6 AM Epiphanies

I fell asleep early and woke up at the runners and crack head hour of 5:30AM.


SHOUT OUT TO THE GUY AT THE BAGEL DELI ON COURT STREET


I've been under the weather and the influence of drugs so my circadian rhythm is all fucked up.
I got a comment on my blog. The only comment I've ever received and it was about how cute my cat is.

The Cute Cat Theory of Digital Activism 

If any of you have read the content of my blog that didn't directly and shamefully draw full visual attention to my beautiful feline apprentice in nihilism and all things thc laced, you know how end of the world this is for me. 

I'm Going to Die Alone...

                       If you can tell me you've seen anything cuter, I beg you to point me in its direction.

                                                             Go ahead. I'm waiting.


More?

Oh, I've got more...

Yes, her nose is red in this one. No animals were harmed in the making of this picture.

She's so sassy, though.

Can't stand how cuuuute you are Miss Kitty.

She sleeps with both eyes open. I still can't be trusted, even after all these years.

Just imagine the sound of an 80 year old man with an upper respiratory infection snoring.

Somehow, it makes her even cuter.

Dear God/Universe...

I've heard, from many accolade ridden knuckleheads, that success is only possible through God.
Or some such nonsense as that.
Whenever someone gets up to receive an award, a finger points skyward and some silly sentimental thanks are given to this unknown entity that seems to have signed that million dollar check and won them a trophy.
Some people luck into success.
What I don't understand is how people who have struggled, suffered and perservered through hardships can give props to anyone or thing else for the hard work they definitely had to put in to gain success.

If and when I make my way out of this quagmire of worry, debt and uncertainty, no one gets credit for surviving this shit with me.

Maybe my cat.

You hear that God/Universe? (Someone call a doctor.)
You get no burn!!!

 
That'll go over really well.

To end this on a happy note; when I woke up this morning, Miss Kitty (name changed to protect the innocent) was curled up in a ball next to me in "bed".

How sweet is that?
She warms my cold, hardened heart. 

Bagels and Pipes

I met a crack head when I was at a deli ordering a sandwich this evening.
He wasn't lighting the pipe right there behind the counter.

Apparently, he had learned that crack was whack waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back and cleaned himself up after a 15 year addiction.

Kudos.

Really.



He looked totally normal at first glance.

Then I noticed his doll head.

Maybe he smoked his hair in a cracky fit of desperation.

I kept taking quick, determined glances at his hairline to confirm.

It was a lace front wig or a graft from another body part. (ugh)

The hairline was then eclipsed by the all too perfect choppers that didn't quite fit his mouth.

What had started out as a pleasant chit chat turned TMI very quickly.

Him: "Can I get you anything to drink with your sandwich?"

Me: "I'll just have some water with it when I get home. I had a lot of coffee today. I need to re-hydrate."

Him: "Water is the best thing for you. Coffee is good for you too. Is it true it makes you go to the bathroom a lot?"

Me: "It's a diuretic. Yes."

Here comes the freak shit.

I then got the details of his defecation schedule and how it was fueled by an espresso here and a double shot there.



Me: "Is my FOOD ready yet?"



As much as I was enjoying hearing about his new vegan lifestyle and the half marathon he runs once a week, I was ready to go. Not hungry anymore but ready to pay for the food I had ordered and get the fuck out.



His parting words were, "I'm so glad the crack didn't take a toll on my body."

I thought of his hair, the teeth he had probably thrown in a pipe and lit for a quick buzz, and walked out grimacing.



Denial is a clerk in Brooklyn Heights.

Blind Dates and Nervous Cats

I'm in no financial position to be dating. I know.

The last movie I saw in theaters was Doubt.
Yes. 2008. Give me a break.

So I saw Alice in Wonderland last night.
With a blind date...

Holy shit!
This cat was nervous.
So nervous, in fact, that he lost the ability to smell his own breath.
Something about the autonomic nervous system.


Then there was the inappropriate touching.
I had to back away from several unwanted attempts at embrace.

Onlookers got a kick out of it.

This is the only nervous cat whose bad breath I will tolerate from now on.

Look, she wants a hug too.

Off to the Races...

So here we go...
I am not racially paranoid.
Let's get that out of the way immediately.

I've been on two interviews for sales positions in the restaurant industry that have both taken a very unprofessional turn.

1. I was asked my age.
2. I was asked if I had children.
3. I was explicitly asked if I was prepared to meet, "people who don't look like me" or told "that people who own restaurants look more like me than they do you."(presumptuous)

These three questions are all legally actionable.
Anyone with human resources training would have told these two gentlemen that I could have walked out of each of these offices, called a lawyer and won a decent chunk of change in a civil suit.
Had I not gotten both jobs.

My biggest issue is question number three.
Here's what I've been trying to figure out for the last three years; were they trying to prepare me for discrimination I will likely face or were they asking me if I know how to speak and relate to people of other races?

I wish I had answered like this:
"Are you asking me if I know how to talk to white people? It seems silly that you would ask me that. Mostly, because you are white and we are talking and relating to each other at this very moment."

I wonder what their response would have been. Maybe something like this:

"No, I just want you to be prepared for what you're likely to face in the market."

To which I would have loved to have said:

"There is no preperation for discrimination. When it happens, it hurts just as much if you're prepared for it as it would if it flew at you from a dear close friend you never expected it from."

In your imagination, you rail on.

"My junior high school classmates were Isreali, Egyptian, Indian, Bengali, Puerto Rican, African, Jamaican, Italian and Irish.
I went to the University of Connecticut. Whitest state in the union.

More?

My landlord is Hasidic, my neighbors represent the entirety of the Carribean, most of my teachers were white, my Grandfather is a quarter Cherokee and a quarter causasian,  my Grandmother was born in Panama and lastly, I live in New York frickin' City.

So what are you really asking me?"

How am I not supposed be paranoid with all of these white men clearly implicating that my race is going to impede my success?
I try not to let it enter into my thoughts.