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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
- Hits: 527
It used to be that you couldn't discuss Sex, Religion or Politics.
Used to be. In the Olden Days of Yore. Now: "I like to bugger goats" is a perfectly acceptable introduction and no one is in the least offended by the title of Mr./Mrs Goat Buggerer.
Religion is essentially Child Buggery, which still seems to offend the majority, so bringing it up merely solicits agreement that it's bad, and on Politics everyone agrees to disagree.
But try and bring up "Science" or "Medicine" and see how quickly you're ostracized...I mean, just try it!
Stormy's Last Stand
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Stormy
- Hits: 388
Finally, piecing it together, how it all went down. Meeting with the nurses, others of Stormy's friends, it goes something like this.
A neighbor, perplexed and concerned about the maggots that were coming out of her wall, called the police. Who broke into Stormy's place to do a "Wellness Check", probably expecting to find him dead.
Instead they found his flat. I've posted photos of it before, and, given that he stopped allowing me in and the foul winds that blew forth from it when he opened the door I'm gathering that things got worse.
So - the police in Stormy's flat, not finding the body, then call the fire department who condemn the place. Bits of rotting food, feces, everywhere, piled two and three feet deep on the floor. They begin to empty it out, dressed in full hazmat suits.
Stormy, thankfully, is not here for this - but he shows up on his scooter to witness it, there's a confrontation, the police are there, he attempts an escape - on his scooter - the classic "Low Speed Chase", he's caught without too much trouble and "given a ride" to the hospital.
News of this reached estranged god-bothering sister who apparently shows up to loot the remains.
Now the hospital is in a quandary, who to call, what to do, no living relatives that he cares to speak to, and so he's appointed me - amongst others - as his guardian. Papers to be signed to get him into the extended care home. Other details. And meet his other friends, who I find out have believed far too much of his ramblings with very little evidence.
The theory - which they accept as fact - surfaces: STORMY IS MARILYN MUNROES SECRET ILLEGITIMATE LONG LOST SON...
Fitting, that, and while hesitant to put any credence in it who am I to question such a plot twist?
Of Collapsing Bridges
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 1071
I dreamed I had set out, late at night, in London-not-London, to find a shop and buy some cigarettes.
Walking under a wooden bridge, overpass, when a car going overhead collapses the bridge, it falls upon me, rotting wood and timbers, I am unscathed.
And keeping walking until I get to the High Street where I see a light in a pub, or what I think to be a pub, and going inside find that it's some sort of party venue, people are "skating" in an marble oval, slipping on the floor in stocking-clad feet, there's a man (??) urging or singing to them, like the old roller-rinks but with socks and feet on bare floor...
I'm looking for cigarettes, no luck here, although I try to take some pictures with my phone, the space is fantastic, but too cramped to take it all in and I give up trying...
I'm followed out of the rink by a petite Asian woman. She wants to walk with me, and I see no harm, but once outside she stops and begins to threaten me, if I don't (??) she'll call for help, claim I beat her, and who would they believe?
Another bridge, I am underneath it again, collapsing, and then another and I am in a Subway or Metro somewhere in France, "Leavenworth station" I remember, and it's collapsing as well, and the floor, a mosaic tile in the Roman Style - same as on the floor in the previous collapsing overpass/bridge/metro/, somehow the two are connected, the mosaic, it depicts a couple - the missus and master of the house, I recognize them (???) ...
I wake from the dream, strange images and feelings - and immediately go to write it down...
And awake again from the dream to discover I've written nothing down at all and so try to recall it again...
(Strange dream, poorly recalled, the key feature was that I was beneath 3 collapsing bridges, and somehow survived every one...No doubt related to my leaving work.)
Summer's End
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
- Hits: 557
The September long, long, loooooooong weekend finally past and I'm done.
This year - every year, longer than the last, longer like no other.
Monday night, a wrap, meet up with the owner's son in town for a beer. It's back to work Thursday, by myself, open to close, but the major rushes, insane business, they're done, it should be manageable.
SHOULD BE.
I've a try-out tonight at another job, a bistro/winebar in town, better food. Shorter hours - a lot shorter. 6, sometimes 7 hours per day, vs, the 10, 11, 12 I'm doing now. And a ten minute walk from home, not a 30 minute drive in a jeep that no longer runs.
I need this. I need some balance in my life, and as much as I'm loathe to work on a day off this may be my ticket out of there.
They won't take it well, nevermind, I'm too sensitive to this - there were weeks I worked more than he and his wife did together, and I'm done. Never again. Done working with the wife who somehow thought the ice well, water jugs all magically refilled themselves, that the fruit would cut itself if you left it long enough, that there were fairies that popped out of the walls to bus the tables for her. Too many times I've busted my ass to stop and catch my breath and discover that in fact I had only 3 tables and all my running was caused by her...
And the son, well, he'd have to show up for me to comment, and- for a good bulk of the summer he managed not to.
"Congratulations" he says to me..."We made it...".
No. I made it, the donkey with the carrot on the stick in front of him, he - the person riding the donkey. "We" didn't make it.
Anyways, tryout tonight, hopefully new doors opening to smaller, more manageable rooms, and there's always that sadness when you leave something behind but - it's time.
It's time.
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