38.) Why Is This Not Working?

So, I've joined this site Authonomy dot com with the intention of posting "Side Order of Fries" there and being seen and heard, right?

I create my profile, upload an older picture of myself and start setting up the book. All of this goes very well - right up until I'm asked to start posting chapters.

First I'm asked "How many chapters?" would I like to upload.

So I choose a number, any number, between one and fifty.

Then I go down the line (after saving each and every chapter of my mystery novel in a different format, in its own separate file), naming my chapters as I go, and then I hit "NEXT", assuming that I'll now be going to the "GO LIVE" section of the process and start peddling my work.

Of course this doesn't happen.

Apparently, neither my Word nor Rich Text Format documents are valid documents.

Apparently, these are still not valid after re-formating, re-saving and re-saving my chapters again. And then again. And then for the third time.

Even trying to upload my chapters one at a time is no good.



I dislike technology with great intensity.

037.) Baseball and Tears Go Hand-in-hand

Sodding Yankees.

At least we're holding onto the Wild Card - barely.

036.) Meditation at the Tattoo Parlor, Part Troix

(source)

Like any other session day it began on the bench reading a book ("Requiem for a Dream") without actually reading the book, for I was far too consumed with what was to transpire inside once the signs were flipped and the parlor opened.

It had rained earlier; the wooden slats of the bench's seat were damp. So, of course, as I sat there with an ever chilling ass, Dropkick Murphy came out of the shop. We exchanged greetings and for a while I reverted back to my book, wanting to finish a paragraph before I went inside. By doing so I must have been in Dropkick Murphy's way. He lit up on the sidewalk, obviously waiting for me to vacate the spot on the bench nearest the ash-bucket (and without a broken slat).

When finally I did move away from the bench, I cast a pathetic glance at the OPEN sign in the window, lamented the shyness which dominates my very existence and said:

"I know I sound anal-retentive for saying this, but your sign is crooked and it's bothering me."

It really wasn't, not badly enough to mention it, but I was desperate to say something. I would very much like to be a social butterfly.

I went inside to sit on the couch in the lounge.
Pete Kugel (also here) was guest spotting in the parlor (and if you haven't - buy some Wisconsin Skinny merch now. I mean now. This very instant - you can come back to my blog later). Or maybe he just booked the day to hang out. Either way, he was already tattooing the back of a very large man (but that's fine because he didn't appear to be a child rapist or axe murderer or anything; a nice man) with very exquisite tattoos.

Meanwhile, the artist slaving away over my insanely tedious work placed third at the Milwaukee Beer City Tattoo Convention in the Men's L competition for a backpiece he did. Congratulations to him!

When Dropkick Murphy finished his cigarette break, he pulled back the black blinds to straighten the very crooked OPEN sign.

It was bothering him as well, or so he said.

I wasn't about to tell him that the "CLOSED" marker for Monday's business hours seemed to be peeling away from the sign in an almost moth-like way.

Speaking of winged insects, as I sat on the couch reading my book a blonde woman came into the parlor. Not having raised my head to see who had walked through the door, I at first thought she was someone I knew (the voice was familiar); however, she was simply a random stranger who wanted Dropkick Murphy to cover up an existing tattoo that she hated with quite a bit of passion.

Dropkick Murphy proceeded to explain that in order to cover up the tattoo (which I thought I heard her say was a Celtic cross) he would need to make the new work larger and darker - and even then,

"You know it's there, so you'll still see it."

He then asked what she might like.

"A flower."

Not being one to read minds, Dropkick Murphy gently asked what kind of flower - because

"There are a lot of flowers out there."

To prove this statement, or to help the woman along, he turned to the computer and commenced an image search. He rattled off a few genera of flowers.

The woman then announced that she would be fond of a cross (or, rather, another one to cover the old one) or a butterfly.

Dropkick Murphy took a picture of the offending tattoo on the woman's arm. He then wrote down her name and phone number, explaining that he would need to draw out a design but would get in touch with her later.

"Like an hour?"

I would have liked to have seen the look on his face, but I was too busy trying to hide behind my book. It would have been rude of me to laugh.

The woman said that she would stop in in a few days, a week, and was politely refused.

"I'll call you."

One cannot rush an artist after all.

He then left for his station before I could comment on the woman (and how bleeding hearts or another type of vining flower might go well - but, then again, what do I know?).

After this, I met with Renoir who once again did a superb job. I'm so much closer to being complete.

But one thing worries me.

If Renoir opens his shop in West Bend like he's always intended to (I heard that might be in October) and passes down this tattoo parlor to Dropkick Murphy and Körperpiercing... I know that they're capable of doing fine work because if they weren't I'm sure they wouldn't be working where they are, but still.

The last thing I want is to kick Körperpiercing in her pretty face if she's the one to work on my feet.

What about Dropkick Murphy, then? Do I want him tossing obscenities at my chest while he slaves over a chest piece I have yet to envision? Or gnashing his teeth as he figures out a way to stretch a line of text from ribcage to ankle without it getting wonky over time?

I needn't freak out. I am just slightly resistant to change, that's all.

035.) Both the Bane and Lifeblood of My Existence

Sometimes I keep typing, even if what comes to the page is from no known language on earth, hoping that the sweet sound of clacking glass-covered keys and 1940s-era chiming bell will spark something deep within me - something of a magnitude hitherto unseen in literature.

Other times I simply bang my head against the mocking "Royal" decal.

034.) Keepsakes In Other People's Suitcases

At my job I often rescue quite a lot of things from certain death. Solid steel typewriters from a bygone era (one of which I have sitting beside my bed and use to write my novel before transferring those rough copies to the computer, a typewriter I shall post pictures of at a later date), books, handbags, bed linen (with a slight tear or two easily remedied by a needle and thread), freaky yet awesome miscellaneous items and too many other things to name.

One of these many other items I rescued is this:



A farmer's suitcase from a long, long time ago (that's a genuine Bakelite handle there, folks!) which I've dressed up with equally mature postcards, the majority being from my own ancestry. Sadly, the suitcase did not come with a key so I do have the occasional nightmare of finding the latch closed and the precious contents inside forever lost because I would be loath to destroy this handsome piece of engineering (and the family photographs, postcards on it).

The precious cargo inside the suitcase?

Among other things, I have:



An "I Rock With Obama" t-shirt which should not at all be in a wooden suitcase. (I cast my first ever Presidential vote and nearly died from the pride of it all - and Obama still lost this county in which I live). But, the other day I came across a brand new, still in the package "t-shirt frame". Very soon will this cotton slice of American history be showcased in a proper place. Where, I haven't decided; I haven't the wall space.









Three ornaments from one of my late Grandmother Alys's themed Christmas trees. This is the same grandmother who collected lawn gnomes (by that one guy who stuck a penny on the gnome's underside) and who collected so many that they were everywhere. Outside on the lawn, on benches, in the garden, the dooryard, the concrete patio, the driveway. Inside on the fireplace mantle, on side tables, in bedrooms.

I have had a horrific fear of lawn gnomes since my infancy.









An empty toilet paper roll from the slumber/"Bon Voyage, Lora!" party which took place my freshman year of high school. Topics of this party included but were not limited to The Burning Bed (purchase here or here), "Teaching Mrs. Tingle", houses which needed to be and were toilet papered, and a single question asked by Ms. Burning Bed regarding a certain school wrestler who reciprocated my feelings of adoration in kind (though I realized this far too late in that bitter gift of hindsight; at the time, all I did was blush and revel in my clinical depression, resulting in this crush of mine turning ornery and hateful).

Also, a plastic bouncy ball from the local Chinese restaurant where I went with Apt Teacher (9th paragraph down if you'd be so kind) and a boy who I thought I loved (because he somehow reminded me of that wrestler in the 9th grade).









A soda bottle from the first and only car pool to MATC for the Graduation For Dummies Class scheduled Career Profiling. We drove in a mini van, ate pizza, and drank these Black Bear sodas bought at Pick 'N Save from the kid who reminded me of that 9th grade wrestler. Said kid fell out of the van. I still have the pictures taken of that fall...

And you may notice the writing in blue ink behind that soda bottle. It reads

BILL KLEIN
RFD #1
NEWTON, IOWA
PHONE 2533W

So, Mr. Klein or any surviving heir(s), I have your suitcase. It is serving me very well and I promise to take good care of what was once yours. Thank you, Sir.

A signed -

Yes



SIGNED head shot of Ellen Burnstyn. The Ellen Burnstyn. I sputter just looking at that picture, which some idiot decided to get rid of at a tag sale (the plastic document sleeve the head shot is stored in bears the disgusting price of "$3.00") and unbelievably poor signed Ellen Burnstyn didn't sell at the tag sale and went to the thrift store from which I snagged her.

She is even stored, in her plastic document sleeve, along side of





President Lyndon "Let's-Go-Kill-Your-Husbands-and-Fathers-and-Children-in-Vietnam" Johnson. Notice the location of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. My mother went to college for 40 years at Pennsylvania State University, some 91.6 miles away from Harrisburg at University Park. I wonder if she went to that gathering? I wonder if this gathering was anywhere around the time her college sweetheart and first husband was murdered in that war no one belonged in?



So that's it then. A peek at some of the numerous items I have crammed into Bill Klein's suitcase.

033.) Proof of Humanity's Decent into Idiocy! (A True Story Updated)

It's a bit overdue, but I thought that I'd wait around before posting this to see if the light bulb above S'ven's head would ever go off.

As of yet, that light bulb is dimmer than an over worn pair of undies.

And in case you haven't the slightest clue as to what I am talking about, please jog on over here.




S'ven was thrust into the UFC spotlight a little sooner than he'd expected, for one guy ran for the hills before that guy's match ever began and S'ven was called up to the ring two weeks early. Naturally, he thought this was a wonderful thing because the man must obviously think himself the UFC's answer to


CM Punk (and really I just desperately wanted an excuse to post a picture of that man and his fine, fine lines. photo source. Fine, fine, fine...).

So, inflated ego in hand, S'ven entered the ring touting all of the moves he'd learned in any number of basements (these moves not being anything extraordinary). He did not tout very long, however, as the kid he was fighting quit not long into the match.

S'ven won by default.

He's going back this Saturday to fight and surely he'll be thinking that he's unstoppable - right until his head is handed to him.

032.) Meth Chemist Bunny Killers and a Haunted Duplex With Awesome Flowers

The neighbors to the right of me are meth chemists. Or producers of pornography. Or the soulless killers of fluffy bunny rabbits. But whatever they happen to truly be, they cannot for the survival of their very souls (or the abyss of those aforementioned missing souls) rent the upper apartment of their duplex.

I moved in across the fence from them, oh, four years ago. At that time they had one tenant and that tenant was a rather beefy single mother of a few tiny tots. She and her kids moved out maybe a year after my arrival to the neighborhood (an arrival lacking completely any "Welcome to the neighborhood, mind the bodily fluid secreting drunks" Post-it noted tin of brownies from any damned one of the people on the block - or even just the Post-It shoved into the crack of a riser on the porch steps). This heavy blonde woman with kids had bought a home of her own and got the heck out of Dodge.

These bunny killers have not been able to keep anyone in that vacant apartment for more than six months.

(but they do have these awesome kooky flowers on one side of their house, as pictured below)




In the three years since Blonde With Kids left, there have been only two occupants and one of those doesn't count on account of because - while he and his girlfriend did purchase a sofa from me at the thrift store and while they did move it into the apartment - they moved it right back out again less than a week later.

I have a short list of theories as to the whys of this utter inability to rent out that apartment. They are, in no particular order:

• The rent is astronomically high, even for this city's standards.

I know that my co-workers' neighbor just three houses down the street is asking for $900 a month. There are some places around the city demanding no less than a grand, and while I pay only $550 I highly doubt that the Bunny Killers are anywhere near that number.

• The Bunny Killers are impossible.
  

They live on site, in the lower apartment with their three teenage children, two dogs and whatever else might be stashed inside the place. They throw parties, waste hundreds of dollars filling a pool only they are permitted to use (which they hardly ever do) and for Wisconsinites they aren't very friendly at all. I mean, I live so close to them that I can count the sun damaged creases on their faces and yet they never so much as twitch a facial muscle in recognition of my presence. Granted, they could be lovely people - as lovely as bunny killers can be.

• The upper apartment is haunted by the gruesome ghosts of a grisly murder-suicide.

If that's the case, why the heck am I not living there?

I mention all of this because the adorable piercer/tattoo artist of the parlor I frequent - the one with the sugar skulls on her forearms and the glinting facial piercings? - she came by to look at that habitually vacant apartment with her boyfriend. I casually looked out of the living room window and there she was, holding onto the rent forms with one hand and saying good-bye to father Bunny Killer with the other.

I wanted to scream like a maniac out of the window at her and her beloved, but there was still a reasonable doubt that it was indeed her.

But, if it was her, even from far away and with that weird looking-down-and-over-from-the-second-story angle - she is so adorable.