January 2008 Archives

It has become apparent to me that I cannot blog five days a week and dedicate the necessary time to both my job and my alcoholism. Poison Spur will therefore be updated Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from now on.

This new schedule is effective immediately and will continue until I am either unemployed or someone does an intervention on me.

If you are over 40 as I am, you have begun to feel the effects of Father Time slowly bitch slapping you to death. I will probably make it beyond my allotted three score and ten if my vices don't kill me first. Most people do these days. Some decline is to be expected though. As far as Mother Nature is concerned, my body is well past its warranty.

I've been nearsighted since I was in my late twenties and it is gradually getting worse. Not James Thurber worse, but worse nonetheless. Uncorrected, I used to have trouble reading street signs at night. Now I can barely make out that there is any writing on them, even in the middle of the day.

Farsightedness has become an increasing problem, which is to be expected as one gets older. I had hoped that my nearsightedness and farsightedness would cancel each other out, leaving me an eagle-eyed old goat. No such luck.

Without my glasses, anything beyond a distance of two feet is a blur. With the glasses on, the same holds true for objects less than three feet. As an empiricst, I must therefore conclude that anything between two and three feet of me does not actually exist. It is an extra-dimensional zone filled with vaguely humanoid blobs spouting mindless prattle and asking me what I'm staring at. I wish I could answer them, I really do.

Getting fitted with bifocals would solve this problem but I'm not about to do that. I feel old enough already.

I'm in no mood to be clever today. I may be in a better mood tomorrow. We'll see.

Hasta martes.

The woman continued to speak.

"When I was young girl," she said. "I lived in a small town on the central coast of California. The elementary school was in the next town over and I would spend a half hour on an old yellow school bus as it worked its way up the highway through the morning fog. There weren't many other children where I lived so I learned to be my own playmate. I would hike through the wind-swept dunes on the beach. Crouching in the tall, thin grass that grew up through the sand, I imagined myself to be some spirit of the desert, ethereal and eternal.

"High on the hill was our home, where my father was almost always to be found hard at work in his study. He was a marine biologist. He taught a few courses at the local college but due to a stipend from an oceanographic foundation, he was able to pursue his one true love, learning all that could be known about the migration of the gray whales.

"During most of the year, my father kept his face buried in scientific journals and tomes, jotting down facts on index cards he put in shoe boxes stacked neatly against the wall of the study. When I came to visit, he would chuck me under the chin, say that I was a good little girl, and tell me to run along and play. He was so engrossed in his work, he might have starved to death if not for my mother, who would dutifully bring Father his meals and try not to disturb him.

"As Christmas approached, it was up to Mother to buy the presents and pick out the tree. Father was far too busy to help because December also brought the whales, migrating south to Baja to spawn. It was my father's favorite time of the year. He spent many happy hours chartering boats and making sure his camera and audio equipment were working. When the whales did come, he would be out the door before sunrise an not return until after dark, with a smirk on his face and smelling like the ocean.

"One December day, he never came back. A huge wave swept him overboard as he leaned over the side of the boat trying to record whale songs. His body was never found.

"Mother took the news very hard. My father's photographs and recordings of the gray whales were thrown in the trash. His books, journals, shoe boxes with the index cards were burned. It was as if the whales themselves had taken her husband away.

"Soon thereafter, we moved to the middle of Ohio. Mother died there, neither remarrying nor seeing another ocean. I swore to myself that I would never end up like her."

"Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time. I don't care," the man said and put his cigarette out on her tit.

After a very ugly day at work, I walked to the Catrain station and took a cab to the Argus. Once I ordered my first drink, my mood improved. By the time my third or fourth whiskey arrived, I expected to be positively bursting with glee.

That didn't happen. After a few sips (or gulps, if you want to get technical about it) of my Jameson's, the bartender grinned at me and shoved a postcard under my nose. It read:

THE ALCATRAZ CONVERSION PROJECT
Vote YES on Proposition C, February 5, 2008
By Converting Alcatraz Island, a place of pain and suffering, into a "Jewel Of Light",
We will activate powerful forces for cooperation, reconciliation, and healing...

Majestic in its simplicity, revolutionary as a political metaphor, the Global Peace Center
proclaims a global renaissance! A new epoch! A time of enduring peace for all humanity.

"So what do you think?" she asked.

"Jesus creeping shit."

I plan on voting in the upcoming election but to be honest, I've thought most about choosing the presidential candidate who will do the least damage in the oval office. I hadn't considered the propositions on the ballot, and certainly didn't think there would be one calling for my city's beloved Alcatraz to be transformed into a new-age Epcot. What is the matter with these people?

Historical monuments serve a purpose. They are reminders of the events that got us to where we are today. Some are not very pleasant places, nor should they be. Innocuous attractions like "George Washington Slept Here" or "Bill Clinton Slept with Her" can only teach you so much. America has its grim recesses and to truly appreciate one of them, you sometimes need to be in its physical presence.

"These referendums piss me off," said a woman at the bar I showed the postcard to. "All some millionaire has to do is pay enough people to put their names on a peitition and he buys a spot on the ballot."

So that's it. Some crystal-frotting parvenu wants to bulldoze Alcatraz so he can stare out the window of Marina condo without the island's decaying old buildings offending his sensibilities.

"Screw the bastards," I said.

"We need to get rid of initiatives entirely," she said.

"That's easy for me," I said. "I have no initiative. Just ask my employers."

I stare at the blank page with a whiskey in my right hand. In my left is a pen, chewed at the end and twirled between my fingers like a baton. The words will come, most of them after my second drink.

Tomorrow morning when the booze has worn off, I'll clean up what I had written and post it to the Spur. My drunken musings are usually salvageable. It is easier to sober up prose than a person.

If there's a how-to guide on blogging, and I'm sure there is, I'm sure that my methods would fall squarely in the "Things To Avoid" section. That said, my way of going about things works for me but if I were to write a tutorial of my own, it would come with the disclaimer, "Don't try this at home."

Getting the words on paper can be a challenge but it is only part of the battle. Coming up with fresh topics isn't easy. In real life, I often repeat jokes I've told in the past, hoping whoever is listening is too stoned to remember. With the blog, I don't have that luxury. Every puerile quip is part of the public record.

If Poison spur were focused on a particular area or followed current events, I wouldn't have this problem. If I blogged about Irritable Bowel Syndrome, my readers would be itching to read anything I had to say on the topic. If I pursued a course of news punditry, I could weigh in on the Christmas maulings at the SF Zoo, coining the term "Tigergate" and being proud of myself for having done so.

Instead, I have to plumb the depths of my imagination. Ideas that seem grand when I'm three sheets to the wind are about as appealing as my hangover the next morning. For example, the other night I came up with the notion of writing a piece of LBJ strap-on erotica called, "Ladybird's Johnson." It will never be written and that is probably just as well. Anyone old enough to get the joke is probably too mature to appreciate it.

I manage to muddle through despite asking myself at times why I even bother. A quick look at my web stats is a grim reminder that hardly anybody reads my blog. Close friends, a few passersby, the occasional stalker, that's about it. Where are the throngs of admirers hanging on to my every word? Where are the crates of Jameson's being delivered to my doorstep, courtesy of the National Endowment for the Arts?

Fortunately, my bouts of self pity are brief. Do you know why I keep at it? It's fun. I like to get a laugh out of people and I'm successful in that endeavor at least some of the time. Dear readers, no matter how many or few of you there happen to be, you are my inspiration. Gatsby had Daisy Buchanan. Hinckley had Jodie Foster. I have you, and I thank you for that.

 
The Evil Friendship

By Vin Packer

192 pp.

© 1958

Publisher: Fawcett Publications, Inc.

Series: Gold Medal Books s797

In 1954, two teenage girls in News Zealand murdered the mother of one of them. Peter Jackson made a 1994 movie called Heavenly Creatures about the crime and the relationship between the two girls. I never saw the film but have it on good authority it was a creditable piece of cinema despite its lack of hot lesbian scenes.

However, the story provided entertainment fodder long before the movie premiered. In 1958, Vin Packer (one of the many pseudonyms of lesbian-pulp pioneer Marijane Meaker) published The Evil Friendship. The book is inspired by, rather than based on, the actual events. The murderesses in the novel have been renamed Mary Drew Edlin and Martha Kent, and the story takes place in the south of England instead of new Zealand.

The two meet and form a clandestine relationship relationship in that hotbed of rugmunchery and denial, a private girl's school. Bored with other students and school traditions, they retreat into a private world of make-believe. The fairy tales they concoct in their conversations and diaries create a catalyst for their budding romance.

As one can imagine, sapphic trysts are frowned upon by both the school and their parents, and the secret does not remain a secret for long. Alpha butch Evelyn Rush was formerly involved with the gym teacher Miss Nicky, a mustachioed dieseler with thunder thighs. Now has her she sights set on Martha. who wants nothing to do with her. Rush, spurned and spiteful, rats her out to the administrators.

The notification from the school puts a strain on the family life of the two girls, which was never perfect to begin with. Mary Drew's mother insists that her daughter see a psychiatrist. Her father is against the idea, saying, "they sit on their behinds and come out telling everyone they're crazy! What if I told everyone their teeth were rotten!" Coming from a dentist in England, his argument doesn't work so well and Mary Drew is sent to the shrink.

Martha's home life provides its own set of challenges. Neither parent is terribly upset. The father is too absent-minded a professor to deal with such mundane issues as child rearing and the mother's attentions are distracted by an extramarital affair with an american houseguest. Matters get complicated when she decides to divorce her husband, move to America with the man, and take Martha with her.

What are our two young lesbian lovers to do? Martha wants Mary Drew to come with her but there are the obstacles of money and parental consent. To solve the first problem, they engage in a little blackmail and theft. The total haul doesn't seem enough to cover expenses, but the girls have an idealistic view of money matters one often finds in people their age. To fix the issue of parental objections, they decide to bump off Mary Drew's mom, the one who was kicking up the biggest fuss.

The story is told in a combination of narrative from the day of the crime, flashbacks to events over the past year, and proceedings from the trial of the two girls (spoiler alert: they get caught).

I haven't poked as much fun at this book as I have in past reviews because the plot and the writing are so much better, and I'm not saying this because I think lesbians are hot. The transition from a platonic friendship to romance seems natural. Sexual details are seldom explicit for "Palace of Pain" scene, where a little bondage and cutting might merit a second read if you're into that sort of thing.

The good and the bad that came out of their relationship was born from innocence. It was an innocence that allowed their love to blossom and one that made it worth preserving no matter what the cost.

We're having a bit of weather in these parts and it is supposed to continue through the weekend. Power at my apartment go knocked out at about 8:30 this morning but has probably been restored since then.

The six-block walk from the BART station to work soaked me to the skin but I'm not complaining. If there is any truth to the predictions about global warming, I should enjoy this kind of weather while it lasts before the entire planet is either ocean or Barstow.

That's about all I have to report today. Be sure to come back Monday. I'll be reviewing a novel about teenage lesbians and you wouldn't want to miss that.

Ernie McGee's colon demanded satisfaction. He had spent most of his GA check on a Thunderbird, peanut brittle, and Vivarin bender and it had all but worked its way through his system.

With butt cheeks clenched, he crossed the busy avenue against the light. Horns blared, tempers flared, and uncharitable words were yelled from the driver's seats of cars.

Ernie paid them no mind. Desperate for a bathroom, he waddled across traffic, pausing only briefly to pick up a smoldering cigarette tossed from the window of a passing motorist.

Reaching the far sidewalk, he puffed away at his smoke and walked through the door of Delgado's Fine Home Cook'n'.

The owner, Maria Delgado, came to this country as a poor young immigrant from Honduras. After years spent cleaning houses and learning English, she saved enough money to open her own diner. The food was cheap and tasty, attracting a combination of bohemian hipsters and the working class back in the early nineties. Gentrification of the neighborhood bought a sharp increase in rent for the business, but the diner was able to stay open because of her loyal customer base. Until now.

It had been a slow afternoon when Ernie entered the establishment. Other than Maria, there were only Pamela Wallace and her infant son Bernard there. Pamela, a single mother working hard to make ends meet, was taking time out from her busy schedule to enjoy a sensible salad while Bernard slept in a baby carrier on the chair next to her.

"Excuse me, but you can't smoke here," Maria said to Ernie as he approached the counter puffing away.

"Where's the damn toilet?" he asked.

"Restrooms are for customers only," Maria said, trying to make herself more imposing than her five-foot-two stature would allow.

"Whatever, lady," he said. "Now you better tell me where the shitter is before I get mean."

Knowing that she come out on the losing end of a physical confrontation, Maria reached for the phone on the wall to call the police.

She was never able to pick up the receiver. Ernie reached into his tattered overcoat, pulled a huge hunting knife, and deftly threw the weapon. The blade impaled her hand against the wall and she howled with pain.

"That's a little trick I learned in Khe Sanh," he said.

In fact, Ernie McGee never served in Vietnam. He was dishonorably discharged during basic training after the third time he was caught huffing paint thinner and punching a jeep.

Pamela Wallace tried to escape with her baby and go for help. She didn't make it. When she was halfway to the door, Ernie spun around, drew a .44 Magnum from his shoulder holster, and fired. The bullet struck her in the back, passed through her aorta, and produced a fist-sized exit wound in her chest.

When she fell forward, she let go of the baby carrier. Bernard started crying as he bounced out of it and slid across the linoleum floor.

"As you were, soldier. Charlie's on the perimeter," Ernie said to Bernard. When the child wouldn't stop bawling, he walked over and stomped on his head.

It is interesting to note that the brains that squirted up though the hole in Ernie's shoe and between his toes possessed an IQ of 178. Had Bernard lived, he would have gone on to conduct groundbreaking research in the field of psychiatric medicine, vastly improving the lives of people like Ernie McGee.

"Now for some unfinished business," said Ernie. He lumbered toward Maria, who sobbed with her hand still stuck to the wall. He took a canteen from his coat pocket and waved it in front of her.

"I always keep one of these babies filled with gasoline," he said. "Sure came in handy in Da Nang."

He unscrewed the cap and doused her with the contents.

"Oh please, mister, " said Maria. "Don't set me on fire. You can use the bathroom. Anything you want."

"Too late, lady. I just shit my pants."

Ernie flicked the cigarette butt at Maria and the gas ignited. As she writhed and screamed and the liquid pant load began to seep through the fabric of his already filthy trousers, he decided to do a little dance.

It looked a lot like this:


The events portrayed here are fictional but the problems of homelessness and mental illness are very real. It is my hope that this story will inspire us as a society to treat these issues in a thoughtful and constructive manner, or at least have more public restrooms.

Alex phoned yesterday at about five, asking if I wanted to go for an early drink. I did. My hangover was long gone, the day's blog entry dutifully posted, and I was lying on the couch watching a "Twilight Zone" marathon. Since I'm not a pot smoker, none of the episodes' twist endings were all that surprising. There was nothing keeping me at home.

I walked down to the end of Valencia Street, crossed Mission, and found the door to the Argus bolted shut. I called Alex on my cell.

"Argus is closed today," I said. "How about the 33?"

"Yeah, I suppose," he said. Alex didn't sound very enthusiastic but I was glad he was still up for a drink. Since his wife went to Jamaica for a family holiday, he's been home most nights watching blood-and-violence cinema on his flat-screen TV. Betty went home to look after cats so it was to be a boys' night out, and least for an hour or two.

Other than a few slumming hipsters, the 3300 Club attracts a friendly blue-collar crowd. Attempting to order a Mojito will get you nothing but a raised eyebrow and a shake of the head. This is a bar for people who want a Budweiser and a shot of Jack Daniels to end (or start) their day.

Jameson's on the rocks is acceptable as well. A good thing too, for I am a creature of habit.

Alex sat next to me, drinking a Sierra Nevada and lamenting the low alcohol content of beer. His usual poison is a Stoli Madras, which he prefers to be made with a lot of vodka and a little cranberry and orange juice thrown in for color. All the bartenders at the Argus had learned to mix the drink to his specifications but he was less trusting of those in a different venue.

After one Sierra, he was willing to risk it. He explained to the bartender exactly how he wanted his. Fortunately, she was a quick study. After a few sips of his Madras, a smile returned to his face.

We drank and talked of our respective futures. Alex is going to be the IT director of a company, an actual employee. This is a switch for him. He has been self-employed as a consultant for over a decade. He is now going to be in a purely managerial role. He will be forced to delegate all hands-on work, even the stuff he could accomplish faster himself. The prospect of this made him gulp down his drink and order a Jager shot.

There will be less upheaval for me in 2008. My goal will be the same as it was last year, sustainable mediocrity.

We finished our drinks and had another round. Bad Company played on the jukebox. The holidays were officially over. Tomorrow we would face the future, each in our own way.

It's a brand new year. You know this because you woke up caked in vomit and feeling like someone took a power drill to your forehead. No matter, your current mess is the result of your 2007 self. In 2008, it will be different. You are going to quit smoking, lose weight, and when a girl scout comes to your house selling cookies, you will answer the door with pants on. But right now, you could really use a Bloody Mary.

I wish you a world of success in achieving your brand new you. If it doesn't work out, don't worry. 2009 is just around the corner.

In the past, my new year's resolutions have been a reaction to whatever low I sank to on New Year's Eve. My success rate has been pretty good in the long run. Whether the credit goes to maturity or fatigue, my behavior has gradually improved.

I didn't do anything reprehensible last night so I can approach my resolutions from a perspective beyond damage control. That still leaves me with plenty of avenues of self improvement. I won't bore you with the details of all my vices, nor do I plan on abstaining from any of them completely. Let's just say that a little moderation will save me a whole lot of money, not to mention the wear and tear on my liver.