Basically, I've been feeling like my writing has gotten a little rusty, so I'm going to try to use that space to post something every day, just to sharpen it up. Over the last few months I've made an effort to play guitar every night for at least half an hour or so, and the results have been really good, so I'm hoping this will have a similar effect on my writing.
I'm still going to keep up-to-date with this blog, though. This is my more private, personal space --- I think maybe ten people read this blog, and I know them all personally. The stuff that I say here is not intended for the large audience that is the MyAttentionWhore community. To be blunt, that page exists mainly to pimp my book and website and to try and sell off the last 50 copies of the Slow Horse disc. I don't even know who a good 75% of my "friends" over there are.
Anyway, just a little notice, about that, nothing to see here...
Lately, Captain Wacky has not been his usual aloof self. Until very recently, he never "said" much and he rarely even acknowledged the existence of others, unless he wanted to be fed. Even then he wouldn't say much --- he would just sort of pound his face into my arm until I got the hint. Then he would eat, shit and disappear for several hours. This was really a wonderful arrangement for both of us.
Now he gets right up in one's grill and lets out this kind of "maaaaaooooooaaaaawwwww" sound that's kind of insecure-sounding, and he needs more physical attention than ever before. I'm happy to oblige him, since I'd rather be petting the kitty than, say, doing my work, but we've got two big changes in the near future and I worry about how he's going to react to them when they happen.
The last time we moved he was only a little over a year old, and we went from our mercilessly air-conditioned digs on 2nd Avenue to our soon-to-be-vacated Flatbush Avenue shithole, in the middle of a heatwave no less, and so he had to deal with relocation for the first time in his life as well as New York in August with no air conditioner for the first time in his life. Eventually he got used to the move, but the sight of him lying on the floor hyperventilating from the heat has never left me, and if I never see it again for the rest of my life that's fine with me.
The place we're moving to is well air-conditioned, so that's nothing to worry about this time. However, Asia's due date is June 26, less than a month after the move. I have no idea how kitty's going to respond. The most likely outcome is that he'll be super-freaked-out for a while, but as long as we keep feeding him and scooping his shit then he'll remember why he retains our services and he'll calm down. There are concerns from other quarters, however, that he might attack the baby. Frankly, I don't see it happening, but that doesn't mean I can't get freaked out by it anyway.
I don't know. I wonder if I'm not just worrying about silly bullshit that will never happen.
Today our douchebag landlord came by to fix our doorbell. Since he and his cunt wife are kicking us out of our apartment, we were not pleased to see him. Maybe the fact that they did illegal demolition outside of our apartment has something to do with that. There was still plaster dust everywhere and they hadn't cleaned it up.
Asia took him to task for kicking us out of the apartment while she was eight months pregnant. He claimed he didn't know she was pregnant. Asia inquired as to how this could be so, since he was last here in the apartment about two weeks ago and she was here and quite clearly pregnant.
In all seriousness, with a straight face, he said, "I didn't look at your stomach."
I swear to god that this is what he said.
"I didn't look at your stomach," he continued, then gestured at my torso and said "I don't look at his stomach. I don't look at people."
I've been running this statement over and over again in my head, and I'm still kind of confused as to what the fuck that's supposed to mean. I understand that he's basically just a crabby prick who doesn't want to deal with us, and constructing a coherent and believable narrative is not a priority for him. I just want to know what the fuck that's supposed to mean.
My landlord is a cock. He and his cunt wife are kicking us out of our apartment, even though my wife is 8 months pregnant. Fuck them. Fuck them right in the tracheotomy-hole. Give them syphillis in the tracheotomy-hole.
Today we got served with a letter stating that the landlord was terminating our tenancy. We always paid our rent on time and we never gave them any problems, but they can do this since they never renewed our lease, so we are fucked.
We have 30 days to find a new apartment. This is all happening in Asia's 32nd week of pregnancy by the way.
Fuck these people. Fuck them right in the colostomy bag hole. Cold-log them right in the colostomy bag hole.
Asia's major pregnancy side-effect is a condition that our friend Jill refers to as "Pregolepsy." This is to say that Asia comes home from work at about 6:30, lies down on the couch, and automatically falls asleep for about an hour. Captain Wacky usually follows suit, the lazy fuck.
My paternal grandmother, Rebecca Yerouchalmi Bukszpan, died last night in her sleep. I'm not 100% sure, but I think she may have been 90 years old, or was damn close to it.
She was the last of my grandparents; on my mother's side, my grandfather died in 1990 and my grandmother died in 1993. My paternal grandfather, who was a total asshole, died in 1996. I think that there was some unspoken agreement among my family that Grandma Bukszpan would follow Grandpa Bukszpan close behind to the grave, but she hung in there for 11 years, all of which were pretty lonely and degrading, from what I can tell.
She had suffered from several strokes while my asshole grandfather was still alive, and he never got her any medical attention for it --- in fact, one time, my uncle Roger had to call an ambulance himself in Westchester to pick up my grandmother in Miami. After my grandfather died, my family moved her back up here and put her in a nursing home in Westchester, but she had suffered too much damage over the years from a lack of medical care, and she spent the rest of her life rotting away with Alzheimer's dementia. The last time I saw her, she didn't know who I was, and most of the time when she would talk, she thought she was either back in Miami or back in Egypt.
I didn't visit her, except for maybe two or three times since she came back from Florida. She was always nice to me, and I had no problems with her, but my grandfather was such a motherfucking asshole that it was really impossible to have any kind of relationship with her. For one thing, I hated him more than I liked her, so I had no real stake in nurturing or fostering a relationship. It wouldn't really have been possible anyway; my grandfather had a very Middle Eastern attitude towards her, in that he considered her basically property, somewhere between a slave and a piece of luggage. You really couldn't have a conversation with her without him barging in and barking orders at her.
If there's a single moment that I feel sums it all up well, it goes back to when I was still in college. My grandparents were about to move to Miami, and my parents threw a party to say goodbye. About 20-30 people showed up. My grandparents were there for 45 minutes, before my grandfather made some bullshit excuse (like they were double-parked or something) and left in a huff with his wife/slave/suitcase. I think he was getting slightly emotional, and NO ONE could be allowed to see that. So there were 20-30 of us all standing around and having an extremely quiet and awkward party for people who had just left.
The first person who I was close to who had died was my grandfather on my mother's side. He died in 1990 after a few months with pancreatic cancer, and I was utterly devastated. Since then I've lost some more relatives, mostly elderly ones who I didn't have much of a relationship with, and I guess that on some level I kept expecting to have the same reaction to their passing.
No dice. When my maternal grandmother died, I felt nothing. I had no hard feelings against her or anything, but she was just kind of difficult to relate to. My asshole grandfather died a few years later, and I cried at his funeral, but that was only because I was in the process of breaking up with my girlfriend and I was crying all the time.
The main feeling that I get is that it should be legal to march your elderly relatives into the woods and shoot them in the head. Except for my maternal grandmother, my grandparents all died of degenerative illnesses or conditions, and I'm almost positive that they would have all been much happier with a sudden and violent death than to hang around for months or, as in my grandmother's case, years and years. When my father called this morning, he told me that my grandmother had "passed away peacefully in her sleep." I don't doubt that that's true, since she was usually unconscious most of the time. She had stopped eating and drinking, she had parted ways with rational thought long ago, and she pretty much spent the last eleven years of her life in cold storage. Given the choice, I would rather be murdered violently. Who needs to hang around for that shit?