Well, don't forget everyone, this is blogging, and not a newspaper or TV.
If I am full of tricks in order to get attention. Why is that so wrong?
Don't I follow up eventually on the blog Post title and deliver the Transcript, or the Resume? Sooner or later?
Anyway, I just deleted a really nasty comment that said all my writing and stories stink, and that I am an artist wannabe, in so many words.
I guess it is not worth the effort, now that I know how bad a writer I am, to write the story about the panty sniffing painter (with lots of tattoos, a knowing look, and drooping eyelids, and a mustache) that used to go through the underwear drawer, or the laundry basket, when the lady of the house was not home, and sniff the panties, and then brag about it on lunch break with the "buddies" for many months afterwards.
Kids, go to Law School, and you will be underemployed and end up meeting similar characters too :)
And they will be your Boss :) :) :) :)
I guess the story is just not worth hearing, since I am such a bad writer, as the commenter said.
Oh well. I'll just work on my old dirt bike in the kitchen.
That is one advantage of being single anyway. If I was married now, my wife would never stand for dirt bike parts and engines all over the apartment.
Oh, anyway, I guess no one cares about the panty sniffing painter. He's just one of the people in your neighborhood after all:
And don't worry, the panty sniffer is not me. I have severe sinusitis, and have had 2 roto rooter sinus surgeries, along with almost complete Anosmia since 1997 or so. I cannot smell or taste a damn thing.
I blame it on all the paint chemicals, and all the dust, and one Dr. even stated that my condition is "Occupational."
But anyway, I have lots of Medical records to prove all of what I say, from the very best of Doctors in the USA.
(Another reason I Love New York. We have the best of almost everything here.)
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Aug. 5, 10.29 PM - For me Lady. Me Fair Lady Ann Coulter. Me Scottish Lass. Up in the wee hours.
There is a lovely tune by the band: Danu, called: "Think before you Think".
I cannot get it on youtube.
But me fair and Bonney Lass will find it on I-tunes.
The lyrics are all in Gaelic, but one need not understand Gaelic to hear with one's heart.
And good night to me Lady. I and Shane are for bed, and better dreams tonight, and will dream of cutting down brooms, green brooms.
* Update on this bit of sappy beer induced stuff from last night to AC.
Sorry about that, But I did find the song on youtube. The song is actually called: An Painstmn Fionn, and I love the version by Danu on their album called: "Think Before You Think" which I plan to buy if I can get my cash flow going again.
Anyway, here is the verion on youtube, sung by Niamh Parsons, and it goes in aond out of Gaelic, and is very beautiful, and I'm a big tearful sad sappy lunk this morning listening to it.
Gotta get to work.
________________________________7:28 AM August 6.
Nice Post right everybody? That's the beer again.
But factually it is all true. I have worked with and for many painters that talked nothing but filthy garbage all day long. And there was one guy that sniffed the panties as I say.
They would talk about my wife in a sexual manner. About my mother in that way too.
It was a different standard from, and a far cry from law school.
Another guy used to carry a picture of his old grlfriend's vagina, in which was inserted the handle of a really cruddy and used four inch exterior paint brush. This painter would pull the picture out of his wallet and show it to people sometimes, and as he did so he had a strange way of staring into the face of the person he was showing the picture to. Looking for a reaction.
Another painter, the foreman or boss, would call me and the other painters "Bitch" all day long. Not "Son of a Bitch" but "Bitch"
But I did what I had to: I worked and made the money to pay my bills. But I sometimes think that all the exposure to the more seamy side of life has cracked me up a little. I don't know. One can lose a sense of who one is if one is underemployed for too long.
That is all I am trying to say I guess. And I will write a full version of this story, and finish my other stories.
Sooner or later I will pull myself together. I have to. I have no time left.
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Anyway, I'm of to paint now, and want to leave the readers with this sentiment to ponder:
Professor Allan Bloom stated in The Closing Of The American Mind (page 72):
Plato teaches that, in order to take the spiritual temperature
of an individual or a society, one must "mark the music.".....
And working on a typical construction site, most of what I hear, pounded into my head all day long, is the same 40 year old classic Rock that the middle aged white guys play on the radio.
Sometimes I also hear the immediate, contemporary music of Lady Gaga and others, which reflects, in my mind, an even lower, barbaric low from Mick Jagger and his peers, and I am dismayed.
It all demonstrates an alarmingly crude spiritual temperature for tattooed American Society today.
