.
"He's got wife beating lips," she'll opine.
Mind you, my dad doesn't have thin lips but I admit Mom's words have biased my thinking. I kinda believe it.
Physiognomy (nature + interpretation) is the ancient science of face reading still practiced by the Chinese and phrenology (mind + knowledge) was a hot trend in the early 1900's and thought to determine personality based on skull shape. A current decor trend is use of antique phrenology busts or their less expensive reproductions.

Amazon
$ 32

On "America's Most Wanted" television show or local news broadcasts, a mug shot would flash across the screen.
"He did it," my mom would say.
"How do you know for sure?" I once asked.
"Look at that face. If he didn't commit the particular crime they're reporting, he definitely did something wrong in his lifetime. You can tell by looking at him that he's guilty of something."
All the above information stored in my somewhat lumpy and bumpy noggin came to me today when I spied this news article.



PAYSON, Ariz. -- A 94-year-old Payson man was arrested last Thursday after being charged with public sexual indecency, aggravated assault and the molestation of several children. The investigation began three weeks ago after a public indecency report was filed. Police said Dale Warren Graham was found in someone else’s garage with a running vacuum cleaner attached to the front of his pants.

Now look at his photograph.

Based on the mug shot alone, he may not be guilty of cranking himself with vacuum cleaner but I'll bet my now hardening ovaries he's guilty of something. The thin lips alone indicate the suffering of Hoovers and perhaps a Kirby or two.

Recent crushes

Doesn't look like I have a "type", huh?
I do.
They all make me laugh.

Freak Meter ---> 9

So I'm walking out of the library at the same time as another card carrying citizen.
He says hi.
I say hi.
And he says, and I shit you not, "Well, things aren't too good. They better get it together up there in New York, y'know. If they let those people build a mosque at Ground Zero. Well, that's not right. It's not right. They do it all the time. No, it's happened before. When Spain won a war, they built a mosque there too. And other places. But if they let it happen, well, it's just gonna go down real quick in this country . . . ." On and on.
I nod but don't acknowledge his apparent craziness. Unlock the door, start the ignition and when he finally took a breath, I let out an "Uh huh" and throw it in reverse.
Then I was mad at myself for playing the "nice girl" and tolerating his bullshit by showing him more consideration than he was showing me.
What I wanted to say was, "Really, dude? I've never met you before and the very second I say hi, you go off on a political tangent that I may or may not care about? How's about shut the fuck up? How about that, dude?"