Catching the Bus

I have, on occasion, while perched on the upper deck of my early morning bus, witnessed my bus carelessly veer around a standing-still-bus, which stands still in order to do its job, i.e. pick up standing-still passengers.

On the occasions when my bus exhibits this careless behaviour, I almost panic. An empathy-motivated panic for the standing-still passengers that might be hoping to be picked up by my bus, which on these occasions, may fail to do its job (i.e. pick up standing-still passengers) for its failure to slow down and check out the behind-the-blind-spot caused by the standing-still-doing-its-job-bus for would be passengers of this ride. On these occasions, from my perch I crane my neck and peer out into the dusky light to see if my fears are justified. I look for stranded victims. I don't know why I do this. There is nothing I could do to help. I have no rope to throw.

Generally, there is no need.

I quietly reprimand myself for my lack of confidence in my trusted bus, which is in the capable hands of a trusted driver.

He knows what he's doing. He's a professional.

Yesterday I learned that not all buses can be trusted. Not all bus drivers are professionals.

I exited a busy station at evening rush hour. Scores and hordes and masses of commuters rushing in, and rushing out, and rushing past. A seasoned commuter, I knew my moves and made them to cue:

Oyster Card in right hand pocket.
At the turnstile, the Oyster card whipped out and swiped.
The mechanical doors beep open. I cross through.
Exit the station. Not a break in my stride.
The bus will come from the left.
I will need to look to the right then to the left to cross the high street to get to the standing-still place where the bus will collect me.

I knew my routine. I executed it flawlessly.

A bus, not mine, stopped at the stop to do its job -- i.e. pick up passengers. At that very moment, my bus was coming up from behind. It slowed. I reached my hand into my right-hand pocket from which my Oyster card would need to be produced. I strutted toward my bus, which was still slowing behind the standing-still bus. The standing-still bus, having completed its duty of picking up standing-still passengers, started to move on. Just as it started to move, my bus veered carelessly around it to pass.

What? What? What? I'm right here! God damn it!

I did a little inelegant traipse down the pavement, my arms gesticulating in incomprehensible ways.

What the? What the fuck?

There were four of us, stranded victims, all in shock.

On the bus home (the next one to come by) I ranted and raved inside my head and wondered how I could extract revenge justice.

Catching Shit

On Monday, a man was purportedly mauled to death by his Rottweiler. The beast was 'put down' (shot to death - like the unfortunate Mr. Menezes*) by law enforcement officers who were later lauded for putting their lives at risk to protect members of the public.

The press savoured the dramatic nature of the story much like The Dog savours the leftover bone of a t-bone steak. Big initial bites, gorging on the bits and pieces and vomiting it up in the headlines.

Dog kills owner in horror attack.

Pet Rottweiler savages owner to death in horrific Street Attack.

I particularly like how the BBC article keeps its readers engaged by promising even more shocking developments under a section entitled (in bold) Baseball Bats.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/7212727.stm

The dead man was identified as a 78 year old. Sometimes. He was also a man in his mid-50's. Some articles reference the fact that the man collapsed, the dog started licking the man, and only started nipping (biting. mauling. savaging) when his friend and master didn't respond. Some say the dog was trying to drag the man home. Other articles intimate the dog just snapped and went on a "cannibalistic" rampage.

I'm sorry for the man. I'm sorry for the dog. I'm annoyed that the sceptical, unfriendly stares I get when I'm out walking The Dog have been given further justification by the press. I'm further annoyed that I'm likely to get further stares.

Shame on the press for constant sensationalizing of even mundane topics. And, further shame for the lack of follow up. Was an autopsy done on the dog? Did it have a tumour on the brain? Did the man die of injuries sustained by his dog or by the thing that made him collapse (if indeed he did collapse)? Were other witnesses found? Was the dog trying to help and only went crazy upon lack of response from the 78 year old mid-50s man? (If the follow up stories are out there, then shame on Google for not returning the results).

Shame on the people who look at me in judgement. Take the time to get to know us. Don't let the press form your opinion.

Ok, not really realistic to pour shame on all these people, but damn it! Don't be afraid of me!

Shame on the dog owners who don't work on controlling the baser instincts of their furry friends - whether a vicious Chihuahua or lunatic Doberman. Dogs need training and a firm hand. When Dog acts up, I show her who's boss -- sometimes throwing her to the ground and holding her down. Having a dog is a responsibility, and it needs to be taken seriously.

Ok, I don't really THROW her to the ground, but I manoeuvre her to the ground without hurting her, to demonstrate my dominance. This of course gets me judged by witnesses to this 'animal cruelty'. Jeezus, I just can't win.

Finally shame, shame, shame on the dog owners who train their furry friends to attack, thereby creating a reputation for a breed that isn't wholly inherently deserved. I could train my dear little Dog to be a savage, and that would be so wrong! Now, however, I will train her to behave when I play dead so that she doesn't go ape-shit if I happen to have a stroke in the street.

*Before I am accused I will point it out myself: yes, I have compared the death of a dog to the death of a human. Obviously, I don't hold really think a dog's death is akin to a human death. It is a bit of irreverence (see previous post) injected into this little space of thought.

See me nod, seven times.

She didn't exactly say,"Tag! You're it! Stew on this, and catch you later!"

But, the juicy Peach did get me, if not stewing, at least mulling, after she whizzed on by.

What do I approve of?

I thought about it this morning as I walked through the mist to the bus stop.

What do I approve of? Who am I to approve, or not, anyway?

I'm no authority on anything. Is a non-authority like me really in a position to approve, or not?

I've been stewing on and mulling over the thoughts that led to the preceding sentence, a question, which I only spat out after a tedious number of tap-tap-tapping of keys and back-back-backspacing over those tapped keys then retapping and rebackspacing and then tapping and then voila, out came that question, and only now have I realised the sad little subtext. What I'm really asking when I ask, "Is a non-authority like me really in a position to approve or not?" is "Does my opinion really count?"

Well, god damn it girl, course it does!

So here it is, god damn it. 7 things I give the green light, two thumbs-up, and resounding nods of approval, 7 of them.

Art. Not just pictures on walls or poems or concertos, but the result of what William Blake described as an individual's brush with the divine, with inspiration. LL Cool J was touched by 'IT' when he composed 'Momma Said Knock You Out'. Eminem tapped into it when he was been spitting mad. Lyrics or melody or line or colour or a twist of a phrase an expression of a truth that reaches out and touches you and me and whoever may be listening. That's art, and it's not always beautiful, but it shares and it teaches, and I think that's good. I give Art a high five.

Pleasure. What pleases me might not please you, but I have to approve of the common feeling that may be elicited from very different activities. My Man is currently finding it in what I believe to be a perverse pleasure (perverse because he's screaming, spitting mad) by playing playstation football. He thinks I'm a freak to spend so many hours trawling through the internet. The pleasure we find in different activities is common. And it's good. Pleasure gets my wholehearted approval.

Moderation. Too much of whatever it is that gives one pleasure is a bad thing. Moderation is good. Moderation gets a thumbs-up.

Education. Learning is fun! I like it! If I had my druthers, I'd be sitting in the first (maybe second) row of a classroom, learning stuff, taking notes with different colour pens and highlighting passages, and then sharing what I've learned (and possibly annoying) my friends and family. Yes, I am a dork, and I take pleasure in learning! I approve of education, because whether learning gives you pleasure or not, it's good for you. Education (whether formal or not) tends to make people more interesting, tends to make people more successful, tends to assist in the solving of problems. Yeah for education!

Puzzles/Games. Puzzles and games are fun! If I had my druthers, I'd be testing games for Playstation or Wii or Xbox. I'd be sitting in cafes and doing crossword puzzles and Sudorkus. Puzzles and games give me pleasure! They are also good for you, whether you like them or not, that's why I endorse puzzles and games!

Thoughtfulness / Consideration. My mom always placed a whole lot of importance on manners, the kind of manners that dictated which fork one should use at a fancy party. If those are manners, fuck 'em. Manners should involve thoughtfulness and consideration. Manners should dictate that you stand on the right, walk on the left when you're in the Tube. Manners should have you take your big bulky bag off your shoulder when you're on the tube in rush hour, a simple gesture that makes more space for your fellow passengers. Manners should be about being thoughtful, about helping this world function a little easier. Because manners aren't these things, I can't approve of manners; but I do approve of consideration.

Irreverence. I love it. I applaud it. It makes me laugh. (The Simpsons has a bit. The Family Guy has a bit more. South Park takes it to new heights.) Burn the American flag. Name your black bitch (female dog), Mohammed. Do what it takes to challenge symbols. Irreverence is iconoclasm with humour. I'm all for that.

Throwing Crap

A year ago, I got this advice:

"Throw the poop at her? Oh wait, that's uncouth."
- Jezebel

"Pick up the shit and put it in her yard.
Over and over again.
I guarantee it will work."
- Betty

"I am with Betty. Not in the biblical sense but on this issue. There was a bloke who lived down the road from me who was a real James Blunt. His poxy dog shat outside my house constantly. In the end I collected up his dog shit and any other I could find and deposited it on his doorstep under the cover of darkness (very SAS) every day for a week. He got the message eventually."
- Billyboy

"Post every "find" to the high end retro furniture shop with an untraceable little note saying "returned to owner"
- BoyOnTop

"I think Billyboy has the solution.
She has a shop? A classy one too? Well then..smear her dog poop at the shop entrance early in the morning."
- Wendz

"Scoop the poop onto her property, preferably her front door!"
- Maritza

Two wrongs don't make a right. Two wrongs don't make a right. Two wrongs ... ah Shut up!"

The straw that broke the camel's back was stuck between the My Man's teeth. He was spittin' mad. I was in shock.

What? Dog shit on our side of the gate? Intentionally?

The Mista was about to go into an apoplectic fit. I had to come to -- if only to save him.

Two wrongs don't make a right.

SHUT UP!

Somehow I must have attuned myself to the sage advice dished out more than a year ago.

"Put it in her yard. We've taken enough. Put it in her yard."

My Man looked at me as if he was weighing his options.

"Is anyone coming?"

I looked up the street. I looked down the street. I saw a woman a good distance off.

"All's clear."

My Man tossed the crap over the low wall that separates us from our good neighbours.

I feel as if I should be ashamed. But, I am not.

Poop Culture

"It must be convenient living next to the shop. They can hold onto packages delivered when you're not home - I mean, supposing you get on. Do you get on?"

My relationship with the speaker is new enough that I hesitate with my honesty.

Who are you kidding, big mouth? When have you ever held back from such an obvious opportunity to bitch?

"Well, on the face of it we get on; but, truthfully, I can't stand that lady. She's such a . . . . "

"Snot!"

"bitch!"

"Yes!"

My relationship with the speaker has just grown stronger! There is nothing like a common dislike to bring two people together.

I elaborate on my dislike for my neighbour, the ass-faced, high-end-retro-furniture-shop-owner with proper examples - just to prove I'm not mean-spirited or petty. I explain how the Mista cunningly tracked the scat that was frequently found on our stoop to the arse-faced neighbour's pesky dog.

"Oh, that dog's horrible!" my new-found friend explains. Turns out that new-found friend has got stories of her own about my neighbour and the little dog with the loud bark and the tendency to shit on our doorstep.

I explain about the gate and how it was a gambit to keep the pooh at bay.

I explain how we secretly hope Dog will bite onto pooping-on-our-doorstep-dog's scruff and shake the little fucker until he's too scared to bark or poop.

New-found friend and I commiserate in the shocking inconsiderateness of bad neighbours.

I explain how, despite the gate, little dog poop still occasionally makes an appearance.

"You know, the postman sometimes leaves the gate open so the dog will find his way in from time to time."

The next morning, My Man and I lie in bed awake despite the early hour. We hear the squeak of our opening gate. Normally, this sound heralds the rubbish collectors or the post man or the girl who lives upstairs.

It's not rubbish collection day. It's not the hour for post to be delivered, and the girl who lives upstairs is out of town. We scratch our heads. We peek out the blinds. We see the ass-face waiting for her dog to do his business!

It's Mutual ...

It must be love if I pick up her shit without even a second thought. I didn't think I'd be capable. I dreaded the shame surely associated with stooping down, plastic bag in hand, to clean the ground of a brand-fresh, piping hot pooh. If it's cold out, it steams.

Now I know: there is no shame. Not even when she does it right in the driveway of Stamford Bridge ... on game day.

Glam and Being Missed

This week I was out of The Smoke.

I went somewhere dripping glamour, dripdropdrippingly glamorous.

While London has glam, it also has dirt and grit and bums and kids with jeans down below their asses. The Smoke dilutes its glam factor with council estates and the presence of public transportation; and let’s face it, Ken Livingstone does nothing for London’s glamour quotient. In short, real life is the shade that protects Londoners from the dazzle of Glam.

Where I went, Glam was like Tropicana Orange Juice: concentrated. Glam so prevalent that even those of you who are normally cool in the limelight would have withered in the glare of all the Louis Vuitton and Chanel and Ferraris and designer dogs.

Ironically, the very glamorous place where I went seemed to have a lot more dog shit on the streets than London has. I suppose it makes sense that very glamorous people can’t pick up the shit that plops out of the glamorous asses of their very fancy pooches. The dog shit on the streets made me miss The Dog…

Who, My Man told me, must have been missing me because she sat by the door waiting for me to come home at the usual hour. God bless the love of a dumb beast.

Popular Kulture

I get a letter! From someone I don't know! The Internet has made me famous! I'm invited to visit a website and provide my input! I'm special! All because I write about music ....

Do I?

and celebrities ...

When I can!

and London.

Well, yes, but ...

The nice lady who wrote to invite me to visit www.showclix.com (I won't give her name because because she might want to remain anonymous) seemed to have actually read my blog! She even knew that I sometimes write about Right Said Fred*, and that seems to have impressed her! She said she'd even put a link to me if I wrote a little something about www.showclix.com.

Really?

Being a glutton for attention, this nice lady's attention appeals to me. I decide to click over to www.showclix.com to see how my humble site melds with something that sounds so ... so ... contemporary.

I don't see it.

Showclix is cool and modern and neat and clean. It radiates hip.

The Daily Smoke makes seeing Sandy from Cycle X of Big Brother the pinnacle of excitement. I've not been to a music event since Adam Ant played the Orange Bowl in Miami (NB: an example of hyperbole). How do I come to deserve any kind of association with something so definitely not me? That's my first impression.

I decide not to ask that question again.

You see, on reflection, I may not be the hippest chick in town, maybe I'm not a groupie, maybe I don't know who Sponge Cake Bob is, maybe I don't sleep with superstars, but I just might frequent a certain scene that just might hold a certain appeal to the type of folks who just might visit www.showclix.com.

For example, I did once have tickets to see Gnarls Barkley in Brixton. Never mind I didn't see the show ...

That's something to blog about!

And, I have tickets to see Unkle! (Note the 'k'. 'K's always konnote kool.)

And tickets to Henry Rollins too! He's cool! (0ld sckool cool. Not kool.)

Yeah, and you've only just heard of him.

I've written about celebrities: about seeing Amy Winehouse in her panties, about Mohammad Al Fayed, and Prince Charles, and the Queen! Don't forget the Queen!

Surely those aren't the types of celebrities they're interested in .... oh ... a sleb's a sleb!

So I convince myself that maybe I do fit in with those nice people at www.showclix.com. I decide I will give their site a test drive and maybe even write a review. I decide I need to write more about celebrities to increase my traffic, I need to go to more concerts, and write about those concerts, and heck, maybe even start a band!

But, for now, It's 10 o'clock, and I've got to get to bed.

*Alas! I fear he may have moved from the neighbourhood; didn't he like me peering over his hedges?

Girls Night Out: Getting Home

Between Pepe's and the bus stop home, CBF and I realised we needed a loo. Badly. CBF knew a place: The Borderline. She used to go there when she wore leather and black eyeliner and rocked. She suggested we revisit her previous haunt if just to wee. The Borderline was closing down, but the doorman sympathised with discomfort.

"I'll let you go in. One at a time."

I made my way through what seemed like a poor imitation of a Texan saloon.

What is with the wood panelling?

Back outside, CBF and a young goth were discussing piercing and tattooing. CBF was dishing out advice. I don't recall what specific piercing and tatooing related advice she gave, but I do remember she suggested the Young Goth avoid The Borderline on Saturdays.

"You should come here on a Thursday. Saturdays just aren't as good."

Then CBF was gone, to the loo, and it was just me and the Young Goth.

Oh dear, look, why do you do that to yourself?

My inner thoughts belying my self-professed trouble-may-care-young-at-heart state of being, as I struggled to interact with the gangly youth with metal in his face and dark dye in his hair.

Hurry, CBF, hurry.

Before I worried anymore about what to say to the Young Goth, CBF reappeared. Like lighting in the loo.

Arm in arm we strode off toward the bus stop.

"I fancy a hot dog."

I was thinking back to the most delicious hotdog I ever had in my life. There is never recreating an experience no matter how hard you close your eyes and wish or no matter how much you drink. The hot dog vendor wasn't in Piccadilly on this more recent night. CBF and I boarded the bus empty handed, empty mouthed.

Within seconds I was asleep and leaning on CBF.

5 drunk minutes (approximately 30 minutes in real-life-time)later the bus stopped at our stop. CBF had stayed awake. CBF had pressed the button. CBF took care of us. But, CBF couldn't walk.

"My feet are killing. I can't walk."

"But we're so close. Come on, P. It's not even a 1/2 a mile."

"Should we take a taxi?"

"If you can't walk and we can find ...."

Before I know it CBF's arm has flagged down a taxi.

What the hell? There are never taxis here ... and now at 5 in the morning!

The Man woke up briefly to tell me I smelled of smoke when I crawled under the covers. 2 hours later he woke up for the day.

That day, when I wasn't sleeping I thought and/or wished that I was going to die.

Girls Night Out: Misguiding Youth

When CBF told me to come talk to Pablo (Alex), I thought, "that little fucker ... why?".

After just a few moments, though, I realised my fondness for the little fucker had just lain dormant. It took Alex with his Pabloesque jawbone and identical accent to resurrect my maternal feelings. Alex had unknowingly gotten himself a couple of mother hens. His sidekick seemed pysched. We had gotten ourselves a couple of admirers.

"Do you guys want to go to an underground place?"

It makes me feel so cool -- so hip -- so 'in the know' -- to know of a basement under a camera repair shop where you can pay for beer, smoke, and dance after 2am.

"Sure, sure we go with you!"

"Come on then, come on!"

CBF and I dragged Alex/Pablo and his sidekick up the steps and out onto the Soho pavement; we stumbled along to Tottenham Court Road (not the most direct route, but Drink 9 must have interfered with my acute sense of direction); Alex and sidekick followed behind us.

"Come on, guys; stay close. You're going to love Pepes!"

Right on Oxford Street. Left onto a street that curves, past a dive-y Spanish bar. There in the distance the camera-repair-shop-cum-club.

The doorman let us in. No cover. No queue. Easy peasy.

"Come on kids!"

CBF bought a round of beers. (Drink 10 just about sent my head spinning.)

Alex and sidekick cursorily checked out the basement, then turned back to CBF and me. They seemed more interested in talking with us than appreciating our secret, underground joint.

Oh, Jesus. I don't feel like holding a conversation. Not in this state.

CBF kept the banter going. I nodded and smiled and nodded some more.

Home. Bed.

I smiled and nodded again. CBF laughed at something the kids said. I tugged on her sleeve. She leant over; I whispered in her ear.

"Time to go?"

"Absolutely."

"Guys, we're sorry, but we've got to get going. You have fun. Stay safe."

We loved them and left them after only 1 drink.

Bitches!

Girls Night Out: A Flashback

When he first came to live with us, I fondly referred to Pablo as 'the little fucker'. At the end of the year, I'd spit out his pet name with more malice than bonhomie.

Pablo entered our lives when he was 4, and the My Man and I were living in Spain. He latched onto the My Man like a bull on red. Grateful for a male influence in his life, Pablo's single-parent mother encouraged the pseudo paternal relationship between The Man and her son. Even after we had left Spain, she would ship Pablo off to spend a couple weeks here, a couple weeks there, with us.

Pablo entered our London flat to stay for a year when he was 19. We had just gotten rid of all the guest room furniture in a bid to convert the infrequently useful guest room to a frequently used office, when Pablo's mother called. Pablo had failed his final year of high school. She'd done some research. It would be possible for Pablo to repeat his final year at the Spanish school in London, if he could stay with us. Could he stay with us?

Of course the little fucker could stay with us. He's as close as we've got to a kid of our own (other than The Dog, who was not yet a part of our plans).

Our bid for an office was put on hold.

We bought a new bed.

I readied myself to be a stand-in. I wondered what would be expected of me as a 'mother.' The Man reassured me that he would take on the brunt of the expected parenting responsibilities. I would just need to bear out the year in a more cramped than usual London flat. Regardless of The Man's reassurances, I took the prospect of motherhood (even of a 19 year old) seriously. It was going to be a new challenge. I didn't want to fail.

I made an appointment with the headmaster of the Spanish school, arrived at the convent-converted school on Portobello Road with 1/2 an hour to spare, and worried about my outfit

I hope I fit in.

On my tour of the school, I got excited on Pablo's behalf. The enclave behind the convent walls promised all a student could want. A tree in bloom in a central courtyard. Quiet niches for reading or writing. If I were Pablo, I would have loved it.

Pablo arrived from Madrid with a suitcase full of baggy jeans and Slipknot sweatshirts. School started. He didn't need me to go with him on the first day of classes. As a 19 year old, he was considered self-sufficient, autonomous.

Buzzkill.

The year with Pablo progressed with surprisingly little irritation given the extra body in the flat, the corresponding increased mess, the inconvenience of someone else using the bathroom.

Pablo had always been a precocious kid, and his 19 year old self was funny as hell. The Man and I liked having him around. CBF became enchanted by the little fucker. And, Pablo himself had a pretty good set-up here in London: a free place to stay, broadband, Sky TV, a Playstation. All of us enjoyed our strange little "family" and our unique part in it.

Pablo didn't do well on his mid-year exams. The Man laid down some rules (primarily restricting Pablo's entertainment options). The year dragged on. The cleaning lady noted Pablo's frequent appearances at home when he should have been at school. After the two week final exam period, Pablo swore that he thought he did well.

Turns out that the little fucker didn't show up to take even ONE exam.

Little fucker.