Thank You
Today is Thanksgiving.
My plan to fix all of the problems of this blog last weekend was a disaster. It was a disaster on Friday and Saturday because I was exhausted and pushed too hard. I could have done it if I had actually sharpened the saw, but I did not do that. It was a disaster on Sunday because my mother rightfully wanted my help with the house, and despite anything she did to create the situation, I was an ass about it; we had a huge fight. My mother then did what my parents always do when I have a fight with them: she told me to go stay with the other parent.
Nothing does more damage to my emotional stability than those times when I am carelessly uprooted. I realized then that if I placed any value on the progress I had made so far, then I really, really,
could not allow this to happen.
So I did something original, for me: I got on my knees and begged for three hours.
I am at my mother's place, The Accursed Schoolhouse, now.
Today is Thanksgiving. And every one of us has things that we value greatly but forget to appreciate out of habit. That is why the holiday exists. It is no good to tell a person that they should be thankful; nothing evacuates all gratitude faster than a demand for it. But in the past two years I learned that there is happiness to be found in realizing how much I enjoy the simple things right before me.
So here are some things that I am thankful for:
I am thankful for my mother, without which I would not be holding down my job, as she has made me a lunch every night and got up with me every morning and made me tea to drink in my car on the way there, and just generally been a beacon of encouragement.
I am thankful for my father, who lent me four hundred dollars to pay my car insurance, tag tax, and other expenses a month ago, when I did not have any money.
I am thankful for my car, which was given to me by my grandmother this January when she moved into a retirement community, as she no longer expected to be using it.
I am thankful for my aunt and uncle, who are in large part supporting my mother, and thereby supporting me.
I am thankful for my friends, who are back in town from college this weekend and whom I am looking forward to seeing tomorrow.
I am thankful for my blog, which has kept me sane enough in the past six weeks to keep from losing my reasons to be thankful for all of the above mentioned.
And I am thankful that some people are reading this blog, without which it would be meaningless.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all.
On the Shore of Sanity
If I am a castaway left adrift and this thought sink is my island savior, then it is correct to say that I am still sprawled on its white beach, the surf trying to drag me back into the sea. I am still next to my death of thirst, not having yet explored it and found fresh water, to say nothing of food and shelter.
I have whined too much about not writing. That does not mean I have already jumped the shark; It means that I am still in danger of being eaten by one. As I get things under control, the whining will stop. I promise.
I stated three goals early on:
-
1. The posts must be interesting to read.
2. The posts should mostly have original, coherent, non-referential content.
3. I need to be able to write the posts quickly.
How well I have achieved number one is entirely up to you to decide. I believe I have kept with number two. Number three is of course a complete failure so far.
And now I have a new problem. This blog is starting to make less sense. I am not going to waste my time or anyone else's writing the same things over and over again, but I am well aware that if you are not reading it from
the beginning,
The Thought Sink is a little dense. Self-referential code language, as it were.
So the format needs some re-tooling.
Not to mention the template I still have not made. I desperately want to get this blog up to speed as soon as possible.
I have had work everyday this week, and have come home too tired to write much. I got call-backs on Tuesday from two different Target department stores about my applications; I was not able to come to an interview with one, but I went to an interview with the other on Wednesday. It went well, and I had a second interview there today, which went possibly a little less well. Verdict early next week.
The operating system of this computer has been corrupted for some time, and I need to re-format its hard disk drive. So Saturday I shall focus on my blogging, first fixing my terminal, then my template, then my text.
With luck I will be off the beach by Monday, thirst slaked and tramping through the jungle.
Interlude: Co-Pack
So they actually put me to work today. What's more, I have never worked so hard in my entire life. My arms are one big fatigue cramp from my shoulders to my fingertips. Ow. Ow. Ow.
We worked from six forty-five ante meridiem until four post meridiem. We only get one break, at nine ante meridiem, and a thirty-minute lunch at eleven ante meridiem. So from eleven-thirty until four o'clock was continuous standing and making rapid arm motions. Ow. Ow. Ow.
This is what 'co-pack' does: it takes tiny boxes out of big boxes and puts them into small-to-medium sized boxes.
I believe the practical application of this is that it makes variety packs. Today we made on the order of ten thousand display boxes each containing ninety
Snickers Marathon fortified candy bars. They each contained three eighteen-count boxes of 'chewy chocolate peanut' and two eighteen-count boxes of 'multi-grain crunch'. The long rectangular eighteen-count boxes were the type that are normally placed on check-out lane display racks. The tops had to be ripped off the eighteen-count boxes so they could be fit into the display boxes; we had to do this very fast in order to keep up with the people in the next step of the assembly line who were dropping the eighteen-count boxes into the ninety-count display boxes.
Doing some rough math, I can say I personally ripped the top off
at least seven thousand 'chewy chocolate peanut' variety eighteen-count boxes. I got very good at doing it very quickly. Ow. Ow. Ow.
They want me to come in and work again tomorrow. This is a good thing, but I don't feel so hot about it right now.
This morning, though, I was still giddy right up untill lunch time about finishing my Sunday post. So who cares if I worked nine hours after having skipped a night's sleep. I'd do it again! Give me my thought sink or give me death!
I am going to bed now. Good night. I hope you all have a nice day tomorrow.
Progress: Work
I have a journal in a composition book which I started four years ago. Its entries are wildly sporadic, often skipping months at a time and once skipping an entire year. The book is a little more than half full. It is in one of its long gaps right now.
I only realized a few months ago the peculiar nature of the journal's entries. They are highly philosophical, deal almost totally with deep inner dilemmas, and contain very few references to practical problems or events. One of the issues often dealt with is why I need to write in the journal. That I need to write was always obvious to me; but I have never completely understood what purpose it serves, or why I have trouble doing it.
And so in the journal I periodically change my stance on writing's purpose. Most of the theories are along the lines of "Reading my thoughts helps me make sense of them." Most recently, looking back over earlier entries, I decided the greatest value was in letting you remember who you were, so you could be a better judge of who you are now.
None of this is at all relevant to my thought sink, this blog, THE THOUGHT SINK. Because all of those entries, despite the fact that I wrote them with the hope that someone would someday read them, were in fact riddled with self-references which amounted to a code language. They were passionate pleas for understanding which never the less conveyed no understanding other than intense emotion. And I am afraid that in a world of hurt, often anguished, sometimes bitter people, raw emotion is cheap.
True understanding is still priceless though.
Not to say that I am writing this blog to be understood. This is first and foremost a thought sink. But as I said, I have never completely understood what purpose my writing serves. Things could change. A thought sink is a means, not an end.
Tonight though, it is just a sink, so I will sink into it all of the gummy crud lining the inside of my braincase that has built up there recently:
Things are getting better, little by little.
To anyone who has just discovered this fledgling blog, and has had the patience to read through my account of journaling, but is uninterested in scrolling down to the very beginning and reading the blog from forward from the beginning, I offer the following synopsis:
My name is Robin. I am twenty-two years old, and I live near Atlanta, Georgia. I woke up one morning a few months past and suddenly realized that on the previous day, inadvertently, I had decided to change my life. My life certainly was in need of changing. So I stumbled around for a while trying to figure out how to achieve this improbable goal. Six weeks ago, I rediscovered blogging.
For information beyond that, you will have to scroll down to the bottom and read up.
Ahem. As I was saying, things are getting better, little by little.
I am still in the employ of
Royal Staffing Services. Not that I have a history of being fired within three weeks of starting a job. I spent four days on my first assignment, and then missed the next offered assignment because they called me at three o'clock and I had to call them back by five o'clock and I didn't even get home to check my messages until after six o'clock.
I managed to kill time for a week after that without actually getting much writing done. I helped my Dad some. I revived a flagging friendship. I had a minor nervous breakdown.
One of the several nice ladies at Royal Staffing who makes these calls called me again last Tuesday, the twelfth, and left a message telling me that work was available at the same mammoth warehouse they had sent me to the first time, Atlanta Bonded Warehouse. The work was in that Royal Staffing-operated department of the warehouse called 'co-pack' that I mentioned earlier, which I had never figured out the nature of.
So Wednesday morning I got up dark and early, and drove thirty minutes north to Kennesaw. I entered the gleaming white refridgerator that is Atlanta Bonded Warehouse, and took a seat in the employee break room with about a dozen other people to await instructions.
The break room is about a thousand square feet in size, or a very large living room. It has four or five sixteen-foot-long folding cafeteria tables in it, a kitchen counter along one wall with microwaves and a sink, four vending machines, a sliding window into the co-pack manager's office, and no ceiling. No ceiling at all.
The break room is really just three walls of cinder blocks, ten feet high, on the warehouse floor. The fourth wall is the warehouse's wall. The warehouse roof is fifty feet up. It is an interesting effect. Almost everything is painted white. There is a very faint breeze.
This story is not about what you think.
One of the head nice ladies in the nice lady corps is the head manager of co-pack. Her name is Beth. She is in fact the person who had called me to come in and work. The window into the office from the break room was open, and she was right there at her desk, so I went up and asked her what I should be doing. I did this because on my previous time there as part of the cleaning crew, they had not given me a time card, and I knew that the co-pack people needed time cards, and nobody looked to be about to start handing them out.
Beth pointed to a black lady with a clipboard sitting at one of the tables and said that she made out time cards for new people. She added that the workers are allowed to clock in at six forty-five. People were already lining up by the punch-clock, in the hallway just outside the break room. The black lady got up and went to supervise the punching in, leaving her clipboard on the table. I sat by her clipboard to wait for her to finish.
When everyone with timecards had punched in, the clipboard lady came back and reported to Beth through the window that they had twenty-four people already, and that was all they needed. I heard this clearly, sitting on the other side of the room, and the ramifications clicked instantly.
I had seen someone turned away while I was on the cleaning crew, ostensibly because the workload had dropped dramatically from the previous day. So I knew they had a policy of paying everyone who shows up for two hours of work. It had been explained to me that the amount of work to be done in co-pack depended entirely on how much candy was being moved that week, and they simply hired people as need dictated. Hence the measure of letting a temp agency take over that entire department of the warehouse. It made things smoother. Atlanta Bonded Warehouse is moving Christmas candy now, so co-pack orders are high and Royal Staffing has brought in a lot of people. Apparently that day they brought in too many.
Almost everyone had gone on into the co-pack area at this point, and when the clipboard lady simply told me I was not needed and went in herself, I walked up to the glass window to see about what I should do. Beth was leaning out the window, and there were two Hispanic women there. Hispanic woman one (with hairnet) was translating for Hispanic woman two the problem of there being too many people. Whomever really runs co-pack (I do not think it is Beth) has apparently figured out a formula which tells them exactly how many people are needed to co-pack the required number of boxes for that day in no more and no less than eight hours.
Standing patiently, I gathered the following: Hispanic woman two was new, and had been erroneously called. (like me) She had to go home. Except Hispanic woman one (with hairnet) was her ride. And Hispanic woman one (with hairnet), who had been there previously, had to go start work. Hispanic woman two said she would wait in the break room all day. Beth said that there was a rule against that. This took some translation from Hispanic woman one (with hairnet). Beth then added that if Hispanic woman two did not have reliable transportation she could not be called in to work again. Beth said this with the sort of tone that I remember schoolteachers in High School using when pointing out to a student that they did not dislike (often me) that if they continued with grades of this sort they would fail the class.
Nobody had yet acknowledged me standing there. I was well aware that I had nothing to do all day now, and a car. I also am quite familiar with that exquisite suckiness that is ridelessness. I did not want to see someone lose a job because they were unable to leave it. I am mortified by the immodesty required to admit it, but I offered to take Hispanic woman two home. Nobody heard me.
I said it again, a little louder. Beth seemed to notice. A moment later she repeated what I had said to Hispanic woman two, who did not understand, and Hispanic woman one translated. Hispanic woman two accepted, but still did not acknowledge that I was there. Agreement from all present that the problem was solved, however.
Then it occurred to me that I did not know where I had just agreed to drive Hispanic woman two too. I tried to ask her where she lived. Hispanic woman one (with hairnet) tried to translate. Unfortunately, I did not know where the road they were talking about was. I was relieved, however, that it was definitely on my way home. Beth tried to help, but we just decided Hispanic woman two would direct me on the road. Hispanic woman one (with hairnet) started to walk away.
So then I turned to Beth and asked, "So, what do *I* do now? Should I come in tomorrow?" Beth apologized sincerely for turning me away, and said she would call me that afternoon and tell me whether to come back. This unsettled me just a little bit because she had not said anything quite so cordial to Hispanic woman two.
Identifying with people who do not speak your language often takes conscious effort. I told Hispanic woman two to follow me and then began babbling like an idiot.
I have no real idea how effective it is, but my strategy for dealing with people who don't speak English is to make small talk continuously, whether or not they understand anything I say. Otherwise we sit in uncomfortable silence. It seemed to work pretty well with my step mother.
I learned before we even go to my car that Hispanic woman two actually knew a good deal of English. Maybe she didn't talk back in the break room just because she was so embarrassed. At any rate, we exchanged pleasantries and very basic life details on the way to her place. It was shortly after seven o'clock ante meridiem, and rush hour was picking up. Traffic on Highway 41 goes south into Atlanta in the morning, and now that I was going south too, I was going to have to wade through it.
I never asked Hispanic woman two's name, and she never asked mine. Her place was even closer than I thought, and not out of my way at all. When I dropped her off, she asked me how much money I wanted for the ride. I shushed her and told her to have a nice day.
I actually felt lucky that nothing had gone wrong; my record for random acts of kindness includes getting my toolbox stolen by some Hispanic guys I was helping with a flat tire and getting a lecture in a Wendy's from a homeless man about how I did not know what it was like to be hungry.
I know I did something useful with myself that day; I just cannot remember what it was. I went home and got some of my sleep back.
When I say that I have never completely understood what purpose my writing serves, I mean that I do not understand why I could not simply replace the preceding with "On Wednesday I got called into work, but then they sent me home because they had too many people. I gave a Hispanic woman a ride."
Beth did not call me that afternoon. I called the Kennesaw Royal Staffing Office, and they said she had been in a meeting there all day. They lady on the phone checked with Beth somehow, and then told me she said I should come in Thursday. So I did.
Sparing the details, Thursday morning went very much like Wednesday morning. Beth apologized profusely and said this time she definitely would call me in the afternoon.
Let me point out at this time that I am mildly moderately manic depressive. It is not good for me to get worked up about something and then suddenly have nowhere for that energy to go. Plus I was exhausted from missing sleep to get up so early. If someone had hit me just then, I would have started crying. I was polite with Beth, but I think I looked like a kid whose Dad had just explained why he could not come to my big game.
I dragged myself back to my car, and sat there for a minute listening to the radio. Then Burnadette pulled up next to me.
Burnadette is the lady who was put in charge of the cleaning crew. I had thought she was some sort of assistant assistant manager, but I have gathered now that she is just a worker who has been there for some time and is considered trustworthy. Burnadette and I got acquainted during the cleaning. She is a nice person.
Burnadette has the peculiar habit of thinking out loud as she is talking to you and repeating everything several times. If you can imagine it, imagine a black woman in her mid thirties who talks like Mojo Jojo. A typical soundbyte from her might be something like: "I'll get these brooms, and you get those towels and cleaner, and I'll take these brooms that I'm getting and you'll take those towels and cleaner you're getting over there to room five, and when we get there to room five we'll sweep in room five with these brooms I'm carrying and you'll wipe the rack ends in room five with those towels and cleaner you're carrying." Maybe she is used to having to repeat everything for people who do not understand English well. Or maybe her momma just said everything to her ten times.
As I was saying, Burnadette pulled up next to me in the parking lot. I had seen her walk into the break room the previous morning as I was walking out, and had waved to her then, but we didn't speak. Both times she was showing up just before seven o'clock, when work technically starts. But since all the workers show up early so that they can clock in at six forty-five, she was conspicuously late.
It was an awkward question, but I asked if she knew that everyone else showed up early. She explained that she had to drop her kids off at school before coming to work, and could not get there any earlier. I asked if the Royal Staffing people were clear on that, and she said they were okay with it. I told her that they called too many people again; she said she needed to show her face anyway, since she had answered their call that she was coming. Burnadette has told me that she has two jobs. I don't remember if she said what the other one was.
I question whether I should have tried to recreate the dialogue in that paragraph above. Just writing the gist of people's sentences is dry, but it is a lot shorter and writing dialogue is a pain.
Meeting Burnadette that morning had no real significance. I just wanted to tell you about her. She is a nice person.
Beth did in fact call me Thursday afternoon, and she told me that they did in fact actually need more people for Friday.
So Friday morning I got up dark and early, and drove thirty minutes north to Kennesaw. I entered the gleaming white refridgerator that is Atlanta Bonded Warehouse, and took a seat in the employee break room.
Fifteen minutes later, I was walking back to my car.
Let me restate this:
Royal Staffing Services, Incorporated paid me forty-two dollars last week just to drive to work and then immediately get sent home again three times.
Beth wasn't there that morning to apologize. I sat at one of the cafeteria tables for a few minutes and contemplated this employment-by-inconvenience-compensation. I need money very badly. I do. And I have had jobs where the boss was a righteous asshole; where the job itself was wretchedly unpleasant; where the pay was patheticly low; where I was working for friends of the family that felt they were doing somebody a favor by employing me; where it was hot and humid and dirty and I was stuck in an uncomfortable position the entire time. Not that these jobs were hard. They just sucked. They made you feel worthless for being the one doing them.
And working for Royal Staffing Services has been none of those things. The people have been courteous, the environment clean and well maintained. And I know from experience that the most menial labor can be a source of self-esteem when you feel you are accomplishing something.
And driving to work and getting sent home over and over is not accomplishing something. They are careless enough to hire me when they do not need me, confident enough to send me away when I get there, and secure enough to pay me for my trouble. And I need money bad enough that I am willing to go through with it. I feel like a beggar.
So at seven o'clock ante meridiem on Friday, November fourteenth in the year of our lord two thousand and three I was sitting at that cafeteria table in the then nearly empty break room, feeling all this, if not thinking it yet. Burnadette walked in, having just dropped off her kids at wherever they spend the day. She was showing her face. I greeted her.
I had not seen Hispanic woman two again, but sitting at the same table from me was a girl my age who had been on the cleaning crew two weeks before. She had been erroneously called. (like me) She was very good looking. She needed a ride.
To my annoyance she did not seem to realize she needed a ride. No one had yet informed her that they would not allow people to hang out in the break room all day. I started talking to her; her name was Martha. Her sister had dropped her off, and was now at work. I impulsively offered her a ride. I immediately realized I could getting into more than I bargained for. I was, in fact, but not in a way I would expect.
Martha was cordial but cool, and seemed perfectly content to spend the day in the break room. I gave up on hinting that she should accept my ride, and bluntly told her that she should or they would kick her out shortly. She accepted.
Burnadette was still in the break room; she came back our way again and said she was going to Shoney's to kill time until the Kennesaw Royal Staffing office opened up, and then she would go get her check. I had forgotten about my check from last week that would be showing up. I asked Burnadette if she was going to get breakfast at Shoney's or just sit at a table; she did not seem to have given it any thought. I also had no idea what Shoney's she was talking about, but she would not clearly explain where it was and seemed in a hurry to go. She left.
Waiting for the office to open was an appealing suggestion; I had no interest in driving back up to Kennesaw during the Friday afternoon rush hour. Martha was still so cool to me that I did not even try to convince her to do it; I simply said that it was a good idea, and then I added "let's do that", and I did not wait for her agreement. I told her to follow me to the car.
I had the peculiar sensation when Martha followed me that if I had told her that I was going to Mexico and that she should come with me, she would have come without a word.
I was hoping to catch Burnadette in the parking lot and follow her to that Shoney's, but she was driving away by the time I was in sight of my car. I had already started my babbling small talk despite Martha's perfect English just to get her to open up; I asked her several times if she knew how we could kill an hour.
It was a completely serious question; I had no idea how I was going to get through an hour with a girl who just wanted to silently watch a point somewhere behind me. She was, in fact, slowly warming up, but she didn't give any suggestions.
Let me just reiterate that I am a manic depressive two-hundred-fifty-pound socially awkward nerd. I had no interest in Martha other than as eye candy, and someone to talk to. I'm not ready for that yet.
I should mention that Martha is black, and in possession of the sort of vaguely British accent that indicates that she is in fact not an African American. She is an African. I didn't actually realize that for some time.
In the end I just drove to the shopping center where the office was located and we spent the hour sitting in the parking lot listening to National Public Radio. By then Martha was friendly and talking, but still unopinionated. The office opened at eight o'clock ante meridiem, and we went in and got our checks. The secretary recognized Martha, and gave her her sister's and brother's checks.
I think maybe Martha thought I was going to try something, because after I left her in my car with the keys in the ignition when I went to check if the office had opened yet, she became considerably friendlier.
She lived in the opposite direction as me.
Oh well. I got to talk to a pretty girl. By the end of the ride, she was a friendly pretty girl. Never a talkative one, though. I have not had enough exposure to pretty girls of late. It was very refreshing. I found out she is from
Kenya. When I dropped her off at her house, I think she had finally realized how much trouble I had saved her by giving her a ride; she was very thankful. It was a nice high.
It was still rush hour, though. I drove back south to Kennesaw, then spent a few hours doing job applications in the huge retail district there on Barrett Parkway until rush our was over. I went home. I took a nap.
As I finish this, it is now five forty-eight ante meridiem on Monday morning. I have spend six hours writing this. I was up all night. I am post dating it because it is Sunday's thought.
An interesting note:
On Friday afternoon, a nice lady from Royal Staffing Services, Incorporated called and said that they had work available for me on Monday at Atlanta Bonded Warehouse if I wanted it. I told her about getting sent home three times. She sounded genuinely embarrassed and apologized that there was no way she could verify how badly they really needed people. I told her I would come in anyway. I need the money badly.
So in twenty minutes, I am going to work.
Thoughts Deferred
For eleven days I have been trying to complete a post about anonymity.
For ten days I have been trying to complete a post about helping my Dad fix his plumbing.
For nine days I have been trying to complete a post about running errands.
For eight days I have been trying to complete a post about my library.
For seven days I have been trying to complete a post about helping my Dad install a display case in his friend's store.
For six days I have been trying to complete a post about my birthday.
For five days I have been trying to complete a post about eating dinner with my Dad.
For four days I have been trying to complete a post about one of my close friends.
For three days I have been trying to complete a post about fighting with my mother.
For two days I have been trying to complete a post about despairing over my blog.
Yesterday I tried to complete a post about how my life keeps repeating itself.
I could not keep up. I needed too much time to write each post; It took me too long to start and I spent too much time on details. My writing habit is still far too undisciplined. I was constantly fighting with my mother, who is used to me playing video games on the computer, and considered anything I was doing on it a waste of the time that I should be spending helping her.
The real problem was that I am a manic depressive who has been attempting to apply himself to life for the past month. Without a thought sink, that would have been impossible. My college excursion in Texas failed because I did not have a thought sink. Now I have a thought sink, my blog. But I am relying entirely on it for emotional stability, and I have not been getting enough relief from it. It is not important how much time I spend on it; it is just crucial that I finish getting each thought out. Each unfinished post contains an unexpressed thought that weighs on my mind. Hence the need to write quickly. But my ability to write is still contingent on my mood, which was increasingly volatile.
I slowly went nuts. After last Saturday I lost all interest in actually writing my thoughts down. Sunday I spent resignedly trying to get some work done. By Monday I was back to where I had been this spring, desperately trying to completely shut off reality. I looked at porn all day. By Tuesday I realized I had died again, and I was numbly searching for some way to come back to life. Today is Wednesday. I am a little better.
I know I can't write everything down. But I am not interested in making disembodied musings. I want to put my life into this blog. I think that that is the only way I will save it. And I will not quit this, no matter how many setbacks I have. The posts will keep coming.
The thoughts of the past week's unfulfilled posts are still with me, and I still need to unload them. But to keep trying to write about small details from last week is counter-productive for a person trying to move on from the past. I will try to get some of it down by this Saturday, at which point it will be completely stale. After that it all gets flushed.
Thank you, anyone who has read this. I have to work tomorrow. Good night.
An Explanation For An Explanation For His Behavior
I have recently re-rediscovered the joys of reading.
I mentioned a few times that I once worked at the
Cobb County Public Library. Well, I quit under awkward conditions, and because I've been a social turtle my entire life I was too mortified to actually go and use the library anymore. I recently rectified that situation. On Tuesday I went to the library after work to pick up a book I had reserved. When I left I went to my car, got in, and instead of heading home and taking a shower because I was filthy, sat in the parking lot for three hours and read
Breakfast of Champions cover to cover. It was the second time I had read that book, and I think I got a lot more from it this time.
I had the day off today. I meant to write an uber-post to cover some of the more interesting things that have happened this week, but I needed to give you some background on my dad to do it. And all of that
Breakfast of Champions stuff was still floating around in my head, and my mind just decided that this was what it should sound like, and then it sort of spiraled out of control. My apologies to Mister Vonnegut.
An Explanation For His Behavior
Listen:
My father was born on September tenth, nineteen hundred forty-nine, in the city of Haifa, in the then sixteen-month old Republic of Israel. He was born into a family that had a father and a mother and two sons and a nice apartment. The father was a good father who had a good job at the bus depot and supported his family. The mother was a good mother who cooked and cleaned and took care of her family. They were
Sephardim, which means that they were Jews whose ancestors were all from Spain or Africa or the Middle East.
And on one day that happened when my father was about eighteen months old and the Republic of Israel was about thirty-four months old, my father's father was riding his bicycle to his good job at the bus depot when he was struck by a bus driven by a drunk, who also happened to be a bus driver. My father's father was flung against a brick wall very hard and a lot of his bones were broken and then he died.
My father's mother could not work and also raise three thenceforward extremely bad-tempered children, so when my father became five years old, she arranged for them to live at a mossad, but they still got to visit her sometimes. A
mossad is what people in Israel call the place where children who have no one to take care of them are sent. Here are some of the things my father did in the mossad, in no particular order: fight, build scooters out of junk, break into pools and go swimming, steal food, learn to smoke cigarettes, steal shoes from a shoe factory, and play football. Football is a game where people run around on the lawn and hit a ball with their feet. That is why it is called
football.
When my father was about twelve, he was tested to see how smart he was. He did very well on the test. He did so well that the government decided to pay for him to go to secondary school during the day. Each morning, they gave him money for the bus and sent him to school, and he kept the bus money and hung out in the city all day and spent the money on sweets. He did this for a year.
When my father was sixteen, his mother arranged for him to live on a kibbutz, but he still got to visit her sometimes. A
kibbutz is a big farm in the middle of the desert where they grow anything at all with irrigation and all the work is done by the people who live there, and they own it, too.
When my father was seventeen, he went to be in the army. Everybody in Israel has to be in the army. Even the girls. They go when they are eighteen and the boys go for three years and the girls go for two years. They took my father early because he did not want to go to school. When my father got to the army, he was tested to see how smart he was. He did very well on the test. He did so well that the army decided to send him to medic school. A
medic is a person who tries to close up all the holes that soldiers get in them when they fight. My father did not want to go to school, but the army said they'd put him in a concrete room with iron bars in the windows if he didn't. So he did. That was the year nineteen hundred sixty-seven.
And in nineteen hundred sixty-seven, all the Arabs who lived around Israel decided that they did not like the Israelis and that they would kill them. An
Arab is a person who lives in the Middle East or North Africa and speaks Arabic and is probably a follower of Islam. If you ask an Arab what an Israeli looks like, he will tell you that they are ten feet tall and carry two Uzi Submachine Guns with them at all times. Even the girls. So to get ready to kill all the Israelis, the Arabs lined up all their soldiers around Israel in neat rows like toys. And then the Israelis saw that the Arabs were going to try and kill them, so they got in airplanes and flew to where the Arab soldiers were lined up like toys and dropped things on them that made the toy soldiers fall down like dominoes. It took them six days to knock all the Arabs troops down. So they called it
The Six-Day War.
My father did not fight in the Six-Day War. My father had not finished going to medic school yet, so he loaded trucks with ammunition.
Ammunition is the stuff that makes the holes in soldiers that soldiers get in them when they fight. He loaded trucks for three days without sleeping. Then the war ended and he had to go back to school.
When my father finished medic school they made him a
Golani.
Golani meant that he got to stand the closest to the people that were trying to shoot him. They also made him an artillery man. This meant he got to ride in the truck with all the Ammunition. Even though the war was over, the Arabs were all very angry that so many of their soldiers had been knocked down, and so whenever they could they tried to sneak into Israel and knock down Israelis. So my father was very busy. Here are some of the things my father did in the army, in no particular order: load rocket launchers, hide in bunkers during bombardment, grope around in the mountains at night and accidentally disembowel an Arab teenager at point blank with a machine gun, shit in the bushes, keep smoking cigarettes, collect pieces of soldiers blown up by land mines for a burial, operate a very big machine gun, try and staunch blood squirting out of a hole in another soldier's face while hiding in a bunker during a bombardment without any blood coagulant because only a doctor could administer coagulant and the doctor was in another bunker and wouldn't come, throw shock grenades, nearly freeze to death in a bread truck in the mountains on the way to meet his unit for the first time.
When my father was twenty he got out of the army and joined the Israeli Merchant Marine. He was a sailor for nine years. He sailed all over the world. Here are some of the things my father did as a sailor, in no particular order: Get very drunk, unload ships, get beat up by other sailors, mop the deck, fuck lots and lots of exotic women and especially Japanese women because like all sephardim my father was very hairy and Japanese women cannot resist hairy men since Japanese men are not hairy at all, play chess very well, paint the deck, keep smoking cigarettes, load ships, beat up other sailors, get robbed, bet on anything, get very bad food poisoning, get nasty sexually transmitted diseases, see Godzilla movies in Japanese theatres.
When my father had been a sailor for nine years he had a lot of money saved. Many sailors did not save any money because they spent it all on getting very drunk, betting on everything, and paying women to fuck them. But my father hated the feeling of being drunk and he won all the chess games he bet on and he also had something called
charm, which he had been able to use for years to get women to fuck him without having to pay them.
For a long time my father had secretly wanted to be an artist, so in nineteen hundred seventy-nine, when he was twenty-nine years old, he quit the Merchant Marine and used his savings to go to an art school in Israel. He was there for a while and learned a lot about painting pictures of fruit in bowls and naked women.
Then he met my mother.
My mother was twenty-one years old and from Wisconsin, which is one of the united states of America, and she had been walking all over to Europe to see the world when she heard about the kibbutzim and decided she wanted live on one. My father picked her up hitch-hiking. They fell madly in love, because my father still had his
charm, which he was able to use to get my mother to fuck him without having to pay her, and because my mother was a Blonde.
Blonde means that my mother's hair was yellow, and men all over Europe found that completely irresistible and tried to grab her. Especially Italians. Men who are not white, like my father, found Blondes especially completely irresistible because women who are not white for some reason cannot be a Blonde.
Pretty soon my mother had to go home to Wisconsin because my mother's mother was worried sick about her. But my father missed my mother terribly and wrote that he wanted to come visit her, and he wanted her to get him a marriage visa because getting a regular visa was very difficult. A
visa is a piece of paper that says you are allowed to be in another country for a short time. A
marriage visa is a piece of paper that says you are allowed to be in another country for a short time so that you can marry someone there.
But my mother did not want to get my father a marriage visa because she did not intend to marry him. So he kept writing letters and begging and whining and eventually my mother gave in and got my father a marriage visa because he said getting a regular visa was too difficult and my father came to the United States of America. Here are some of the things my father has done in the United States of America, in no particular order: Divorce an Ashkenazi woman named Frieda, grow a potbelly, learn carpentry, rediscover Judaism, paint lots of pictures, build two arks, hire lots of Hispanics, marry my mother, become a contractor, get a bad back, drive all over the United States of America in a death-mobile van pulling a little trailer, divorce my mother, watch a lot of TV, go to Disney Land twice and hate it both times, marry a Russian immigrant named Olga with no religion whatsoever thanks to Communism and not care one bit, become an American citizen, keep smoking cigarettes, remodel lots and lots of houses including his own, lose most of the hair on the top of his head, marry an Ashkenazi woman named Frieda, buy a house, not pay child support, have a son, stick a nail through his hand, and make an ass of himself.
And so on.
EDIT: This post is known to contain minor inaccuracies. They will be corrected.
Technical Difficulties
Too many things I want to write about are happening too fast. I can't organize my thoughts in the limited time I have. I'm starting posts and being unable to finish them. They're getting published post-dated. I'm exhausted from work, and I'm overwhelmed. Tonight I once again failed to finish Saturday's post. I gave up on Sunday's and deleted it. This sucks.
Hopefully I will catch up soon. To anyone out there, good night.
