My immediate reaction was “This must be a BBW live sex show!  Hey, there’s TIGHT TIGHT SECURITY!, MUSIC, and LIVE VIDEO!!!“  Then…  “But it’s an East Coast/West Coast match up…  Perhaps a rap off?”  Best Friend and I chatted very animatedly on the subject for some time while packed tightly into a subway car with children and ornery-looking New Yorkers.  Some other passengers picked up copies of the cards and began to discuss amongst themselves.  No conclusion.

When I returned home, Google was consulted, and no definitive answer was discovered.  The card stayed as a book mark for a few weeks, then found its way onto my dining room table where it puzzled Mathematician Boyfriend and I for another week, until we began researching again today.

MySpace has verified that Special Kay is, indeed, a real person.  Brownmann (Anthony?) seems to be real as well.   And Tishawn seems to be Special Kay’s daughter and Brownmann’s wife/soon-to-be baby’s momma.

As interesting as uncovering these people’s relationships to one another is, I still do not understand the nature of what occurred at Black River, who Philly Damien is, why big ups have been given to a string of numbers, or why the women appear to be glowing with radioactive prowess.  Special Kay’s MySpace page brings up deep questions like:  “The Fuck are you doing?!“  It is also curious that I have not had multiple absence seizures while scouring this glossy conundrum.

I called Brownmann’s number (listed at the bottom of Side 2) and his voicemail shouted unintelligibly at me in, what I assume to be, rap.  I left a brief message identifying myself and requesting further information on Special Kay and (the elusive) Red Gal.

I have a touch of PTSD.

I traded up when I moved to the Medford campus.  I got Wayne.

Wayne’s an interesting fellow.  I can’t decide if he’s awesome, frightening, or horribly depressing.  My inclination is that he’s a lonely, old fellow with a serious touch of OCD exacerbated by working alone for the better part of 13 years.

He has two giger counters
and a piece of paper in his wallet detailing what the readings mean.

He is waiting to buy new glasses until his prescription stops changing
so he sometimes wears two pairs of glasses.

He’s done moderate research on gemology and jewelery making,
owns a selection of loose, precious stones
and asked me my ring size.

He would survive the zombie apocalypse
because he owns a variety of knives
that he has offered me one of.

He bought a cell phone
and only receives calls from work
but has the numbers of the FBI, CIA, Secret Service, and Poison Control Center in it.

Late fifties and possibly paranoid.  Wears makeup.  May have a crush on me.

Still better than Derek.

The German woman who speaks fluent Japanese was in my car with her baby again.

I also saw two black butches making out.  I so seldom see black lesbians or two butches together, that seeing the pairing — slobbering on each other, no less — felt like a unique experience.  Not my types, exactly, but kudos to them.

I realize that we don’t talk much, or ever, really.  So I thought that maybe we should clear the air.

We don’t like each other.  There’s no mistaking it.  It stretches as far back as middle and high school.  You never liked me; I never liked you.  The typical dynamic is the self-loathing nerd versus the socially powerful regs.  Most nerds have problems embracing themselves and some even think that your judgment is righteous.

I am not one of those nerds.

I have little regard for your opinions, and ignore you for the most part.  You’re cruel to my kin, and cruel to each other.  Gossiping, MySpacing at work, being unprofessional in office meetings.  A few of you are immature and uncouth.  A few of you are simply immature.

I keep my opinions in the home realm.  I criticize you to my friends, and here.  When writing, I use pseudonyms to protect your identities in this semi-public blog.  I do not have outbursts in meetings concerning why I dislike you.  “Dislike” being the appropriate word, as no criticism of my work ethic or standard was given, simply your views on my lack of interest in you or your weekend hobbies.  I dislike you.

And all of this, I am OK with.  I’m comfortable disliking, and being disliked by you.  I am unconcerned that you likely make fun of me when I am not in the office.  I don’t mind that you avoid me in elevators.  We work together, and professionalism dictates that we tolerate one another.  You will never be surrounded with people like yourselves.  Society is not homogeneous.  So, I ask you, humbly, to accept those who you cannot change.  Treat those of my kin who are not so unphased by your behavior in a more respectful and inclusive manner.

And maybe not listen to South Park through the speakers on your desk and put things down your pants when I am in the room.  I genuinely wish you all the best in life.

Ash

The doorbell rings!

I run downstairs…  Old couple in their 60s looking pretty religious.  They’ve seen me through the window.  I groan, open the door.  I could be drinking my coffee that I left sitting on the counter, expecting a man in brown who brings joy to my life, but no.

She opens with, “It looks like we’ve caught you at a bad time.  We’re doing some volunteer work…”
She whips out some Monet-printed fliers with big, all-caps lettering.  This is so about Jesus.
“Is this about Jesus?” I ask.
“We are Christians.”
“Oh, sorry, this whole house is Atheist.”
“The whole house.”
“The whole house.”
“Well, maybe next time you’ll want to talk about it.”

They thank me, and leave.

Its pretty doubtful that I’ll want to talk about it next time.

Or ever.

Jesus doesn’t deliver from Amazon.

The poem “Not the Environment for a Child” was born from this evening. Note my inability to spell the names of large cities, my poor handwriting, and absence of my usual diction and syntax. Also, the proclamation of FEAR!

Tijuana
Tijuana, Mexico
an old lady on a cat walk
slaps her ass
not the environment for a child

all I’m doing

everything’s so tense,
do you wanna leg rub?
(sexual connotation!)

However, J.J. is (in some capacity) responsible for the following:  Forever Young, Felicity, Alias, and Armageddon.

And now…  FRINGE.  Fuckin’ awful.

I’m kicking myself for criticizing a show about the occult — oops, I mean “fringe science” — as being completely implausible, but here I am.  The show is absolutely absurd.  Agent Ladycakes McToughy Loverstein is all but impatient to jump into a vat of brackish water, with a probe in her spinal column, doped up on a cocktail of Ketamine, LSD, and a seizure medication (which I am certain was included because of its very “sciencey” name — Neurontin — hey, I’m on that!) to save her contrived lover from a melty fate.  Where’s Taco Bell when you need it, anyway?

Sure, the melty people looked awesome, but it isn’t enough to overcome the horrendous acting on the parts of Agent Ladycakes McToughy Loverstein and Pacy.  Pacy.  As a 190 IQ genius.  No.  Never ever.  The day that Joshua Jackson is smarter than I, is the day I slit my wrists and poor my life blood down the garbage disposal.

Melty people versus Pacy, bad acting, piss poor dialogue/writing, and the notion that Harvard would hand lab space over to a scientist accused of performing experiments on humans and committed for the past decade.