The View of Star

Why is the story of Star Jones leaving the View, not about the fact that she looks like an alien now? Seriously her big eyes, freakishly slim body and big head all just creep people out. This isn’t about Rosy O’Donnel or any of the other nonsense…

Star, you’re scaring the children! Most of us adults too. So stop trying to create a bandwagon and face the truth, your one scary looking woman.

On a brighter side, you’re still not as scary as Condi Rice.

The Only Hill

Jean-Pierre used to say we lived on the only hill in Washington. Not true, but it sure seemed like it when I was a smoker. 16th Street gradually runs up, so there is presently no flooding near my house.

The rain has been something to see, the entire sky whites out and all you see is vapor as this stuff hits objects. The rain doesn’t manage to cool anything off either, the humidity keeps us all soaked even if we have an umbrella.

I’ve been summoned for Jury Duty, again. They never take me, don’t know why they keep trying.


Finally, the air conditioning has been fixed!!! 😉

They came yesterday bright and early (8:30) and set to work on replacing our 25 year old system. It took them all day (they left about 3:30), and they worked mostly through lunch. There was no slacking or being lazy, they worked hard.

The new outside unit is twice as tall as the old, like a tower. The inside unit is slim, sleek and digital. They even installed a new digital thermostat.

When we tested the system I could feel the cold air almost immediately, same for when we tested the heat; it got hot mighty quick. I cannot believe how quiet both the inside and outside units are, I barely know they are on at all.

Ride of Fear

Just one out of a hundred on the busy street, the cab pulled to a stop and I placed my luggage inside. I barely glanced at the driver, but spoke my destination clearly the momentum of the cab taking off thrusts me back into the seat. I hastily fastened my seatbelt, fear of the cabbies driving only a small concern.

Glancing out the side window was exhilarating; this was my first trip to San Francisco and I was going to have so much fun. As the gay ‘Mecca’, it held so much promise and excitement. Some of the men on my agenda I had met in online chat rooms, but most were just fantasies and expectations of the perfect man.

Looking forward, I notice the driver for the first time. His hair covered, muscular arm draped the seat in front of me almost completely. His fist was clenching and unclenching, I could see the veins in his forearm throb with each tightening of his fist. A baseball hat covered his head, attempting to hide or control the black, wiry, mess below it. He was wearing large sunglasses, mid 70s style with wire frames; they managed to conceal his eyes and almost mask his face.

A feeling of danger emanates from him, I didn’t notice when I first entered the cab, intent on my own excursion I didn’t consider my own safety at all. I glance up at the rearview mirror to try to gauge his expression and catch his attention; a dark grin escapes his lips.

The fist strikes swiftly, flying straight back into my face, blood starts to spurt from my nose. Pain is dampened by fear, I barely notice the throbbing as escape and retribution come to the forefront of my mind. I barely see the fist move toward me again when everything goes black…

12 Hour Days

I’m not in my 20s anymore, big shocker. In my twenties I could work 4 ten hour days in a row, go out and get drunk each and every one of those nights and not mind at all. I might have been hung over or still drunk when I arrived, but I didn’t get to tired out or draggy.

Not so now in my 30s. One 12 hour day is about all I can take. I’m going from one job directly to another, 8 – 8 on certain days or even 8 to 9 on Fridays. And I’m sober. I’m so tired by the time I get home I don’t have time for anything else really. The cats, of course, are mad cause I’ve been gone all day.

“Lets go to a movie on Thursday night Jamez.” they say.

I’m tired and have to work Friday night, I have ZERO INTEREST IN SPENDING TIME WITH YOU.

Ped Xing

Working Man

“I get up at 7, yeah and I go to work at 9. Got no time for living, yes I’m working all the time” – Rush

Working a temp job with the NAHB (National Association of Home Builders), basic administrative stuff. They have had bad experiences in the past with temps, I hear about it constantly. Seem like nice enough people, the location is good, and I love my cubicle.

I’m also working part time at Olsson’s Books on 7th and E Streets NW. Loads of fun for me, I guess pretending to be nice to people is not so bad after all. Seriously, it is nice to hang out and ring people up behind the register, and I’ve only had a few real weirdos in the store.

So, I’m looking for a permanent job, the NAHB job is only 4 days a week. I’ll keep you all posted here.

“I guess that’s why they call me, they call me the working man. Well they call me the working man, I guess that’s what I am.” – Rush

A Real Boy

All Q ever wanted was a real boy, he sits in the window pane watching the little boys toss a ball or frisbee, running about here and there. If he glances back inside he sees me in front of the PC or TV lost in some fantasy world.

He’ll drag a string or cat nip toy to me and “MEOW” loudly. I’ll bring down a hand to pet him, but he’s learned to be far enough back that I have to tear my eyes from the screen to find him. He’ll “MEOW” again, the toy strategically placed in front of him, he even motions to it with his eyes. I’ll promise to play with him later, or tomorrow and focus my attention back to my fun.

He may try one more “MEOW” or jump on the desk, sprawling right in the perimeter of the keyboard or mouse pad. His tail whips about, deliberately aiming for the keyboard or mouse as he knows one keystroke with his tail grabs my attention faster than twelve “MEOWS”.

Mostly, he sits on the window ledge; eyes darting this way and that, dreaming of the little boy he always wanted.

Choosing Battles

Our President could be spending his time, energy and influence on getting our troops home safely from a war that he started erroneously. Instead, he and the GOP have decided the most important thing for them to focus on is discrimination and ways to encourage hate across the country.

How can same sex marriage be primary on an agenda when brave men and women of our country are losing their lives EVERY DAY. How is the private lives of people who love one another more important that saving lives of an American soldier?

Do our soldiers mean that little to you Mr. President? Are they just one more sacrifice in your vast agenda? Do you care so little for freedom, love and life that you have to focus on ways to ignite this blaze of hate in our country?

Figure out what’s important here… Sure this got you elected, but don’t you think the lives of American’s in danger every day, because of your decisions and lies, should be first on your list?

Brass Button

I’m lost in the pattern of the buttons; brass buttons embedded in the arm of the couch, eyes glued to them. I do figure eights, running my fingers through the space in-between. The couch is otherwise non-descript; brown and tepid it mirrors the room. The dark brown paneling with deer heads and coat of arms absorb the couch into them, making it less noticeable.

I cannot sink further into the cushions, as they are firm and uncomfortable. The noise around me distant, the light from the picture window barely noticeable but I know its coming. My discomfort grows and I start to fidget, the noise becomes voices the light blocked out by moving figures in my vision.

I don’t want to see it, I cannot bear to hear it.

Escape. Not possible.

I stare out the window, the snow glitters like stars the cold is almost visible. The noise becomes screams and flesh impacting. The light is dotted with spatters of blood, the couch is my only escape.

Figure eights with tarnished brass buttons.