Well, I'm nothing if not consistent in my tardiness regarding this blog. Just noticed that the last time I posted was the end of December. At that time the Grand Canyon was in its Arctic tundra phase: Snow, ice, overcast skies, ice-cold winds whipping right through you. All the cold weather crap I've always striven to escape. Still, the months rolled over, the season changed and somehow I managed to survive the winter. Maybe that Midwestern hardiness got me through the tough times. Whatever, it seems that the GC has entered spring time mode, and not a moment too soon for Your Humble Narrator. Save for a last blast of snow and frigid temps a few weeks ago, winter is likely done. (Hopefully, this isn't famous last words concerning the cold weather.)
The GC has got spring fever; that is, we've been hit with a sudden influx of tourists thanks to spring break. After those winter months where the park was essentially deserted, it now bustles with people from all over the world. That means congestion: crowds everywhere and their kiddies running amok all over the damn place. It's really kind of a shock, almost like an invasion of our privacy; after all, we basically had the park to ourselves over the winter. Now we have to share it once more with these characters and put up with their crowds and noise and constantly asking us where the restrooms are? (I'm often tempted to answer, "Follow your gonads" to that last. Either that or suggest they go au naturale like the deer and elk and just do their biz in the woods) But of course we must tolerate them, because they not only bring their annoyances but also their cash.
YHN has been keeping busy over the past few months. Indeed, where many of my Xanterra brethren carp about the lack of hours during the slow season (anywhere from 5-10 hours a week is not uncommon; one guy got a paycheck totaling $20; it likely cost more to print the check) I've logged 30-35 hours per week and experienced a fairly minimal drop in pay. Much of this is due to my 'multi-tasking': In addition to working for the banquet/special events department, I also take advance dinner reservations and tackle hosting duties for the El Tovar dining room (which happens to be located in the fabled El Tovar Hotel, imagine that). Dinner reservations aren't bad since I wear street clothes; hosting duties require we wear the penguin suit: White tux shirt with bow tie and black pants. Remind me to post a pic sometime; people tell me I look like a maitre d'.
Even though banquets require a lot of physical labor, I prefer it to my other chores since the activities can vary. Sometimes I'm preparing room for various functions; other times I'm driving around like a delivery guy. Hell, I even deliver cakes around the park, usually only for corporate events -- they add gratuities in as well. The hosting duties can be interesting but I couldn't do it full time: Too much standing around. Plus, when they get busy -- as they are now -- the restaurant managers call me in to help the bussers prepare tables. I can do it, but he bussers can be a surly lot. They often view my assistance as an accusation that they aren't doing their job fast enough. But I'm diplomatic about their often-resentful attitudes: Fuck 'em. If you don't want me around, then do your goddamn job better.
Like all restaurants, the ET dining room assigns numbers to all their tables, and each are has a section number. It's incumbent upon the servers, bussers and hosts to know all these numbers and locations. In the beginning I was so turned around it's a wonder I didn't seat people on the roof. Nowadays YHN has a pretty good grasp of all these tables and sections. Even so, I can get turned around. Sometimes when I make a mistake, I simply blame the guest: "Oh, they should have gone to table 25? Well, they said they preferred table 61." (which is actually on the opposite side of the restaurant) The lead host, who actually orchestrates all the seating assignments, rarely takes issue. It's commonplace to take a guest halfway to their table before they complain for a different table.
You see, the ET dining room has 9 tables that are actually against windows that overlook the South Rim of the GC; these are the coveted view tables that everyone desires. Understandably, if people travel from around the world to eat at the ET dining room, they want the best view possible. Curiously, this attitude holds true at night as well. I say 'curiously' because at night you cannot see the canyon at all. All you can see is the reflection in the window of the restaurant. Yet, evening guests will still demand a view table when all they'll be able to see is their own reflection. Go figure.
Hosts will work either an early shift (6:30 am-2 pm) or late shift (4:30 pm-10 pm). Depending on the guest volume we can be cut loose earlier, which is often the case. I prefer mornings because the overall vibe is more laid back. Evening can get intense, due to all the dinner reservations creating a time crunch. (reservations aren't required for breakfast or lunch at ET) When someone arrives at 8 pm for their table and the guests from 7 pm are still lolling about, there's not much you can do but put that party @ 8 on a wait list -- which usually provokes impatience, annoyance and/or outright hostility. (They could always take my approach: Give the lollygaggers the bum's rush and toss 'em into the canyon. Bet people would finish their meals quicker then!)
One of the things I do like about my job is meeting so many people from all over the world. Recently we've had workers arrive from Ecuador, Thailand and the Philippines (the largest contingent). In the next few months the Europeans and Chinese will land upon our shores. A Filipina girl named L recently joined the host staff. While she's a bit sketchy on her duties, she's very nice, very cute -- and very young at a mere 19. Nevertheless, she and I are friendly and like to joke/flirt with each other. Indeed, YHN was getting some, shall we say, provocative thoughts about L after she complimented me: She said, "I think you must have many girls who like you. You are very nice looking." Ah, what a coup! I was feeling rather good about myself when she offered this follow up: "You are like my father."
It hit me like a spray of cold water on a pair of dogs humping. Ah, I guess it had to happen some day, a comment like that. Still, there might still be something salvageable here. I'm like her father? Maybe I'll adopt her.
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Canyoneering 3 -- Trapped With Tourists
While they provide profits for Xanterra (and put money in
the employees’ pockets), tourists are often viewed by we employees as a necessary evil. Sometimes their innocent ignorance can be
amusing: I’ve lost count of the times
I’ve been asked – in all seriousness – whether they can ride an escalator or
elevator to the bottom of the GC (personally I think it would be a good
idea). Or the many times I’ve been asked
if it’s okay to feed the squirrels, deer, elk, etc. – this despite the fact
that signs warning against this practice are posted everywhere. Still, people can’t resist feeding these animals
and are often bitten or otherwise wounded by the ravenous creatures. For the record, National Park Service Rangers hand out stiff
fines to those caught in such practice.
Because of the glut of foreign tourists, there are of course many different accents one must decipher; that’s when the visitors speak English at all. Often there is a tour guide conducting groups of 10 to 50 people through the cafeteria, and they must translate everyone’s order. This can take some time as you might imagine. It’s especially annoying when one tour bus after another unloads dozens of hungry, tired visitors, each convinced that theirs is the only order that matters. Adding to the aggravation is the habit of these tour guides to blast their comments through personal PA systems that makes the café echo with ear-splitting feedback.
For the most part, the process runs smoothly although it can look like organized chaos to an onlooker. Only once have I (nearly) taken offense to a customer’s attitude. I won’t mention his nationality, but he was an older fellow, obviously impatient or preoccupied. I asked him twice if I could help him but he didn’t respond. On the third attempt, he snapped, “No I do not want your help! You do not understand your own English?” I desperately wanted to tell the old bastard to go f**k himself, but what can you do. (Pardon my French)
While I’ve ragged a bit on the tourists, let me mention one distinct advantage to having them in the GC: The many beautiful women who make the journey to see America’s massive hole in the ground (so many jokes there, make your own). To me, the ladies are a far more interesting natural wonder than the Canyon itself. Indeed, Your Humble Narrator is known to flirt with some of these ladies (lightly flirt that is; no grist for the sexual harassment mill from yours truly). My favorite line to use is the following: “Oh, you’re from (insert country here)? Tell me, are all the women from (country) as beautiful as you?” Has that line actually worked? Ah well … as they say, that would be telling(!)
A common annoyance is the habit of tourists to clog the
narrow roadways of the GC while they stop to take pictures of the local
wildlife. People can’t seem to get
enough of seeing the elk and deer in particular. Since I see these animals every day (and
night), the novelty is lost on Your Humble Narrator. Trust me, once you’ve nearly collided with a
massive elk, they quickly lose the cute and cuddly factor.
 |
| A common sight where I live |
While tourists can occasionally be annoying, there are some
benefits to having them around. As
noted, without their presence, we’d have no paychecks. But I find it interesting to meet so many
people from around the world, even if it’s only for a few moments. And because they're usually on vacation these folks are usually in a good mood (usually). You also tend to note their food preferences
if you work (as I do) in a restaurant.
Many Asian tourists (from Japan and China mostly) seem to favor spaghetti and meat sauce. Brits, Aussies and Kiwis seem to favor beef, like pot roast or Salisbury steak (which I tend to regard as a glorified hamburger). Germans tend to order ham steak or fish. The French are over the map when it comes to their culinary preferences. Interestingly, the French tend to order a lot of French fries, (frite or pomme frite as they call it). I wonder if French fries should be called American fries in France.
Many Asian tourists (from Japan and China mostly) seem to favor spaghetti and meat sauce. Brits, Aussies and Kiwis seem to favor beef, like pot roast or Salisbury steak (which I tend to regard as a glorified hamburger). Germans tend to order ham steak or fish. The French are over the map when it comes to their culinary preferences. Interestingly, the French tend to order a lot of French fries, (frite or pomme frite as they call it). I wonder if French fries should be called American fries in France.
Because of the glut of foreign tourists, there are of course many different accents one must decipher; that’s when the visitors speak English at all. Often there is a tour guide conducting groups of 10 to 50 people through the cafeteria, and they must translate everyone’s order. This can take some time as you might imagine. It’s especially annoying when one tour bus after another unloads dozens of hungry, tired visitors, each convinced that theirs is the only order that matters. Adding to the aggravation is the habit of these tour guides to blast their comments through personal PA systems that makes the café echo with ear-splitting feedback.
For the most part, the process runs smoothly although it can look like organized chaos to an onlooker. Only once have I (nearly) taken offense to a customer’s attitude. I won’t mention his nationality, but he was an older fellow, obviously impatient or preoccupied. I asked him twice if I could help him but he didn’t respond. On the third attempt, he snapped, “No I do not want your help! You do not understand your own English?” I desperately wanted to tell the old bastard to go f**k himself, but what can you do. (Pardon my French)
 |
| The Yavapai Canyon Cafe, where toils Your Humble Narrator |
While I’ve ragged a bit on the tourists, let me mention one distinct advantage to having them in the GC: The many beautiful women who make the journey to see America’s massive hole in the ground (so many jokes there, make your own). To me, the ladies are a far more interesting natural wonder than the Canyon itself. Indeed, Your Humble Narrator is known to flirt with some of these ladies (lightly flirt that is; no grist for the sexual harassment mill from yours truly). My favorite line to use is the following: “Oh, you’re from (insert country here)? Tell me, are all the women from (country) as beautiful as you?” Has that line actually worked? Ah well … as they say, that would be telling(!)
So if you’re planning on visiting the GC, don’t let my prickly
comments dissuade you from stopping by.
You – and your cash – are always welcome. And if you’re a beautiful lady from overseas
of the USA or wherever, you are strongly encouraged to make the trip and stop
by the Canyon Café at Yavapai Lodge.
Your Humble Narrator will be at your beck and call – and if you’re
lucky, you just might get his private tour (as in a tour of his privates). A low-class comment to be sure ... but that’s a specialty
of mine.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
HINJFCA IV
So I'm back to blog two days in a row, a personal best. Note I've shortened the title of this thread down to an acronym, followed by the Roman numeral 'IV' for the 4th installment. Why use an acronym and Roman numeral? Easy. I'm getting too lazy to type out the whole title every time I sit down, and for some reason I felt particularly pretentious enough to use IV. And yeah I know I could just cut-and-paste the title, but that's not how the M-O-double R-I-S rolls.
So last time I used the third personal to describe some of my experiences in North Las Vegas. Your humble narrator thought it was interesting enough to continue the stylization, so let's get to it forthwith:
Hours crept by as Jim stood in the shadows of the Social Services building located on the Catholic Charities campus. He literally had nowhere to go and nothing to do until 5pm, when beds would (hopefully) become available. With the late-October temperatures in the mid-80s, he stayed in the shade and watched a line of mostly black and Hispanic men and women, most with kids, stand in a line that wound out of the building to the sidewalk.
As he listened to various snippets of conversation, he learned that man y of these people had started lining up at 5:30 that morning; that was now going on eight hours standing in a line hoping for assistance on rent, utilities and food from the organization. Many of them would be turned down, as evidenced by several people screaming and escorted off the premises by security guards.
He was still numb from the experiences of the past two days. He still couldn't believe he was here in a rough part of the city, surrounded by vagrants, poor people, and who knows what riff-raff blown here by the vicissitudes of fate or personal choice.
And Jim wondered: What brought me here to this moment in my life? Was it a conspiracy of the Fates, weaving threads that would lead to his overall destruction? Was it the actions of a vengeful God who wanted to punish him for his lack of faith and belief? Or was it actually his own personal choices that brought him slowly to ruin? Did he actually want this sort of scenario to play out so that he could be the victim? So that he wouldn't have to take responsibility for his actions?
Every step, every choice had brought him to this moment, standing in the shadows of a building with a pull-along luggage cart containing most of his worldly possessions. Had taken him from a comfortable lifestyle where his biggest concern was which movie to watch; to here, where his biggest concern was if he might sleep on the street that night. Suddenly, those movies and video games that seemed so essentially seemed extravagant and pointless. Maybe he should have realized it all the time. Instead of indulging in leisure activities, maybe he should have contributed his time to helping those more fortunate. Maybe ...
(There's more material along these lines but since this blog doesn't come with violins or a box of hankies, I'll fast forward the narrative -- JM)
Was it Fate, personal choice, or the vagaries of chance that brought him here? Hell, for all Jim knew, maybe it was just bad mojo. At any rate, there was no use crying about it now. It was done, son, and he was in the shit. He walked around the block again just to keep moving and not arouse the interest of the security guards.
As he strolled, Jim noticed that one vital function still operated as well as ever: His appreciation for the opposite sex. He noticed a few homeless women who were actually attractive in a dirty grimy sort of way. Some were dressed in rags, others had soulless eyes, but some were genuinely attractive; no doubt a high percentage of them were hookers.
One of the women had beautiful toned legs shown off by a microscopic black skirt. A nice little nothing she was wearing, as James Bond might say. She bent over and it was plainly evident she wore no underwear. Must get drafty up there, thought Jim. He wondered if there were any ex-models or actresses who had been suffered a fall from financial and professional grace wandering about the area.
He also wondered, to his shame (well, almost), what it would be like to take of those women and have sex with her in some rank back alley. Could he even get it up under those circumstances? Probably not, considering these women likely had STDs that could vaporize even the strongest condom. You'd need a condom made out of Kevlar for these girls, he thought. And so the erection that had been stirring in his pants was put down by images of his genitalia rotting, turning grayish-green, and falling off his body like an overripe banana from a tree. (I'm actually proud of this imagery -- JM)
Jim was stopped by a casually dressed guy wearing Ray-Bans. He didn't look homeless or destitute. The man wanted to know if Jim had a legal ID
"Why?" he asked.
In rapid, heavily-accented English, the man said: My friend, if you have legal ID I take you to man who take you to casino where he use your ID for (unintelligible) and then he take it to cashier for after the (unintelligible) so you get the fifty dollar. Is good, yes. So you have ID my friend?"
Jim could only blink. The man spoke so rapidly and his accent was so thick that it sounded like: "Myfriendifyouhave legal ID ItakeyoutomanwhotakeyoutocasinowhereheuseyourIDfor (unintelligible)andthenhetakeittocashierforafterthe (unintelligible) soyougetthefiftydollarIsgood,yes. SoyouhaveIDmyfriend?"
Sensing a scam, Jim said he didn't have a valid ID. The man shook his head and made a noise of disgust as if to say,"Bald-headed asshole,why do you waste my time?" As Jim walked on, a thought nagged at him: That guy looked and sounded like someone. Then it came to him. The ID scammer looked and sounded just like a pint-size Javier Bardem. (He really did, honest to God! -- JM)
Across the street was an elderly black woman screaming in fron t of the Shade Tree building. She screamed on and on as if arguing with some non-existent companion. People seemed to take no notice of her; apparently she was a regular fixture there. Pigeons gathered about her ratty area, nearly surrounding her at one point. She made a wild gesticulation and the birds scattered. The sharp flapping noise of their wings might have sounded like applause for the woman's profanity-laden monologue.
There was a white man at the opposite street corner also screaming. He sat back against a brick wall of a pawn shop and screamed words made nonsensical my his raspy voice. It sound like he might have blown out his vocal cords from all the screaming. Near him were a collection of shopping carts filled with assorted junk and possessions that belonged to other homeless people; a kind of temporary commune thrown up haphazardly and without regard for sanitation.
The hours dragged but time did pass. Around quarter to five Jim decided to head back to the Salvation Army. Before going, he couldn't resist a peek at the line of men queueing up for beds at Catholic Charities. The sidewalk on Foremaster was now thick with homeless guys, some standing, some sitting, a few pissing against whatever wall they could find. Jim estimated if there weren't 200 guys waiting, there soon would be. It looked like a gathering of hobos and their debris; all that was missing was a a guy with a stick with a bag of possessions tied at one end.
Back up Owens he went, the street's incline seeming more difficult now. He saw the plain facade of the Salvation Army buildings It was about five until 5pm. The courtyard was slightly emptier from the last time he was here, but the haze of smoke remained stubbornly strong. Many of the same people were still there in the same position, talking about the same things. Apparently they stayed there all day. Jim re-entered the DRC office and went back to the office window. He didn't see anyone else lining up there.
Around ten past five a black woman with too much makeup shoved open the window, not looking at him. Jim leaned in and asked if they had any beds available for the evening. She said to hold on, she was updating the rosters and lists. Not wanting to lose his place, Jim waited another ten minutes when the woman sighed and said, Yes, they did have beds available for the evening. Jim let out a breath and felt like celebrating with an ice-cold soda. But he'd settle for flopping into a bed and crashing.
(Actually, I was getting more and more pissed off waiting for that woman to tell me whether a bed was available. I was worried I might have to sleep on the street or field since I'd bypassed my chance at Catholic Charities. The thought that kept running through my head was along the lines of "Goddammit, will you hurry up, you fucking idiot?" Needless to day, I didn't let on -- JM)
(I didn't really need to write, "Needless to say, I didn't let on." It's kinda self-evident. -- JM)
Your humble narrator here: I'll bring Part IV to a close at this point in the saga. What did you think of telling the story in the third person, along with my editorial comments? It's the writer acting as on-the-fly editor of his own story. Pretty clever, eh? Well hells, man I'm always ready to thrown down with the literary stylistic change-up. As the kids say, you know how I do. I probably should mention there's a lot of ex-cons and jailbirds where I'm staying these days. I say that so you don't think I'm trying to be all, you know, badass with my mad words and shiznit. You know how I do's it.
Don't be surprised if if the next installment is written in a combination of Esperanto and Pig Latin. Ater-Lay.
So last time I used the third personal to describe some of my experiences in North Las Vegas. Your humble narrator thought it was interesting enough to continue the stylization, so let's get to it forthwith:
Hours crept by as Jim stood in the shadows of the Social Services building located on the Catholic Charities campus. He literally had nowhere to go and nothing to do until 5pm, when beds would (hopefully) become available. With the late-October temperatures in the mid-80s, he stayed in the shade and watched a line of mostly black and Hispanic men and women, most with kids, stand in a line that wound out of the building to the sidewalk.
As he listened to various snippets of conversation, he learned that man y of these people had started lining up at 5:30 that morning; that was now going on eight hours standing in a line hoping for assistance on rent, utilities and food from the organization. Many of them would be turned down, as evidenced by several people screaming and escorted off the premises by security guards.
He was still numb from the experiences of the past two days. He still couldn't believe he was here in a rough part of the city, surrounded by vagrants, poor people, and who knows what riff-raff blown here by the vicissitudes of fate or personal choice.
And Jim wondered: What brought me here to this moment in my life? Was it a conspiracy of the Fates, weaving threads that would lead to his overall destruction? Was it the actions of a vengeful God who wanted to punish him for his lack of faith and belief? Or was it actually his own personal choices that brought him slowly to ruin? Did he actually want this sort of scenario to play out so that he could be the victim? So that he wouldn't have to take responsibility for his actions?
Every step, every choice had brought him to this moment, standing in the shadows of a building with a pull-along luggage cart containing most of his worldly possessions. Had taken him from a comfortable lifestyle where his biggest concern was which movie to watch; to here, where his biggest concern was if he might sleep on the street that night. Suddenly, those movies and video games that seemed so essentially seemed extravagant and pointless. Maybe he should have realized it all the time. Instead of indulging in leisure activities, maybe he should have contributed his time to helping those more fortunate. Maybe ...
(There's more material along these lines but since this blog doesn't come with violins or a box of hankies, I'll fast forward the narrative -- JM)
Was it Fate, personal choice, or the vagaries of chance that brought him here? Hell, for all Jim knew, maybe it was just bad mojo. At any rate, there was no use crying about it now. It was done, son, and he was in the shit. He walked around the block again just to keep moving and not arouse the interest of the security guards.
As he strolled, Jim noticed that one vital function still operated as well as ever: His appreciation for the opposite sex. He noticed a few homeless women who were actually attractive in a dirty grimy sort of way. Some were dressed in rags, others had soulless eyes, but some were genuinely attractive; no doubt a high percentage of them were hookers.
One of the women had beautiful toned legs shown off by a microscopic black skirt. A nice little nothing she was wearing, as James Bond might say. She bent over and it was plainly evident she wore no underwear. Must get drafty up there, thought Jim. He wondered if there were any ex-models or actresses who had been suffered a fall from financial and professional grace wandering about the area.
He also wondered, to his shame (well, almost), what it would be like to take of those women and have sex with her in some rank back alley. Could he even get it up under those circumstances? Probably not, considering these women likely had STDs that could vaporize even the strongest condom. You'd need a condom made out of Kevlar for these girls, he thought. And so the erection that had been stirring in his pants was put down by images of his genitalia rotting, turning grayish-green, and falling off his body like an overripe banana from a tree. (I'm actually proud of this imagery -- JM)
Jim was stopped by a casually dressed guy wearing Ray-Bans. He didn't look homeless or destitute. The man wanted to know if Jim had a legal ID
"Why?" he asked.
In rapid, heavily-accented English, the man said: My friend, if you have legal ID I take you to man who take you to casino where he use your ID for (unintelligible) and then he take it to cashier for after the (unintelligible) so you get the fifty dollar. Is good, yes. So you have ID my friend?"
Jim could only blink. The man spoke so rapidly and his accent was so thick that it sounded like: "Myfriendifyouhave legal ID ItakeyoutomanwhotakeyoutocasinowhereheuseyourIDfor (unintelligible)andthenhetakeittocashierforafterthe (unintelligible) soyougetthefiftydollarIsgood,yes. SoyouhaveIDmyfriend?"
Sensing a scam, Jim said he didn't have a valid ID. The man shook his head and made a noise of disgust as if to say,"Bald-headed asshole,why do you waste my time?" As Jim walked on, a thought nagged at him: That guy looked and sounded like someone. Then it came to him. The ID scammer looked and sounded just like a pint-size Javier Bardem. (He really did, honest to God! -- JM)
Across the street was an elderly black woman screaming in fron t of the Shade Tree building. She screamed on and on as if arguing with some non-existent companion. People seemed to take no notice of her; apparently she was a regular fixture there. Pigeons gathered about her ratty area, nearly surrounding her at one point. She made a wild gesticulation and the birds scattered. The sharp flapping noise of their wings might have sounded like applause for the woman's profanity-laden monologue.
There was a white man at the opposite street corner also screaming. He sat back against a brick wall of a pawn shop and screamed words made nonsensical my his raspy voice. It sound like he might have blown out his vocal cords from all the screaming. Near him were a collection of shopping carts filled with assorted junk and possessions that belonged to other homeless people; a kind of temporary commune thrown up haphazardly and without regard for sanitation.
The hours dragged but time did pass. Around quarter to five Jim decided to head back to the Salvation Army. Before going, he couldn't resist a peek at the line of men queueing up for beds at Catholic Charities. The sidewalk on Foremaster was now thick with homeless guys, some standing, some sitting, a few pissing against whatever wall they could find. Jim estimated if there weren't 200 guys waiting, there soon would be. It looked like a gathering of hobos and their debris; all that was missing was a a guy with a stick with a bag of possessions tied at one end.
Back up Owens he went, the street's incline seeming more difficult now. He saw the plain facade of the Salvation Army buildings It was about five until 5pm. The courtyard was slightly emptier from the last time he was here, but the haze of smoke remained stubbornly strong. Many of the same people were still there in the same position, talking about the same things. Apparently they stayed there all day. Jim re-entered the DRC office and went back to the office window. He didn't see anyone else lining up there.
Around ten past five a black woman with too much makeup shoved open the window, not looking at him. Jim leaned in and asked if they had any beds available for the evening. She said to hold on, she was updating the rosters and lists. Not wanting to lose his place, Jim waited another ten minutes when the woman sighed and said, Yes, they did have beds available for the evening. Jim let out a breath and felt like celebrating with an ice-cold soda. But he'd settle for flopping into a bed and crashing.
(Actually, I was getting more and more pissed off waiting for that woman to tell me whether a bed was available. I was worried I might have to sleep on the street or field since I'd bypassed my chance at Catholic Charities. The thought that kept running through my head was along the lines of "Goddammit, will you hurry up, you fucking idiot?" Needless to day, I didn't let on -- JM)
(I didn't really need to write, "Needless to say, I didn't let on." It's kinda self-evident. -- JM)
Your humble narrator here: I'll bring Part IV to a close at this point in the saga. What did you think of telling the story in the third person, along with my editorial comments? It's the writer acting as on-the-fly editor of his own story. Pretty clever, eh? Well hells, man I'm always ready to thrown down with the literary stylistic change-up. As the kids say, you know how I do. I probably should mention there's a lot of ex-cons and jailbirds where I'm staying these days. I say that so you don't think I'm trying to be all, you know, badass with my mad words and shiznit. You know how I do's it.
Don't be surprised if if the next installment is written in a combination of Esperanto and Pig Latin. Ater-Lay.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Talking Dirty: Examples of The Art
Isn't it time for a legit scholarly examination of today's profanity? G****m right it is! Read on ...
Talking Dirty: Examples of The Art;
Talking Dirty: Examples of The Art;
Monday, August 15, 2011
Pick Up Lines She Hasn't Heard
As part of my continuing public service to encourage meaningless casual encounters, here are some more homegrown pick up lines to use on the ladies. No, no that's OK. In fact, you're f*****g welcome.
http://socyberty.com/relationships/pick-up-lines-she-hasnt-heard/
http://socyberty.com/relationships/pick-up-lines-she-hasnt-heard/
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