Is your writing inspired by or reflective of your experience? chat & forums.

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bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 5 (view)

Is your writing inspired by or reflective of your experience? Posted: 11/23/2009 10:24:02 AM
I would rather be buried alive than write or read fiction. People who write for catharsis don't have the grace or dignity to be embarrassed by their puerile public self absorption and self indulgence. I'm not inclined to make up sh1t that represents aspects or facets of my subconscious because my life has not been so pedestrian that I have to perform the literary equivalent of public masturbation. Morbid self introspection=deadly boring. Straining for profoundity=stultifying. To end this acidic screed on a lighter note: LOL ( lots of lollipops) PS...um, I...I take it all back!

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 86 (view)

Walkover Posted: 11/23/2009 9:15:31 AM
For all his faults as a trainer Decker really cared about his fighters and tried to get them the right fights and keep them busy. He put on shows at the gym. Little club shows and he would take us down to the Seattle area for fights. Decker was from Seattle and had connections down there. Boxing is built on guys like Decker. I entered a show at the Training Centre. I trained hard and made the weight. I waited around twisting in the wind and my opponent never showed up. This guy was from Kelowna and I heard that his girlfriend didn't want him to fight. I was there. I made weight. I was ready to fight. By rights that should have been listed as a win on my passport. I should have got a trophy. It's called a walkover. Three weeks later Decker organizes a card at the gym. I got the guy that wimped out on me at the Training Centre show. Me: "How much I got to weigh?" Decker tells me it doesn't matter. Whatever I come in at. The day of the fight I'm feeling a familiar mixture of excitement and dread. I go to Denman Street in the West End to eat. A cheap Italian restaurant. I order meatballs and spaghetti and because I was raised not to waste food I ate the whole fvcking thing. Like four massive meatballs. A steak is supposed to be the traditional pre-fight meal but I wouldn't eat meat before a fight again. Animal protein is too difficult to digest. Especially if you're nervous. Anyway I get to the gym that evening and I feel alright except I feel like I'm wearing a barrel. If the guy had hit me in the body I probably would have vomited right in his face. I weigh in at 137. My opponent weighs 132. This was three two minute rounds. This was my eighth fight. I forget how many he had. I think he was about 25 years old. I don't remember much about this guy save for the fact that he was the one guy I fought that I ended up really disliking. I can scarcely remember this fight. He was a runner. Between the first and second rounds I stared at his corner. He was heaving. Breathing hard. I tried to listen. The ring was very small. A sixteen foot ring, so I was able to hear. He's telling his corner "Heavy punches!" Which gave me heart. He's feeling my sh1t. The bell rings to end the third and final round and this guy steps in with three right hands to my head. I was furious. This guy is running backwards all night and then when the bell rings he decides to fight. I hit him back with three right hands and I punctuated each shot with, "the bell (punch) rang (punch) you fvcking (punch) ass hole!" The referee jumps between us and I"m telling him, "Those last three don't count!" I meant his three not mine. I won this fight on a split decision which I couldn't believe. The guy that voted for my opponent was a big Swede, I can't remember this guys name but he fought Clay at the Olympics but lost. Lost a split decision. This Swede worked for BC Hydro and had a remarkable punch. Hands like baby hams. But he never liked me, the fvcker. Maybe he was watching the girls instead of my fight. Then to top it all off my opponent starts crying about how I didn't make the weight. But I didn't have to. He was a very unpleasant fellow and my very next fight was with him at the BC Silver Gloves. I fought him at the lightweight limit. I weighed 131.5. I lost too. But they gave it to me. He had really improved and I fought stupid. I chased and because I didn't like him I wanted to decapitate him. I was careless and I got caught with some unbelievable shots coming in. It was like walking through the end of a two by four. His coach was in our gym the next day. "He caught me with some good shots." "He caught you with some incredible shots and they were right on the money!" He was laughing. I didn't know whether to be proud or embarrassed. A little of both. After this fight was over, the Silver Gloves, this guy asks me, "Do you really think you won that fight?" I told him, "It ain't my problem. I just fight. The judges decide (you miserable crybaby) the winner." Which I thought was pretty diplomatic. See, at the time I really thought I had won. I was connecting with a lot of jabs. I was the constant aggressor and in fact I never stepped back. Not one inch. But on reflection I realized that my aggression was ineffective. I mean I did lose. But who cares? I don't know what became of that guy. Maybe he's dead.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 14 (view)

Trust/Lying Problem Posted: 11/22/2009 9:21:35 AM
What should I do ? Should I tell her the truth? Should I continue lying about it ? ^^^ I believe that I am going to be in the minority here but in my humble opinion it is okay to lie about anything because we are just going to die anyway. So nothing matters.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 85 (view)

A couple of fights Posted: 11/22/2009 9:09:52 AM
In 1983 my coach entered me in a senior intermediate novice tournament. The S.I.N. tournament was for seniors over 16 who had less than ten fights. Three two minute rounds. I came into this tournament with a record of 2 and 3. I mean I had a losing record and my last fight was a loss in Bremerton. At the naval base in Washington State. It was a war and I got knocked down. Referee stops contest. Stopped it with me on my feet. A very painful loss for me. My coach warned me, "You better think about whether you want to do this, or I won't let you fight anymore." Which smartened me up. It scared me and I got more determined. Decker (my coach) had been telling me stuff like "Physically you can beat them all. It's your head I'm worried about." He told me I wasn't mean enough. I told him that I was mean to my girlfriend. He said "I don't mean like that. I mean you got to be mean like Jamie." Jamie Olenberger, my friend from the cemetery. The whole deal was did I really want to fight? Or just be a guy in the gym. Sparring. I entered the tournament at 132 lbs. The fights were at the Training Centre on Willingdon at Hastings. The first guy I didn't know him. A kid from the Hastings Community Centre. I always had fear before a fight. Every fighter does. Nerves, butterflies, whatever you call it, it's fear. This time was the worst yet. Because of the two losses in a row. They were lacing my gloves up. Things were really coming to a head. I could barely hold my sh1t together. I don't remember too much. He caught me with some heavy right hands in the first round. He started to wind down in the second round. He was gassing out and switched to survival mode. I forced him onto the ropes and was hitting him at will. I glanced to my right at the referee and he had a little smile on his face. So I kept banging away. I won that fight. Now the second fight the guy was from my own gym. I'd worked with him a lot. I liked the guy. He was another older guy like me that got a late start in boxing. I didn't feel any fear with this guy but I was...I didn't want this fight. Whenever I have told people this story, other men, they start lecturing me "There are no friends in the ring..." Okay, hot shot, you fvcking get in there. Get in there with your daddy. The first round I'm boxing well. I'm not getting hit. And he is. The second round he's backing up and I catch him with a left uppercut which it's really an arm punch. But still! I'm thinking, "Didn't he feel that?!" His back is against the ropes and here I made a fundamental mistake. An amateurs mistake. I stopped moving to set myself. To unload. And he threw a desperation right hand that caught me right on the button and as I was going down I was thinking "Nice one!" I was admiring his move because he surprised me. You're punching or you're moving or you're out of range. Otherwise you will get tagged like I did. I wasn't hurt. I landed on my ass and bounced up. But I was going to get an eight count regardless. And that cost me the fight. Even though an eight count is not supposed to count for more than a punch. While I was getting my count I was jumping up and down in place. I saw fear in the other guy's face. He was deflating. The ref waved me in and I was punching, I landed about seven shots. The crowd was excited, calling out my name and the bell rang and it wasn't enough. I started too late and they gave it to the other guy. Afterwards guys were telling me I won. Even lightweights from other gyms. My rivals. I showered and went over to my girlfriend and I was smiling and I shrugged. She was surprised. "I thought you would be mad." I felt good though. I fought well. I went over to talk to this guy. The guy from my gym. His girlfriend was sitting there glaring at me. I mean real hostility. I ignored her and I didn't mind. I mean I had been hitting her boyfriend. Before the fight this guy had a swollen left eye. Decker told me to work that eye. Because even though this guy was from the same gym he was another coaches fighter. His eye looked like a plum. We were friendly. Both of us glad it was over. He tells me "That uppercut in the second round, I bit clean through my mouthpiece! I never been hit like that before." So now the girlfriend was smiling. I mean she got it. I had talked to the first kid too. Told him nice things. Told him I felt his right hand. Yeah, I got jobbed on that fight, but I got a gift later on, in the Silver Gloves. I won one I really lost. Plus it was only novice fights. After my girlfriend and me went and got something to eat.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 84 (view)

Mopping out peep show booths Posted: 11/21/2009 8:51:57 AM
In 1985 my girlfriend, the red head, and I went on a trip to New York City. I had an aunt and uncle living on Long Island, in Great Neck, so we had a free place to stay 45 minutes from Penn Station. Right there in Manhattan. This was in August. It was humid. Steamy. I'm from Brooklyn as a kid and my parents are native New Yorkers. I love NY. Powerful city. Now before we left I had signed up to take an EST seminar and I had paid like 1200 bucks for this fvcking thing and I had put it on one of my credit cards. I got enrolled in it by a guy named Dave. He was good at that sh1t, enrolling people. That's what EST was all about. Enrolment. Yeah! Get the big breakthrough. I used to threaten to sic Dave on other people in the EST community. "Hey! Maybe I should send Dave over to help you decide!" "No. NO! Not Dave!" This guy Dave was married to Marylin, my primal therapist from before. She did the EST training and then she couldn't take her patients endless whining about their bereft childhoods anymore. So she enrolled everybody in the training and we "got off it." Anyway, I'm in New York having a ball with my girlfriend. We are mostly doing the tourist thing on the Island. Central Park, the Empire State building, Chinatown, Little Italy, Garment District, Times Square. We go back to the last place I lived. Where I lived with my parents and sister before we moved to New Jersey. This was on Ave Z, in Brooklyn, right across from the Coney Island Hospital. I had my tonsils out in that hospital. We lived in the row houses across the street. It was like a dream. Nothing had changed. The trees were bigger. Different colour people living there. And churches with huge Stars of David still on them. We had a great time in Manhattan. Shopping, eating street food. But then it was time to go to the seminar. It was in the Barbazon Plaza, by central park. I get in there and it's not even Werner. It's a video of Werner talking to a room full of people somewhere. I'm looking around the darkened room and I see a black lady and other folks and none of them seemed to think that paying 1200 bucks to watch a video of Erhard "training" a bunch of celluloid people was the equivalent of getting fvcked up the ass sideways, but I did. Well, I couldn't take it. I'm whining and making a fuss. I'm talking to some volunteer lady. A tall, good looking, well groomed, professional type. She is telling me to keep my commitments and I gave my word and... Then she winds up "...and I must say, I find your little boy act extremely distasteful." When she said that I immediately burst into tears. It wasn't an act! She seemed startled. I left. I wasn't sure where I was going to go but I was relieved to be out of there and enjoying the sun. I walked over to Times Square and found a nice pornographic book store. A big one! A smut emporium. I went in and got 10 bucks worth of tokens and found a booth. I can't remember what was playing or who was starring but it did have a happy ending. Anyhow, after I blew a nice big load onto the screen I stepped out and observed this white kid, a beefy looking kid and he was looking surly and slamming the peep show booth doors. Going in and out with a mop and a bucket. He must have had one of the top ten sh1tty jobs in the world. I managed to get my money back on that particular seminar. By then Werner was giving refunds because the law suits were starting to pile up.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 82 (view)

EST holes/EST pests Posted: 11/20/2009 9:58:15 PM
In May 1980 I took the EST training at the University of British Columbia. It was two weekends with an evening session thrown in mid week. Who remembers EST? Or Werner Erhard? It was ten lifetimes ago. Erhard aka Jack Rosenberg was a used car salesman, who one day while cruising the freeways of California got enlightenment. Werner was a charismatic marketing genius who synthesized various disciplines and created a program, a delivery system, that promised enlightenment in two weekends. Did it work? Sure. Why not? I took the training, saw all the things that didn't work in my life and proceeded to do them anyway. Because I wanted to. The language of EST, much of it, became embedded in popular culture, particularly corporate culture. In the mid eighties Werner got involved in some personal scandals and sold the copy rights of the "technology" of the training to his brother and other key players in the EST corporate structure. It was renamed the Landmark Forums and instead of calling you ass holes they called you a jerk. Werner is hiding out in the Cayman Islands now a days. He's got plenty of money. When you took the training ($400.00 in 1980) they threw in a ten session seminar. I think it was called 'Be here now.' Now at this time I was doing my usual thing. Losing jobs. I was working for the Vancouver School Board as grounds maintenance. One day the union rep came by to tell me what a good job I was doing. The next day he came by to advise me to resign. But I never liked teachers anyway. I guess they could tell. Next I'm working busing tables and working as an artists model at the Emily Carr Art College on Granville Island. Then I took a job with a landscape company. The owner liked me but one day he chewed me out for slipping away to grab a coffee and go hide. This was on the North Shore and all it did all summer was fvcking rain. I got fed up and quit. I saw an add in the paper: be an exotic dancer, make big bucks. Plus I figured it would help me get laid. So I did that for the rest of the summer. I had a nice body but I couldn't dance to save my life. I went different places. Up north. Around Vancover. Kelowna. Gay bars. Whatever. I didn't care. Finally I decided to just get a regular, real job. I got a job at the Masonic Cemetery. It was a good job and I settled down for a while. These seminars. I had gotten something intangible out of the EST training, but the tangible was that there were a lot of women in these seminars. And they were my type. Middle class, normal type ladies. I was like 27 year old at this time. So I was hooking up with a few of these ladies. And also dates. What happened is this. They had this deal called sharing. The seminar leader would pick somebody if you raised your hand. I shared one time. I was just started the cemetery job. I was talking about how some of the stones, the markers were infants and naturally some were old folks. It was...I'm thinking is it better to die in innocence or get the full span? All the heartache. Ascent and decline. Or...but something about the way I speak is powerful. I had some kind of charisma. Well, I got popular. I ended up being some kind of EST star. I ended up, I was a sought after speaker. I spoke hundreds of times, in front of hundreds of people. People knew me all over town. Different places. Granville Island. English Bay. Places. People would recognize me from the seminars. Pretty heady stuff for a man such as myself. A man of few accomplishments. Years later when I was in LA a guy who I met through another seminar program, he tells me, "When you're single you fvck em all. You don't just pick the pretty ones. Because then you will fall in love with a woman just because she's pretty. And thats the wrong reason to fall in love." Which made perfect sense. But at that particular time... I spotted a lady, a pretty red head in one of the seminars. I started eyeballing her a lot. She wouldn't look at me but I knew she was aware of me. I could tell. These seminars were once or twice a week. I finally work up the spit to approach her, "Hey. Wanna be friends?" She says yes. I'm kicking myself. I can't believe she bought the friends thing. She is like, two moves ahead of me. Some back and forth phone conversation. Dinner at her place. First date. She can't cook but I'm not there to eat food. After we go sit on the couch. We're drinking beer. I yawn and stretch. Put my arm around her. Let me digress here: if they want you it don't matter how awkward you are. Well, we end up in the bedroom. Afterwards I'm thinking, "She's pretty, got a good job (special education teacher) dresses well, good with makeup. I'll make her the one." Because I like those respectable womens. Meanwhile she's thinking "Please God, not him." She told me this later. When she told me that, that's when I really fell in love with her. Yeah, I won her over with force of personality. Relentless commitment. I'm Mr. Wrong but I'm powerful.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 81 (view)

Breaking in on dice Posted: 11/20/2009 6:30:06 PM
You did that?! Clooney? As long as it's not Brad Pitt. How about Steve McQueen? Never mind, he's dead. Well, but, could get him cheap. Maybe he would work for points. I have been meaning to write another instalment but I am involved in some emotional turmoil right now. I can't focus. I used to tell that to women on coffee meets. I'd ask them, "Do you know what George Clooney looks like?" "Yes." "Well I'm not going to leave my apartment looking like Micky Rooney and show up at Starbucks looking like George Clooney." But they looked like Rosanne Barr, so WTH. rickxyz: Thanks for following my work. Women come and women go, but I got my writing.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 19 (view)

I see alot of looking looking for good guys on profiles Posted: 11/19/2009 3:29:16 PM
The problem here is this: good is a fairly malleable term. It may mean different things to different people. "Good Germans?" They were good, but not for my ancestors. When "nice" (it's on your profile) guys try to hold women to their word all they do is end up alienating women even more. "You said you wanted this, that, and the other thing, and I'm all that, and more." I would be suspicious of women who say they are scared of you because they never met a man so great. You ain't likely that special. They are saying you're too good for me. Go away. Right? There is the lie. The frustration nice guys feel is that they define themselves in juxtaposition to other men and they sell themselves on the delusion that they are somehow better than other men (who have women they want). Or conversely when women leave them for other men. It can't be you. It's them. They're damaged. All women are. Edit:This has totally turned into a "nice guy" thread now. ^^^ Turned? Started out as! Nice guy threads. Good guy threads. Wonderful guy threads. Above and beyond guy threads. Every other guy on the planet but me stinks threads. You owe me threads...

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 79 (view)

Breaking in on dice Posted: 11/18/2009 7:53:58 PM
Thing is about that- no other place in the United States has so many crazees as those two towns. ^^^ Well, Kamaloka, I got a big smile pasted on my face right now because Vegas was great camouflage for a man like me. There is more latitude for behaviour there. Nobody cares there. Nobody cares how crazy you are as long as you don't interfere with the action. I'll tell you this, nobody wants to know their neighbours in Vegas. It's just trouble. "Leave me alone!" See, I wasn't just a wild and crazy guy, I was crazy in the diagnostic sense. When I left Vegas and moved back to California it showed up. I had no cover and I had to deal with it. It was becoming a problem. Interfering with my functioning. The unofficial motto of Las Vegas is 'Live and let live.' Live like there is no tomorrow. If this ever makes it into print, IF this becomes a screenplay, they can give it some kind of bullsh1t Hollywood treatment, starring Micky Rourke and I will drown the sorrows of my betrayed vision by counting the money I hope I get.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 77 (view)

Tell Joey that I will throw him off the sundeck! Posted: 11/18/2009 12:59:16 PM
That's funny Kamaloka. One Saturday Joey came sniffing around my booth. The booths at the time had curtains, no doors. He stood there looking like a moron. But I wanted that $20.00. Anyway, I skip my lunch and fit him in. I'm busy as hell. It's a fight weekend. The place was packed. I forget who was fighting. At the end of my shift, like 7 pm, I go out to the reception to see if Joey left me an envelope. He usually came back and pieced me off right in my cubicle. I was down at the end of the hallway. So, no envelope. Well I start brooding. The next day I'm phoning his office. He had the contracting business. I'm asking is Joey there? I phone a couple of times. Finally I tell the secretary that if he don't give me my money I will forget that he is 60 years old for about three minutes. "I'm going to throw him off the fvcking sundeck!" We were on the top floor of the new tower. The next day the receptionist hands me an envelope with twenty dollars in it. She tells me "He forgot." But he didn't forget. He was just fvcking with me.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 5 (view)

The Majestic Power Of Our Sunstar Posted: 11/18/2009 12:30:40 PM
Hey, Kohavah, I love your bone dry sense of humour. I had stories scattered all over this forum. When they started to accumulate, when I realized that I have a following I pulled them together for my own and my readers convenience. I want people to read my stuff. You do also. That's the best way. As long as your thread is on the first page it really doesn't matter if it's at the top or not. Although I am slyly trying to get you to abdicate the top spot so I can have it. I can't outwork you babe. You're relentless.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 75 (view)

I'm very pleased to get a favourable review from a Posted: 11/18/2009 9:52:02 AM
fellow traveller. I spent that one winter in Reno and I thought it was Vegas light. Or not light but scaled down. I liked Reno. I was intrigued. The city is much older than Vegas. Here is something that sticks in my memory. When I worked at Caesars Las Vegas I had a regular customer, the boxing referee, Joey Curtis. Joey was an ex club fighter from the fifties. From NY I believe or anyway east coast. This guy is dead now and who is going to remember him? He worked the Dokes/Weaver fight. With the suspiciously premature stoppage. That was the last big fight he ever worked. I used to massage this guy off the books. It was always on a busy day, the pr1ck. I'd squeeze him in somehow. Twenty bucks in my pocket and he saved the thirty bucks, plus tip. He worked in Vegas as a contractor. The reffing was just extra money. I think Joey fought as a featherweight but at the time I new him he was more of a heavyweight. One thing about Joey that all the masseurs knew was that he would take a nice big sh1t just before he got on your table and he would stink up the whole fvcking booth. Anyway I got wise, "Joey, why don't you go sit in the hot tub for a while. I'll bring you some juice and I will get you on in twenty minutes." Joey was perceptive. The first time he got on my table he told me "You took this job so that you could use drugs." I felt a visceral shock. How did he know?! I mean that was exactly right. I had been working at the Barbary when I got juiced into Caesars and that was the big thing. That was why I wanted the job. I could use drugs right on the job! Not have to wait till after work to get high. But I wasn't going to fvcking admit it to Curtis. Me, "No. No I'm not. How do you know?" He tells me "You're a fvck up. That's how I know." Which he had me dead to rights. Another time I told him that a girlfriend from my distant (five years since I heard from her) past had gotten in touch with me. She was sniffing around. I was very angry. "She's picking at my scabs!" He tells me "I'm psychic, and you are going to commit suicide over a woman." I made a joke about it, but that has always haunted me. It affected my behaviour with women. I don't care about dying. But not like that. If you are depressed and you kill your self, you bring it all with you. All that sh1t. There is no escape. Anyway, to get to the point, this guy, Curtis was a fixture in Vegas. He was Vegas. One day he's on my table and he says, apropos of nothing (deep sigh) "This is a terrible town, Jesse." I was surprised. We all knew the darkness was there. It's a cliché. Even outsiders have an intimation of it. It's something else when you live it though. I'll never be the same. And that's a good thing. I found what I was looking for. I may have difficulty posting for a few days. I got Telus coming over here tomorrow to switch my phone service and there may be some complications. They told me. Thanks again Kamaloka. It's privilege to be able to share that life. Post script: Joey ended up going to jail for six months for tax evasion.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 9 (view)

What do you make of this? Posted: 11/17/2009 7:32:54 PM
Well I'm currently involved. Not single. But before that if any women asked me why I had been single for so long (yeah, a lot longer than you) I would just tell them that I was too busy being an addict/alcoholic and dealing with mental health issues. That pretty well took care of...everything.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 73 (view)

I'm posting this for sooze Posted: 11/17/2009 3:25:17 PM
Leonard Cohen THE STRANGER SONG lyrics (AKA "The Dealer") (from the album 'SONGS OF LEONARD COHEN') It's true that all the men you knew were dealers who said they were through with dealing Every time you gave them shelter I know that kind of man It's hard to hold the hand of anyone who is reaching for the sky just to surrender who is reaching for the sky just to surrender. And then sweeping up the jokers that he left behind you find he did not leave you very much not even laughter Like any dealer he was watching for the card that is so high and wild he'll never need to deal another He was just some Joseph looking for a manger He was just some Joseph looking for a manger. And then leaning on your window sill he'll say one day you caused his will to weaken with your love and warmth and shelter And then taking from his wallet an old schedule of trains, he'll say I told you when I came I was a stranger I told you when I came I was a stranger. But now another stranger seems to want you to ignore his dreams as though they were the burden of some other O you've seen that man before his golden arm dispatching cards but now it's rusted from the elbows to the finger And he wants to trade the game he plays for shelter Yes he wants to trade the game he knows for shelter. Ah you hate to see another tired man lay down his hand like he was giving up the holy game of poker And while he talks his dreams to sleep you notice there's a highway that is curling up like smoke above his shoulder It is curling just like smoke above his shoulder. You tell him to come in sit down but something makes you turn around The door is open you can't close your shelter You try the handle of the road It opens do not be afraid It's you my love, you who are the stranger It's you my love, you who are the stranger. Well, I've been waiting, I was sure we'd meet between the trains we're waiting for I think it's time to board another Please understand, I never had a secret chart to get me to the heart of this or any other matter When he talks like this you don't know what he's after When he speaks like this, you don't know what he's after. Let's meet tomorrow if you choose upon the shore, beneath the bridge that they are building on some endless river Then he leaves the platform for the sleeping car that's warm You realize, he's only advertising one more shelter And it comes to you, he never was a stranger And you say ok the bridge or someplace later. And then sweeping up the jokers that he left behind ... And leaning on your window sill ... I told you when I came I was a stranger

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 4 (view)

The Name Of My Ship Is Happiness Posted: 11/17/2009 7:13:36 AM
I don't usually comment on other "writers" work but I feel compelled to say this: at least you didn't kill any trees with this stilted, pompous tripe. You want moral ambiguity? Read my sordid, unrepentant celebration of the dark side of the human condition. It is easy reading.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 71 (view)

fvcking (erotic) Posted: 11/16/2009 3:56:23 PM
In 1986 I was living with my Uncle in Torrence. I had left my girlfriend, Judy, behind in Vancouver. She had a new boyfriend and I had a new girlfriend in Encino named Lisa. Judy and me were in sporadic contact. I had been living in LA about six months when she flew to LA to spend a week in the Desert at a kind of New Age spa. In a desert area east of LA which I don't recall the name now. She stopped to see me and took my car and drove out to this place. This retreat offered massage and spiritual pursuits and all kinds of horsesh1t but one thing it didn't offer was accommodation for unmarried couples. So we drove around and found a stand of trees and went in there and made out for a while. Then we were in the car in open desert. No cover around there. But cars going by were few and far between. We steamed up the windows. I was really in pain this whole time because I knew she was just using me to try to get a commitment out of this new guy, who coincidently looked somewhat like me. Never mind that I was cheating on my new girlfriend. I'll address that in a minute. I dropped her off at the spa and met her four days later by a park in LA. Another woman from the retreat weekend dropped her off. We were hanging around. We went to the third street mall in Santa Monica. I tell her "Hang on." I go to a pay phone, pick up the phone and call Lisa. I was supposed to see Lisa that night. I made up some excuse. "Well, I'm going to see a movie." Lisa: "By yourself?!" It was a bit of a hard sell. She knew I was lying. I'm doing this right in front of Judy. I hang up the phone and Judy titters at me. "You're such an ass-hole!" I didn't really get it. I mean, what was she doing? So later we are at my uncles. We can't spend the night there. Not and have any fun that is. We find a cheap bungalow type motel on PCH in Manhattan Beach. I buy a mickey of whiskey and a deck of cigarettes. I didn't smoke but I did that night. We settle in. You know I was really feeling pain. I loved this woman and I knew she was using me. But I was willing. To have her one last time, I was willing. I made the sex really raunchy. There was a bit of anger in it. Anger and pain. So I was really dominant. But I was gentle. I stood her up facing the dresser and crouched down and ate her ass. Later I fvcked her backwards and upside down. I lit a cigarette. I took a break and told her "You blow me and I'll eat you after." She really enjoyed all this. Then after I held her very tenderly. This was the last time I would ever see her. In the morning I spooned her and fvcked her from behind. She said "You horny toad." Said it with affection. In the morning we had breakfast. I took her to the airport in my old blue 71 Dodge Polara. We embraced and Judy had tears running down her face. I remember some guy driving a Mercedes was looking at us. He seemed mystified. Judy was a very pretty red head, a special education teacher and even then I looked like rough trade. I know I was reading this guy and he seemed to be wondering what she saw in me. Not that it was any of his business. It's like all the "nice" guys on this site who can't understand why guys like me get women. I was never afraid to make a mistake. I got very few regrets. But I truly regret involving Lisa in my little drama. My unfinished business. It was incredibly selfish of me and I can never remember it without twisting in shame. And no, I won't make amends by "cleaning" it up. By trying to find her and apologizing. Like some bullsh1t closure. The most generous thing I could do for that girl is to leave her alone. I doubt very much if she ever even thinks of me. There are some mistakes you can't fix. This is one of them. I will live with the stabs of regret and shame for the rest of my life. It's uncomfortable but I earned it.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 13 (view)

what do you consider boring a boring guy? Posted: 11/16/2009 10:12:08 AM
I have a sarcastic wry offbeat type of gallows humour... ^^^ I am not boring but I am profoundly damaged in every conceivable way. I just generally suck overall. PS lets go with the Canadian spelling on humor shall we. PPS I sleep in a coffin.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 70 (view)

I find myself in the ring Posted: 11/16/2009 9:32:57 AM
In 81 I got hired on at a cemetery in Burnaby. It was a cemetery for Freemasons and their family's. Like relatives of Freemasons. I wore a suit and I was a landscaper with a horticultural certificate. I was a good candidate and the guy offered me the job. But first he asked if I believed in a supreme being. I would have told him the I believe in Bozo the Clown in order to get the job, but actually I really do believe in a supreme...something. I told this guy that I was a Jew. He said Jews are no problem. Freemasons don't like Catholics on account of the three deities. He's telling me that the two guys working there are no good and don't work and they steal and I had to make them work and keep an eye on them. I replied that I would take the job but get rid of them two and I will start fresh with new guys. Phone Manpower and get me two guys. So he agreed and I was hired. He took me around and showed me his plot. "This is where I'm going." And I ended up burying him about three months later. The old guy fell off a ladder. This turned out to be a very good job. It was Union, the Labourers Union and when we got a new contract 5 months later the pay doubled. It was the largest contract increase in that Union's history. The Masons were tired of having an unreliable work force. They wanted stability and money and security locks guys in. It took cancer for me to pull myself away from this fvcking job. I had various guys working for me. One kid was chronically late. I got rid of him. In January of 82 the secretary-treasurer, he comes out where I'm digging and he tells me "I got a guy, he's a prize fighter but he's all right." He tells me his name is Jamie Ollenberger. I get excited because I had seen him fight on channel 10. The pubic channel. He was fighting Johnny Herbert at 147 lbs for the Golden Gloves. Jamie had lost to Herbert the year before. I noticed Ollenberger. I liked his stand up southpaw style. I followed boxing and I sparred regularly at a gym in Victoria. But I had never fought. I was 26 at that time. Really old for the lighter weights. But I felt as though some unseen, unknowable power had sent this guy to help me have my dream of being a fighter. This guy shows up at the bone yard and I'm ready to worship him. He's like 22 years old and he has just had his second pro fight. A win. Jamie had an outstanding amateur career. Seven golden gloves. Twice running national champ. Fought in the alternate Olympics. And get this, he lost his first eight fights in a row! Until he found his game. So right away we're talking boxing. I told him that I had boxed a little. He had a rope and he asked me to skip. He said it was pretty good. We are up by the Woodward Mausoleum. I tell him that I think I hit hard. I had gotten hints about that. He holds up his right hand, tells me to hit with my left. "You do hit hard." Jamie liked to smoke pot. On the third day we're in a grave digging and he says "Do you smoke drugs?" Which of course I had. So very shortly I was smoking 8 joints a day. Four if it was good. Skunk bud. We were the same. Why come down? First thing in the morning, last thing at night. I join his gym. He's training at Olajide's gym. The Kingsway Gym. Micheal Olajide is a charismatic, scary looking guy from Nigeria. His son, Michael Junior ended up going twelve losing rounds with Tommy Hearns. Anyway I'm living the life of a fighter. We work together and train together. We spend a lot of time together. This was a once in a lifetime friendship for me. When Jamie came to the cemetery he was working part time at Woodwards. He was living with a woman who worked in the office. The Woodwards administration. Roxanne. There was a whole culture around Woodwards. It was a career type thing. They called them Woodwardites. Woodwards is long gone now. I didn't have a steady girl at the time but I was living with a woman in 1983. I put off writing this story. Now I know why. I'm crying. Jamie became disaffected with Kingsway because Senior was playing favourites with his son. Which...naturally. But Jamie wasn't being moved right and was being used as a sparring partner for Junior and the usual politics which is endemic in boxing. So we went to the Shamrock Gym on Hastings at Main. Dowling started to move Jamie. I was training pretty seriously. I had a coach named Bob Decker who later disappeared and someone said they saw him on America's most wanted. That was the word anyway. Decker sucked as a trainer. He'd never had one fight his own self. But he did try to get me fights I could win. I was 26 and we had a club show at the gym. He got me a guy from the Carnegie Centre, across the street. I did the EST training in May of 1980. I invited a bunch of people from the EST centre and the seminars. EST was where I met the lady I lived with. I fight but I lose. I lose a one point split decision. A point is three punches. So, yeah, it was close. After it was over I was standing in the ring and I feel stripped clean. Everything is now. Like when I was five years old. I'm perceiving without the filter of judgments and opinions. Just seeing. Direct experience. I mean I'm feeling alive. I got stories on here about my next three fights. It's all out of sequence. I might not even fix it later. This is how it's coming back to me. I mostly put away the pain of my loss. That my friend died. That Jamie died. Life goes on. I got tired of crying after a while. I mourned long and hard. I lost a friend, a huge piece on my past and a piece of myself. I'm surprised the pain is still fresh. 17 years later. I wouldn't even be a man if this guy hadn't showed up in my life. Not the person I am. It's inconceivable. It was ordained. This guy in my life. The second year Porter, one of the cemetery board members, was prodding us to become Freemasons. Which...okay. Why not? It could be good for our jobs. They wanted their own to be burying their own. So we are going to the Temple and meetings and being prepared for the induction. The big night comes. We are wearing suits. We always wore our suits. Before we go in we sit in Jamie's car and smoke a hash spliff. Got a nice buzz and then he handed me some aftershave and I soaked myself in that sh1t to kill the smell. The ritual I can't remember a whole lot. Candles, and a casket and oogie boogie. And swear you won't give away the secrets and what not. I still got my apron around somewhere. After we could go to gatherings and eat Haggis, which is tasty stuff. Oatmeal and organ meat stuffed in intestines and boiled. We were in the Scottish Rite. But I just let it go when I quit the cemetery. I need to write a book on this. Just this. This period. Jamie. His life. I guess maybe a bit at a time. This hurts more than I thought it would.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 20 (view)

How much doees it take. Posted: 11/15/2009 9:14:43 PM
Ladies, What is the minimum salary (that your boyfriend made) you would consider acceptable if you were considering getting serious with someone. Plesae dont say that there isnt a minimum or that money isnt important because everyone knows that it is. ^^^ 12 bucks an hour. 15 for events. But at least I own my condo outright. PS, if it's a problem, remember, it's perfectly alright to lie.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 9 (view)

Very confused, someone clear me up? Posted: 11/15/2009 7:10:48 PM
Apparently I look too much like a player. ^^^ I think that you were surprised and flattered that anyone would think that you are a player and you are covertly bragging about it.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 69 (view)

The sugar mommies Posted: 11/15/2009 9:51:31 AM
Primm developed three casino properties on the Nevada/California state line. The first of these was Whisky Pete's. Then across the interstate he built the Primadonna. The Primaddona had a kind of 18th century carnival theme. A big ferris wheel. Whisky Pete's was western themed and featured the Bonnie and Clyde death car, complete with bullet holes. There was an overhead tram from Whisky Pete's to the Primaddona. Over the interstate. Or you could drive or walk under the freeway. Buffalo Bills came on line about three months after I started working at Whisky Pete's. Buffalo Bills also had a western theme. The tree bar had a huge tree and a talking buzzard. There was a canal with little boats running through the back of the casino. It featured the tallest roller coaster in North America at the time. Kitchen workers and porters and low paid service workers could live out there in trailers. State line, the city of Primm was about 42 miles from Vegas. Driving west you would hit Jean and the county prison, the Gold Strike and Nevada Landing and after that nothing. Until you hit state line. I could make the trip back in about 35 minutes in the morning, early morning, like 2:30 am, because there was no traffic. I could boot it. Just prior to my working at state line there were some notorious murders out there. A young man was with his friend. He took a little black girl into the mens room at the primaddona. He took her into a stall and raped and strangled her. The case was moving through the courts when I was working there. This guy, he was about 22, he said it was because of meth. He got life without and his friend, who surely knew, he got nothing. The other murder happened at Whisky Pete's. A young boy disappeared from the arcade. This was in the winter. They found his body a month later under a trailer. The video surveillance showed the boy leaving with a man who was subsequently tracked to San Diego. The man went to trial and was acquitted. He subsequently turned around and sued for wrongful prosecution and won a settlement. I was dealing dice at Whisky Pete's. It was just middle level action. 50 bucks a shift and about a 65 dollar cut on tokes. Decent money. I showed up one evening and there's a fat guy sitting box on my game. He's wearing dealers clothes. The uniform shirt. A yellow and purple concoction with shoulder yokes. A kind of western deal. This guy knows me. I know him. He is very friendly. He says they promised him permanent box when Bills opens. I was a little bit curious as to why this guy was being so friendly. The last time I saw him was when I was breaking in at the Golden Gate downtown when I told him to fvck off and clapped out and walked off my game. I had gotten another job across the street and he was riding me on account of I couldn't deal. But whatever. Let's let our Saigon's be bygones. In the gaming industry I was generally running into guys I worked with again and again. It is a transient industry. Another shift and I was on third base. I had no players. I'm looking over at a black jack dealer that they scrounged up because we are short of dealers. He's sizing into six checks on a payout. I tell him you got to prove that. The camera can't see depth. It "sees" flat. So anything over five, five chips, you got to break it down and prove it. The floorman jumps on my face and he's yelling "don't you ever tell another dealer how to deal!" Well I get lippy with him as well. WTF. So on my break I got to go see the shift boss, Lenny, in the black jack pit. Lenny is about 6'5". I was like about 5'5" at the time. He's chewing me out. I got my head down. But I notice that when I look up I am basically looking directly at his d1ck which made me a little uncomfortable. Well it...I had to fight to keep a straight face. He's winding up..."If you don't like it here you can just take your act down the road!" (suck my d1ck boy). I didn't want to lose the job so "Yowsa boss!" Later on, after I was transferred to Buffalo Bills, I'm working with Paul, a blackjack dealer that they send over to the dice pit when we are stretched tight. Paulie is pretty good for a guy who isn't a dice dealer. He dealt cards for 12 years or more and he worked four times at Binions and he was friends with Mrs. Binion. The thing about Paulie was that he looked like a caricature of a Jew. Pear shaped, semitic features and so on. He lived with his mom in a town house in West Vegas that he was helping her buy. I sometimes gave Paul a ride home. Naturally he finds out I'm a Jew. I don't know if Jews run the world because being the kind of Jew I am, I'm out of the loop. But one thing, and this is no lie, everywhere I ever worked we all know who we are. Who's a Jew. I don't know how. Anyhow, it turns out Lenny is a Jew and Paul offered to talk to him and after that when I saw Lenny he was really friendly (Shalom). When Buffalo Bills opened I applied for the transfer but I didn't get it for a couple of weeks. I replaced some guy that got fired. Some crackhead that wanted to live at my place for free. No thanks. Buffalo Bills opened really weak. Lousy money. So I was lucky I didn't get the initial transfer. I got strung out on meth shortly after moving over there. There was a lot of sh1t over there. The swing shift bartender at the tree bar was dealing meth to the co-cktail waitresses. He got busted on surveillance. Forced to resign. Resign or we prosecute. Some of the co-cktail waitresses looked like the maid on the Jetsons. Like they had wheels. Robot chicks. I would generally be awake for five days and I would crash on my weekends. My general MO was to get off work and go to a pornographic bookstore (many to chose from) and get a new tape and then go home and spend the next 12 hours abusing myself. When I crashed on the weekends (Tuesday, Wednesday) I would eat high fat foods like Jimmy Dean's Biscuits and Sausage. Creamsicles by the dozen, Philly cheese steaks with bacon. I still got bad eating habits and my sleep patterns are still messed up. I finally quit meth. Cold turkey. I went home to visit my parents in Canada and I used it as an intervention. So I was clean and I'm giving Paul a ride home. I got about 400 dollars worth of smut in a black plastic garbage bag. I stop by my place: "Here. Give me 20 bucks for this." I had to get that stuff out of my house. The fun part was teasing this guy. Paul. "Hey, Paulie, which one was it last night?" I would mimic the performers (English accent) "It's always such a pleasure fvcking your ass." Dubbed English. The film was made in Denmark. His favourite was the Sugar Mommies. Which I had to admit... I was watching Paul closely to see if his spine was bending. Going soft. Maybe semen crusted on his pants. He's drooling. Hairy palms. Knuckles dragging on the ground. Sometime they would send me over to blackjack. I could deal out of a shoe. I mean I had no pitch. When I shuffled I would clump the cards a half inch. I didn't care. You couldn't cheat my game. And I was cold. I never dumped. A lady would sit down at my table "I want a blackjack, I want a blackjack!" Me: "I want a pony! I want a pony!" If a player dropped a hundred dollar bill on the layout I would snatch it up really quickly and put it on the square where you make your bet and turn my head to the floorman "Money plays up to the limit!" And then I would watch these people have a coronary. "NO, NO! Just change!" I had a captive audience there and I liked to have fun. Tease people. If someone got a blackjack and I had a 19 I would pause and look at their cards and look at mine and look at them and then I would rap my knuckles on the layout "Push!" I had a deadpan face so... One time I got a five card 21. I was so proud of myself. This Chinese kid had blackjack. He wants to get paid. I tell him it's a push. "Yeah, but weren't you supposed to stop on a hard seventeen?" I look. Think it over. Call the floorman over. He has to back up the whole hand. The kid gets paid and guess what he does then? He goes to another table. They would send me around to the different properties when they were stuck for a dealer. I was the second strongest dice dealer out there. Dokey was number one. I liked Brett. He was a friend. We hung out together. He's the guy that got me strung out on meth. Gas money or a line. Which do you think I chose?

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 68 (view)

I threw in the towel Posted: 11/14/2009 6:39:01 PM
I'll have six years clean and sober on the 21st of January 2010. Because I kept drinking after I left Vegas. At the end I was entering the physical addiction stage of alcoholism very quickly. I had a bottle in my locker at work. Bottle of whisky. In the morning, on my way to the bathroom, I would grab a bottle out of the freezer and drink. I was smoking pot too. Vancouver has good bud. I could take the train to Surrey Central and score a gram right on the platform and be back on the same train before it started moving again. 20 bucks. I went into the hospital for a surgery. I had a pre surgery interview. The nurse asked about my drinking. "Do you drink?" Yes. "How often? How much?" I cut it in half and she still raised her eyebrows. Me: "I guess I'm an alcoholic but I don't really care." But I had already decided to quit. I figured to use the hospital stay as an intervention. A little girl came to visit me after my surgery. Maybe 22 years old. I had been flagged as a substance abuse case. This girl is a social worker. I figure, "What can this little girl know about life?" We talk a bit and she leaves me pamphlets and literature about AA and what not. When I got out of the hospital I had about six days. I had time, a little bit of precious time. I went to AA meetings. I ended up, I took my first cake. I cried like a baby, couldn't stop crying. It was at 7th and Granville in Vancouver. I went up to the podium and I was talking about crack. I'm looking and four women in the front row were crying. Tears running down their faces. They were remembering their degradation. After a while I stopped going to AA meetings. There are things about AA that I don't like a whole lot. I don't necessarily believe I have a disease. It I do I didn't catch it off a toilet seat. Maybe a bar stool. I don't need my addict/alcoholic behaviour to be an identity. Why give it that much power? There was a choice in there somewhere. Otherwise how did I ever stop? How I stopped? I could see my future coming up fast. And I didn't want it. Not that. I had my fun and then it wasn't fun anymore. It ain't fun when you HAVE to do it. More than anything I just outgrew it. When they warehouse career criminals a lot of times they just settle down when they hit their late forties early fifties. Chemical changes in the brain. I would still be using if it wasn't for the medication I take for bipolar. That stuff saved my life. Finally, I'm a strong person. I had to be to survive my weaknesses. Thank you very much for asking Deb. At the end of the day I don't regret the journey I took. I'm in a good place now.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 15 (view)

Guys in their 40s, never married and no kids Posted: 11/14/2009 9:39:19 AM
I used to worry about that stuff also. "Why have you never had children?" Well, because I got a dose from the first woman I had sex with when I was 13 and it sterilized me. I've never been married (except for a green card marriage) because I am not marriage material. It was all I could do to stay out of prison. Then again selling myself to women on this site is not the be all or end all for me.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 66 (view)

Mr.Bills Posted: 11/14/2009 8:39:54 AM
Possessing drug paraphernalia is a felony in the state of Nevada. That is clean paraphernalia without residue. Paraphernalia being anything that is used to consume illegal drugs. Pipes, tubes, Brillo, screens, cigarette papers... There was a chain store called Mr. Bills smoke shop. These stores sold excellent glass crack pipes and screens and all kinds of stuff for smoking pot, like a smokeless pipe and what not. Also tee shirts and the usual crap for the druggie lifestyle. Now why this stuff was illegal to posses and not illegal to sell probably had to do with business taxes and things that don't appear to make sense always being about the money. At any rate I never allowed myself to own a glass crack pipe even though that is the best way to do the stuff. If you make a spliff using tobacco, if you crumble the rock up and put it in a homemade cigarette, or a joint, well, you are just wasting it. You're burning it and you will get high but not high the right way. A glass pipe allows you to melt the rock and inhale the vapours. Which means you get a much more intense rush. But even a glass tube and Brillo can work. I never allowed myself to have drug stuff around my apartment. In between crack binges that is. That was the main reason I would party with crack addicted prostitutes. I would score on impulse. Pick up a rock and then pick up a street corner whore. I really didn't care what they looked like. I just wanted someone to hang out with. To get high with. Of course the crack made me horny but there usually wasn't too much I could do about it. The blood was in the wrong head. Once I got lit I would be on a rock crawl till all my money was gone. I would go out literally a dozen times in 28 or 30 hours. This is not logical. I should have just scored an 8 ball and be done with it. I was wasting money and taking more risks. And not just for being busted. Also for being ripped off, which happened sometimes twice in a row and worse things could happen. I learned to fold a twenty dollar bill in half the long way and wrap it around my middle finger with the ends in the palm of my hand. That way they couldn't snatch my money and run off or peddle off on a bike. My worst run was $600.00 in 28 hours. Me, my next door neighbour, a black guy, and two black prostitutes. See, once I got started... I also used my credit cards for cash advances. If you go into a casino, the casino charges an extra 14 bucks for the privilege of using their machine. So when you come down and come to your senses you are really kicking yourself. But it didn't stop me from doing it again. At various points in time, the time I spent living in Vegas, I had a real struggle trying to control my crack usage. I was right on the edge of the vortex time and again. I really didn't know how it would turn out. If I would survive. I mean I am very experienced with drugs. I started dropping acid when I was 13 years old. But this drug was something else. I was truly terrified sometimes. I would be walking down the street somewhere and I hadn't even been using and I would start weeping. I was close. Really close. And to me that's worse than death. What was going to happen to me. I didn't talk to anybody about it or ask for help. It was my baby. I figured it was my problem and I had to deal with it myself. This is Vegas man. Nobody cares. You're on your own.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 4 (view)

A question for all the mothers out there. Posted: 11/13/2009 10:48:25 PM
I'm not a mother but if I had a kid I'd hope he or she would grow up to be the kind of person who didn't see the world in false nice guy/bad boy dichotomies. ^^^ Bingo!

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 4 (view)

Why is romantic not desirable anymore? Posted: 11/13/2009 10:32:09 PM
I read your profile and it seems rather...ahem...saccharine. This seems eerily familiar. Maybe an incognito nice guy thread? If being "romantic" isn't getting you anywhere with women, you could try just being real. Maybe you are smothering women with this goo. Anyway, good luck with all that.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 65 (view)

89109 Posted: 11/13/2009 9:44:02 PM
I had a nice apartment on Sierra Vista. One bedroom attached bungalows. Sliding glass doors. Breakfast bar. Enclosed patio. Peaked, wormwood ceilings. They had water beds and a big mirror on top of the dresser. So you could watch yourself having sex. The complex was enclosed by an eight foot block wall and had two side and one front gate. All locking. So the place was secure. A sign out front advertised: The Playpen Apartments. In smaller letters underneath: bachelor and bachlelorettes. This place had two swimming pools. The back one was fenced and enclosed. And offered nude swimming. Or it did in the sixties. When I got there it was populated by older, quite folks. I was close to forty and I think I was the youngest person there. The rent was $325.00 a month. Best place I lived in Vegas. The area, the zip code was notorious for crime. Cracked out around there. A half block away was a 7-11. Lots of chip runners there. I could pick up a rock there and I did pick up there many times. Sometime in 1995 I was hanging out at my apartment with my friend Les. He was my juice into Caesars Palace. At this particular time I was working at Buffalo Bills at State Line. This was my weekend. During the week but my weekend. We were drinking Crown Royal and we had eaten some Valium. I was feeling too down. I tell him "Hang on. I'll be right back." Five minutes later I was back with a rock. We made a spliff with tobacco and smoked it. Now I'm hot and bothered. "Just a minute. I'll be right back." Five minutes later I'm back with a prostitute that I picked up less than half a block away. A white girl, conservatively dressed. From Boston. A brunette. I liked her looks. She looked normal. Not all tarted up. Also I liked her accent. We get back to my place. We smoke crack and now I need more. Now the chasing starts. I'm not to sure why but very shortly I got two whores over there. Les leaves. He wasn't into crack too much. One of the prostitutes sells me a bindle and says it's speed but I didn't get anything off it. She disappears and Boston stays and a gay prostitute friend of hers is hanging around for some reason and I know I'm being worked but I don't much care. The gay boy is going out to get us crack. On my dime of course. I go back to the bedroom with Boston to have sex, if you can call it that. Also, she looked a lot better with her clothes on. She asks me if she can use my shower. "Sure." These two end up leaving. I drive down to Fremont. I'm driving west on Fremont. I see a black lady, middle twenties, walking slowly west on Fremont. I pick her up and take her back to my place. We are talking. Talking about nothing. Boston comes back. We want to get more crack and the black girl says that her boyfriend (pimp) got some downtown. We get there to a seedy motel complex on Fremont about 13th. This guy shows up. Black guy about 5'10". Muscular. Maybe 180. Young guy. We are standing facing each other. He starts asking me what I did to his GF. Which...? What the fvck? But that's their modus operandi. I'm telling him I didn't even kiss her. Which was true. He slaps me full in the face. I went dead inside. It didn't hurt and I didn't feel anything. I told him, in a quite voice, I said "Don't do that." He seemed taken aback by my non reaction. I mean I'm thinking this through. If I retaliate I will be on the receiving end of an ugly beating. The black girl already had my forty bucks. I wanted something for it. He gives me a twenty dollar rock. Boston: "Come on, come on, let's just go!" I'm hesitating. The black guy gives me another small piece. "Now get the fvck out of here before I really fvck you up!" Boston: "Come on, let's just leave!!!" So I turned and walked out. We get in my car and head back to my place. Boston is telling me that the pimp/boyfriend beats the black girl. She says she can tell by her demeanour. She also says that the guy had a gun. She was sure of it. Which is probably correct. Everybody I met in Vegas had a gun. If I had allowed myself to have a gun I would probably be writing this from prison. Boston fvcked off later after tapping me out. She called me later on, like about a week later and tried to get me started again. Telling me "I owe you. I want to get you high. I'll buy it." Yeah, the first ones on me.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 64 (view)

Look. I'm guilty, okay? Just give it to me... Posted: 11/13/2009 8:26:52 AM
Les flew back ahead of me. He didn't want to wait. So I had to drive all the way back to Vegas by myself. It was a long drive but I had a bunch of caffeine tablets and I was eating them like bar nuts. My check engine light kept coming on. I was putting Slick 50 in every fifty miles or so. I finally put some duct tape over the warning light. It was stressing me out. Driving through Bakersfield I always tried to get through it quickly. It's nothing but mud. Miles and miles of mud fields. I noticed signs on the side of the road. Aerial surveillance. Speed limit strictly enforced. Well, they weren't lying, because a CHP tracker pulled me over. A lady cop. She comes up to my side and the usual: drivers licence and reg. And she started her "Do you know how fast you were..." I cut her off. "Look! I'm guilty. Okay? Just give me the ticket. I'M IN A HURRY!" And I was drilling her with unvarnished hatred. My eyes. I was staring her down. Yeah, both barrels. She seemed uncomfortable but there wasn't much she could do. I took the ticket and threw it in the glove compartment with the five parking tickets I had picked up in Vancouver. It was all metered parking in Gastown. After a I had gotten a few tickets I would grab one and put it under the wiper but it never fooled them. I would come back and there would be a fresh one on top of the other one. Anyway, I had no intention of paying any tickets. I got better things to do with my money. I made it to LA in about 22 hours. I planned to see my uncle in Torrence and grab some sleep before heading up the pass to Vegas. It was too early so I found a gym and had a shower and worked out a bit. The next morning I hit the road and I picked up another speeding ticket just before the Cahone Pass. I didn't care and the trooper was nice about it. I didn't care because I knew I wasn't going to pay. I got an amnesty offer about a year later. To pay down the warrants. Ninety bucks, and I would have paid but I didn't have the money. I don't know what ever happened but I checked before I moved back to SoCal in 1996. No warrants. Anyway, I'm back in Vegas. Ballys changed my firing to quit will rehire per company policy. But that didn't mean that they WOULD rehire me. I wrote this up in prior segments. Smoked a joint with a black girl who put me onto dealers school. First time with crack. A bus boy at the Paddle Wheel. The Tropicana (massage), introduced to Buddhism. Working for Suzie at the Dunes on weekends, massaging. Fist fight with the assistant manager at the Tropicana. Little Ceasers (dice), first time with meth, the following dice jobs: Golden Gate, Union Plaza, Landmark, Barbary Coast, back to massaging - Caesars Palace, moved to Reno, back to Vegas: (dice jobs) Nevada Palace, Vegas Club, Fremont, Vegas Club again, The Sahara, Whisky Petes, Buffalo Bills, Primadonna (State line) more meth, lot's more meth, King8, Casino Royalle. Lot of crack as well. Percodan. Valium. Booze. Pot. Whatever. Finished. No more Vegas. Now I just have to flesh this out a little.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 63 (view)

Think about what you are not getting... Posted: 11/12/2009 10:49:07 PM
I got fired from Ballys. My friend, Les, was nagging me to drive to Seattle. Split the driving. He was between fights. I tried to get a job at the Riv, but Jeff wouldn't hire anybody he didn't know. Or know of. And I had only been in Vegas for ten months. Anyway, I was at loose ends. I figured to go up to Vancouver and see my friend Jamie. I had a Chrysler Newport. A fast, powerful ex police car. We decided to take Interstate 95 straight through Nevada. Driving across Nevada is sublime. It has a harsh beauty. We stopped in little towns along the way. Take a break. Have a drink. Nevada, California, Oregon, Washington State. We had gone the long way by going through Nevada. We made it, I made it to the Canadian border in about 33 hours. Which is not bad. Plus we had stopped in Reno for an hour and a half and I showered at his sisters place in Seattle. And little rest stops along the way. When I hung out with Les most people thought we were brothers. We were the same size. Except he starved himself down to 126 and I made 132. Featherweight/lightweight. He had red hair. Fabri. Hungarian. I mean, but he was born in the States. Hungarian blood. I was a blond haired, blue eyed Jew. Fabri would make antisemitic remarks, but I ignored him. I get to Vancouver and go to Gastown. I'm looking for Ollenberger, for Jamie. He was working as a bouncer somewhere around there. At some bar. I was asking around. People knew him. He was known. Being a professional fighter and a bouncer. I took a room for the night. I finally meet up with him the next day. He's living with Angel, his stripper girlfriend, in a building a half a block from my hotel room. They got a two room suite. Bedroom/kitchen and share the bath. It was okay. Old building. Clean. Urban location. Right in the heart of Gastown. I sleep on the floor in the kitchen. They give me a little radio which I listen to at night so they can have the illusion of privacy and I can pretend I don't hear them fvcking. I have my massage table with me and I give each of them a massage. Angel tells me that Jamie must really trust me because he wouldn't let just any man touch her. Which is true. We were like blood. The manager of the building is hanging around. A lady. I take a bath in her tub. She lets me use it. She makes a joke, an innuendo. Rump roast or something. I go with her to a coffee shop that night. We walk back to the building holding hands and go to bed and have sex. Jamie is not fighting or working much for that matter. Angel is supporting them both with her dancing. His job appears to be to keep her in drugs. Pot and cocaine. I'm getting high with them. Jamie suggests that I go to the welfare office and apply for benefits, "Tell them you were in the States, but it didn't work out. You only had enough for one months rent. Don't tell them about the car." The building manager gave me a rent receipt and the key to an empty room. I put my stuff in there and the case worker came and I ended up getting four hundred and something. I think 485.00. This was in 1988. It paid for my trip. Jamie says "You can do that every month now. Fly up here and get a check." I'm leaning towards going back to Vegas. Anyway, all my stuff is there. Which, I had nothing. But my important papers were down there. Angel says that she knows an Alderman who can help me get set up to do massage. Licencing and what not. Which I'm sure she did. Because women like that connect to power. She tells me "You have a strong jaw, a beautiful body and you're a nice guy. You don't have to do anything. Women will come to you. I can introduce you to a lot of women." Which...no doubt! She tells me "I really want you around here because Jamie needs you around." She liked me too. She says "Think about what you are not getting there that you could be getting here." It was very tempting. It really was. But I went back to Vegas and stayed there.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 62 (view)

He's says if you don't come in you're fired Posted: 11/11/2009 7:16:23 PM
I got off work at 10:30 am and decided to visit some people I knew from the Temple. I was working at Little Caesars on dice. My first dealing job. This couple lived on Sierra Vista at Paradise Road. She was a redhead named Dusty. His name I don't remember. But I remember that he was considerably older. They had some kind of mutually beneficial parasitic relationship. They lived in a rented townhouse. I had been there for meetings before. Chanting. This was the Nichiren Shoshu Buddhism which a Japanese guy I worked with at the Tropicana had enrolled me in. My car was broken down and he was helping me out with rides for a week until I put a car together. He kind of proselytized me. I couldn't see any harm in it. Plus I met a lot of people through Buddhism. I met my main meth connection, Sandy. Met her through Dusty and seeing her at the Temple. She would chant her fvcking head off. But some kinds of karma don't come clean. You got to pay for real. So, anyway I stop by. Small talk. Then Dusty's husband puts 7 little coke spoons heaped with meth in a glass of pop and hands it to me. I drink it. I'm waiting, waiting, waiting. Me: "What's supposed to happen?" Him: "Just wait." After about twenty minutes the effects start to manifest. I' m feeling a hollow feeling in my stomach. I feel energy, and a sexual energy. Actually a speed high is difficult to describe. I was grinding my teeth. It is intense and insidious. This was my first time and I was lit. Dusty is looking at me and she chews her husband out. "You gave him to much!" "No I didn't. He's all right." Two guys come over that I didn't know. Never met them before. I get the impression that Dusty and her hubby are doing low weight dealing. Small time stuff. Mostly to pay for their own habit. Or maybe not. Maybe these kids were also from the Temple. These two kids are sitting on the couch and one kid has cramps. The other guy says "Maybe I should just punch you in the stomach. " But he doesn't and after a while they leave. Then Dusty and her husband start fighting. He's bitterly complaining about how she won't let him have any. "As good as I am!" Because she has sex with Sandy. Sandy was a tough lesbian from LA. She worked as an exotic dancer in LA. Sandy was a good looking brunette. Until meth destroyed her looks. Because it will. Just give it some time. I subsequently ended up hanging out with Sandy a lot. She gave me free lines. She liked me a lot for some reason. Misery loves company, I guess. So they're fighting about sex and also they are having a problem with inheritance money. He's struggling with relatives over control of an estate. So I'm listening to this sh1t. Time is passing and I'm coming up on my shift. I hadn't slept in about 24 hours. By the time I finally got seriously stung out on the sh1t five days without sleep was the norm. They tell me to drink. I'm drinking whisky to take the edge off. It's helping but not enough. In Vegas, in the casino industry, if you don't give four hours notice before an absence it is considered a no show. And you are fired. No reprieve. I'm twisting in the wind. I'm fvcked up. I can't deal anyway at this point in my career. I'm a raw break-in. My shift starts at 2:30 am. 10:30pm comes and goes. I finally call at 12:30 am. I'm talking to the boxman. I'm babbling some horsesh1t about how I'm sick but I was hoping to get better but I didn't and... He cut's me off. He talks to the shift boss. He comes back on the line "Well he says if you don't come in you're fired." Me: "I'm coming in!" I got through my shift. The box had to talk me through every bet. He was a remarkably patient man. It was a long, long night. I kept muttering about having the flu. I don't think anyone believed me.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 9 (view)

Canadians: Would you move to America for the right person? Posted: 11/10/2009 1:51:32 PM
Overall, people are just nice here. ^^^ Yeah, well, not to me they ain't. But I think it's me. I'm an American born dual citizen. About half and half. I came back up here in 2002. I told me ex wife "I'm leaving now. Good luck. Sorry." I actually prefer the States more. Because I don't trust "nice" people. They want something! I like the medical up here. Also vinegar on fries. You can't forget that. Plus I found love here, so I don't have to go to the states. I would move to America for money! Because I love money! Oh, yeah! I almost forgot: LOL.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 60 (view)

Rotting corpses (erotic) Posted: 11/10/2009 11:47:14 AM
Rotting corpses are not really erotic. I just want to see if I can pull in more readers. Rectal cancer (erotic). Income taxes (erotic). Hell babies (erotic). Yeah, I don't have time to crank out War and Peace right now, so... How about LOL? You can say anything if you follow it by LOL. I fvcked your wife, LOL! Haha just kidding! I pimped your sister, LOL! Lots of lollipops. Here is a little lesson I learned early on in Vegas. If a player claims a bet, says for instance "You didn't pay my line bet!" Well me being a new dealer "Yeah, I did!" Who wants to look bad? I'm arguing with the guy, the boxman would cut in instantly with "Cut it out (in the come, so the camera can see it) and pay him." Yeah, we could call the eye (eye in the sky. Surveillance camera) but for small money why? Why hold up the production line? We're gonna get it back soon anyway. We would call a claimed bet a "shot." They're taking a shot. Everybody gets a first shot free. A freebie. Five bucks? Just pay em! This is downtown. Some guys had a rep for taking shots. They might not be able to after a while if the box gets fed up. They might cut off his action. "Pick up your money! You got no more action!" He might say come back tomorrow. I worked at the Barbary on the original Four Corners. One guy, he was Benny 'The Jet' Akita's manager. He sold Tee shirts. Tee shirt factory. The Jet was the world kick boxing champ. I don't think The Jet could wear glasses if he had to. His nose was flat as a pancake. An inverted pancake. Anyway this guy, the tee shirt guy would take large shots. Like hundreds. The floormen would say the same. Set it up and pay him. He dropped about a quarter million dollars there in a year and that was big action for that place. But, see, I can really extrapolate from these little lessons. Even in the ordinary world. What do you want? You want something? Want their money? Or do you want to be right? Like, handling people. Kind of shrewd. Fvck. Give em their lousy five bucks. We know they are lying, cheating, scumbag, losers. But we are getting it all anyway. They keep coming around, we are getting all of it.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 59 (view)

Like a marriage Posted: 11/9/2009 10:13:02 AM
I left Stockton and pushed on to LA. I had phoned my uncle, my fathers brother, and told him I was coming. He seemed enthusiastic about seeing me. I had seen him last September when he had flown to Vancouver for my sisters wedding. My uncle lived in Torrence, about a mile from Redondo Beach. I got there and took a little bit of time before searching for a job. I checked out the beach cities of the South Bay and what not. This was my first time in LA. My uncle was introducing me to various people. "My nephew!" He had no children and he was showing me off. I was a landscaper by trade. My first interview I was offered a job as foreman. But I turned it down. Six bucks an hour! Even in 1986 I couldn't live on that. Not in LA. Unless I lived in my car. The next interview was at the Hillside Cemetery off the 405 freeway. I phone this guy. I'm a Jew and I worked in the death industry. It's a Jewish cemetery. I wear a suit. I'm a good looking young man. Blond, blue. He shows me around. "There's David Janssen's grave." I didn't even know he was Jewish. This guy offers me a job starting at 8 bucks an hour. He tells me I won't get rich but I will be "comfortable." Then he tells me that if I take the job it will be "like a marriage." Well that was a little too much for me. Eight bucks was about half of what I was making at the cemetery I worked at in Canada. So I'm starting to get the picture. Wages are low in Sunbelt cities. People want to live there and will sacrifice to do so and plenty of cheap labour. Lots of illegal immigrants. They'll work for nothing. A taco. I start taking jobs but I'm quiting them or getting fired on account of my bad attitude. I'm white and speak well, good English, so they are putting me in charge. I got Hispanic guys resenting me. When I notice that, when they give me static, I would kiss my forearm. Loud smacking noise, "White skin." I would announce. "I'm just a poor boy from Canada." The inequities of the world just slid right off my shoulders. I won't go into my life but I didn't come from privilege. Around about this time I'm at my uncles (I can't afford my own place). I'm reading the paper. The personals. I get excited. "Hey Joe (my uncle) look at this." A girl is looking for a boyfriend and there is an actual phone number in the add. I pick up the phone and dial and this girl answers! Her name is Lisa. We got things in common. We were both competitive athletes. She was a high school gymnast. I was an amateur fighter. Plus we are both Jewish. She has Lupus. I had survived cancer the year before. She was six years younger but whatever. She lives in Encino. In the San Fernando Valley. Encino is a ghetto for rich Jews. She lives with her mom. Her family has a lot of money. I go visit her and she lives in a upscale two bedroom condo with vaulted ceilings. Her ma is divorced. She is a cute little thing. On the second date we are in her bedroom watching TV and we have sex. I end up hanging out with her a lot. Now I wasn't being fair to this girl. I was on the rebound from my GF in Vancouver and I can say this: that girl deserved a lot better than who I was at that time. I was spending a lot of nights at her place. I was working in LA and it was closer to drive over the mountain to Encino than to my uncles place. One day Lisa tells me "you got good hands. Why don't you go to massage school. It's a trendy job." So I check it out. Fairly cheap and only three months. That right there... I start attending the Massage School of Santa Monica. At night. During the day I'm working at the Pacific Crest Cemetery in Redondo Beach. A small cemetery. Once again they are training the white boy to take over as foreman, for when old Bill retires. There were two Mexican men working there. Family men. They had been there a long time. They really deserved the shot. I didn't care because I was planning to quit when school was over anyway. I would fvck with the one Mexican guy. I'd point to a tiny mausoleum "I guess that would be a mansion in Mexico." But he wasn't laughing. School was going okay. I worked hard. I give my instructor massage. The test. I'm nervous. I'm not good at this point. A neophyte. But I notice that the instructor, a Frenchman from Paris, is zoned out. When it's over he sits up and tells me this, he says "Now listen to me. You have something we can't teach you. You have a gift." And he's telling me about my hands. Because my hands are heavy. People get kind of trance like. I managed to get a job at a new Sports Connection in Manhattan Beach. The owner of the spa, I had to give her a massage as part of the interview. She strips naked in front of me. I figure it's a test and anyway it's part of the business. But I behave appropriately and she hires me. Things are working out pretty good. I quit the cemetery. The massage job is straight commission 50/50. One of the people she hired is a big guy named Tar who was on the TV show The Rat Patrol. He was the guy that drove up in the truck on the opening credits. He got fired for cracking people necks. Laurie, the owner, was afraid of lawsuits. I decided to continue my education. I found a school called the Institute of Psycho Structural Balancing. IPSB. Also in Santa Monica. Now the important thing about this school was that everybody massaged each other in the nude. So when I heard that I signed right up. There were some juicy ladies there. When I was finished getting massaged I would sit up on the edge of the table and will blood into my penis. Kind of letting it hang over the edge of the table. I was trying to get a hard on. I mean it was natural and all. Am I right? Then the ladies would walk by and peek out of the corner of their eyes. The instructors were all women and for some reason they hated me. I ended up getting expelled. I have to admit I was not behaving appropriately. Like we would go outside at lunch to sit on the grass and I would spark up a fatty. I'm not really new age. I saw massage as a way to squeeze money out of people. Anyway, it didn't matter. Business was slow at the spa. I ran an add in a South Bay paper and picked up some private massages. Some of them were spa customers. If Laurie found out she would have fired me. I also got work massaging Laurie's sister and brother in law. She was really a very nice lady, Laurie. She was trying to help me. She happened to be Jewish. She told me this: I was explaining how I wished I could sneak into the spa from the back. Be invisible. She says "Take your space. You do anyway." I never forgot that. Anyway, I got a lady in Culver City. She lived in a black doctors house and cooked macrobiotic meals for him. Where she lived was in the hills above Culver. It was called pill hill. Because of black doctors lived there and lawyers and what not. Upper middle class blacks. She had run an add at the first school. Wanted a guy with big hands. I phoned her and told her that my hands were not that big but I had good hands. When I massaged her she told me after, she told me this " I've had a lot of massages and you are very, very good. If you stay with this you will make a lot of money." But I didn't make money for a while. And when I finally did it wasn't because I was good. Summer is coming on and it's slow and getting slower. The school, the Massage School of Santa Monica has a class on job opportunities in the industry. The teacher is going blah, blah, blah, and at the end of the class he says "Oh yeah, there's always Vegas." Which he seemed to be saying if you are stupid enough. Well. I am. I'm stupid enough to try anything. I go to the Torrence library and read a Vegas paper. The RJ. The Review Journal. First I turn to rentals. Studio apartments for 150 bucks a month! I figured I could survive in Vegas on minimum wage. Vegas was dirt cheap then. A population of about 450,000. Shortly after I see an add on the bulletin board at school. The Flamingo is looking for masseuses and masseurs. Please phone Pat Hess for more info. Pat was a masseuse at the Flamingo Hilton. She later died of breast cancer while I was away living in Reno. She tells me that the Flamingo is not hiring but that Ballys needs a masseur. I call and they want to see me. I leave at midnight. Beat the heat. I talk to Lee, the lead masseur. I give him a little massage. He gives me some pointers. I go talk to the mall manager with Lee. How soon can I pack up and move to Vegas? I say a week. "Too long." "How about four days?" Anyway, that's how my Vegas life started. I was the perfect patsy. That's why they hired me. I didn't know much. I didn't know anything. But my education was about to commence.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 58 (view)

Rebuttal Posted: 11/8/2009 9:37:56 PM
Commentary on a thread by a Hunter Thompson groupie. Yes, Hunter was a disappointment. He painted himself into a corner. He created a monster and he didn't have the fortitude to step back, or let go. He was surrounded by enablers, who put on a shameful display at his funeral service. I'm thinking particularly of Johnny Depp, here. But guess what? Regards killing himself with his son and his daughter in law in the house. And his wife on the phone. There is nobody more self centred and selfish than a drug addict. Mailer was seduced by celebrity. Hemingway as well. All successful writers are vulnerable. They become parodies of themselves. Hunter wrote the same book for the last twenty years of his life. He became a clown and those Hollywood vampires fed off him. When I lived in Vegas me and my drug addict/alcoholic cronies idolized Thompson. He had the money to get away with that sh1t for a lot longer than I did. Somewhere I grew up and got out and his destroyed talent doesn't mitigate what he became. And all those lame, phony syphons who egged him on are left to spout off effusively about what a great man and writer he was while they lived vicariously through his self destruction. And call it art. Instead of degradation.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 57 (view)

Explaining the game Posted: 11/8/2009 7:01:33 PM
When I write about dice I understand that I may frustrate and alienate the reader because most readers will not understand the idiom or subculture of craps dealing. They don't know the game, most of them. I would rather risk losing a reader than disrupt the power of my narrative. Plus, what am I really trying to say? Like in the previous story. The proper way to bet the don't pass? How to get a comp? That gambling is stupid? That the players are stupid? Maybe a little bit of the latter two. Casinos are mean, cold places. I worked in them for close to a decade. That shaped my perception. I got marked. Casinos are also fun. They can be exciting. Action. Although gambling left me cold. Casinos are generally full of beautiful women. Babes and money. That right there... Yeah, when I pull this together for a book I will get a picture of a layout and try to explain the game. As a courtesy to the reader. It won't make a whole lot of difference though. I would be explaining the game in real time and these clowns wouldn't get it. All night long. Who wants to think? I remember countless examples. Pass line odds is self service. The flat bet, which is even money, is in escrow once the point is established and until a decision on the dice is reached. Either the shooter makes the point, repeats the established number or a seven rolls. Seven out. The don't pass is the opposite of the pass line. It wins on a seven out. You lay odds opposite to taking odds. Wouldn't the don't pass win every time? Because seven is the dominant number on a pair of dice. No, because don't pass loses on a winner seven. On the come out. If you get by the winner seven the odds favour a don't pass winner. But you are laying odds. Betting more to win less. I'll make it simple: you can't beat that game. There are no loose ends. See? I lost you already. I get a player at State Line who every come out, every fvcking come out, dumps two checks in the come and says in a loud voice "Odds!" "Yes sir, that's self service, you can take care of that yourself." After about five points I wanted to strangle this fool. I had a lot of other sh1t to do. Besides which I hated players anyway and loved to beat the pants off of them. Craps is the fastest and most complex of the casino games. It also offers true odds on some bets (pass line and come bets). Dice came over from Europe after the war and was the big money maker on the strip in the fifties and sixties. Nowadays it is a dying game. Young people don't want to learn it. People are intimidated by the intensity of the game. The speed and the intensity. At least 60 percent of the handle in any casino now comes from slots and video pokers. Sitting there in solitude. Pulling a handle and watching the fruit spin. Mesmerized. Public masturbation. I almost did myself to death in Vegas. Moving there, living there, that was the best thing I ever did in my life. It was right up my alley.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 56 (view)

See you later, lucky. Posted: 11/8/2009 8:32:27 AM
I was working at a casino on Fremont at Main called the Las Vegas Club. I had a day shift. The floor was dead. The dice pit has three games but only the east table is manned. One dice crew. It's about 10:30 am and two guys walk up to my end. I'm on second base. These guys are wearing golf shirts and plaid shorts. They look like Midwesterners from central casting. They want to know how to play the game and they have checks in hand. I tell them "Put two of those down there." On the pass line. Just then a man walks up next to the stick and across from third base. He's a local. A don't better. He was waiting for a shooter to bet against. Don't side, don't pass betters are betting against the point and they won't shoot the dice, since it's aggravating to beat yourself. The don't side guy puts three hundred bucks on the don't pass line. This is all happening fast. I glance over and size it up instantly. The white bread Midwesterner picks up the dice. I lean in and tell him in a soft voice "Roll an eleven." He shoots the dice. Stickmans call: "Yo eleven!" The third base dealer takes the don't betters money. The don't guy bets four fifty inside and three hundred on the don't pass line. He says "working." He's working his place bets on the come out and ordinarily they are off. See the odds favour a seven every roll. It's the strongest number on the dice. The dealer puts an on button on top of the puck. Say's "$450.00 inside working." These are the things you have to do to protect the game. The camera has no audio. I tell the hick "Roll a seven." Winner seven. The don't guys bets are wiped out. This pattern repeats for three more rolls. Every time I tell the yahoo to roll a number he does. And every time he shoots the don't guy loses every bet on the layout. It's like the dice have radar. The don't guy gets busted out and turns sharply on his heels and walks straight out the door. The boxman mutters "See you later, lucky." Usually when a guy loses like that he doesn't hang around. We're not going to cry for him and you ain't getting a comp after we already got your money. I look at the shooter: "You made eight bucks and that guy lost 2200 bucks." Now this guy is all excited " Can we get a comp?" (No sir, you cannot get a comp. You can lose your money and go away.) The stick picks up the pace and whacks these two bumpkins out. They depart. A few minutes late the number four dealer arrives and taps out the stickman, the stick comes around and pushes me off, I clap, spread my fingers and show my hands to the boxman and the camera and step back. I'm going on my break. I hop over the velvet rope and glance back and the whole pit has their heads down and they are snickering. Including the shift boss. I had seen countless losers in my time in Vegas, but I never saw anybody lose like that. Every bet, every roll, in sequence, without one win or even a push. The guy had a plan but it was a stupid plan. He was betting against probability and it was probably his social security check. It was that time of the month.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 55 (view)

Dear female type person thing Posted: 11/7/2009 9:29:24 PM
Here is your schedule for our upcoming relationship. Please print this and keep a copy on your person at all times. 10 emails. 5 more to go. I will be disarmingly forthcoming in our communications, while at the same time revealing absolutely nothing of any importance to you about my potential fitness as a mate. 2 phone conversations. I will be witty and charming and also completely vacant and without substance. We will meet at a place of your choosing for coffee. After a few seconds of being in my physical presence: YOU WILL DESIRE ME. After a brief amount of time (less time=less chance for you to find out how fu-ked up I really am) you walk me back to the sky train station. My Hummer is in the shop, being fitted for machine gun turrets. At the entrance to the sky train you lean in for a kiss. I restrain myself and kiss you lightly on the forehead. THE FIRST DATE: Dinner at Hon's and a sophisticated evening at the No.5 Orange (strip joint) This time we get into some serious face sucking and I probe your tonsils. A brief but intense courtship, followed by a 7 year marriage which ends when a meteor falls on me.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 54 (view)

Portent Posted: 11/7/2009 8:58:17 PM
In late 1984 I was the foreman at a graveyard up from the Lougheed Highway. Near the Brentwood Mall in Burnaby, British Columbia. My coworker was also my best friend. I joined his boxing gym. He was pursuing a pro career and I started having amateur fights. One day they brought in a casket containing the body of a 14 year old girl. It was a big service. The girl was an epileptic and she got run over by a truck. After the people left I climbed down into the grave and raised the lid and we looked at her. She had black hair. She was very pale. Her head was canted slightly to the left. Her youth made her death particularly disturbing. Cemetery workers looking at bodies is quite common. I know this from speaking to other guys in the business. You are looking...for what? What's gone? Something ineffable. Intangible. It was late. We got some dirt on the casket and pulled the plywood and tarps over. We would finish in the morning. At quiting time I saw my friend staring up the hill at the grave site. I looked up as well. Then I turned and looked dead at him. Right into him. Because he looked haunted. I held my gaze. It was like looking down a narrow tunnel. This stays with me. Eight years later he was dead. Killed in a borrowed Mustang. Thirty years old. He crossed the Rubicon into oblivion. I walked into the pain that never ends.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 53 (view)

Maxed out. Posted: 11/7/2009 8:55:47 AM
I had map books called Thomas Guides. Extremely concise and detailed map books. I had one for San Bernardino/ Riverside County and one for LA/Orange County. The zip code editions. With these books I could find any location if it existed. Even dirt roads, which were illustrated with broken lines. I found a trailer in the Lucerne Valley, high desert, it wasn't even a dirt road. A street sign and tire tracks in the sand. In the morning the servers would go into the office and Sam would dish out the marching orders. I was generally last, reflecting my place in the company pecking order. Being new and all. I would get my serves, filings, information and whatever. One day I was handed a sub-serve. I went to a warehouse in a San Bernardino industrial park. I go into the office and walk up to the counter. There are two guys there. "I'm looking for so and so." The second man: "He's not here." I ask him "Are you his boss?" The guy puffs up: "Yes I am." Me: " Oh. Okay. I'm serving you then." This guy, he's indignant: " I don't want it!" "You can't serve me!" "Sure I can. It says so right here. Substitute service. " I'm pointing to the document where it says. Which you can do it. A wife, a boss. Somebody with a connection to the intended. I mean you can't evade justice forever. Which I was getting a huge kick out of shoving that paper in the guys face while he was ranting about his rights. I mean after a while it gets acrimonious. I mean...pay your fvcking bills! Anyway I factiously thanked the guy and left. The irony was that every night I got home and talked to my friends the guys from the collection agencies. I wasn't too uptight. What could they do? What could they take? I had nothing. Zero assets. I was juggling my credit cards. I would take cash advances to pay the minimums on the other cards and it was only a matter of time. When I ran out of credit, when I maxed them out, the game was over. My hobby was baiting these guys. They would try to lay a guilt trip on me. I told them if it's bad business don't do it. It was fairly easy to discharge debt in the nineties. When they offered me the cards they told me I was a living saint. When I started to default I was a bum and a deadbeat with no moral fibre. Anyway, I'm serving dead beats and waiting for my own serve. Sometimes I would get a rush filing from a law office. And I mean rush. Major stress. Because if I got a speeding ticket, who's gonna pay? Except me? It seemed as though these lawyers would purposely wait till the very last minute to get their moneys worth. I'd be trying to beat the closing of the courthouse. Just another reason to hate lawyers. If I even needed another reason. One time I served eviction papers. This was also in San Bernardino. There was a description of the tenants and the landlord described the lady and highlighted the fact that she had an unusually large ass. I found the apartment and I was on the porch. I could see into the kitchen through the sliding glass door. I'm knocking and these people phone the police on a cell phone. They're doing this pantomime "There's a strange man on our porch and we don't know what he wants." I'm yelling "I'm serving an eviction notice." The girl turns around. Yup! Gigantic ass. Good enough for me. I stuffed it in between the door handle and the door frame. "Here you go. This is for you!" I go to Colton. I'm looking for a lady. I'm on the sidewalk in front of some small apartments. A kid accosts me. "Can I help you?" I ask him " Are you (lady's name)?" "No" "Then you can't help me." This kid "I know her. What's it all about." I ended up telling him to stay out of it. He was bigger than me but not bigger enough. I'm trying to point something out here. My commitment to this job was not about the money. I don't even think I was making two bucks an hour. It was piece work. And I was putting in twelve hour days, at least six days a week and driving about 1200 miles a week. See, I took the job. I had a job to do. I was impervious to threats. The job was really about my transition from nine years of Las Vegas, to the white bread, ham and eggs life I was going to have to adjust to. The job was offbeat enough and unstructured enough so that is wasn't some kind of living death. It took me years to adjust to a normal and drug free life. I was still drinking in fact. I finally packed it all in when I was forty eight. Later on I ended up living in Korea Town and working in Northridge, in the San Fernando Valley. I was managing a bakery. That's when I started getting tattoos. I needed something real to happen. Something painful and permanent. What is it about risk taking? Apart from possible genetic motivators. Because risk is what? Possibility. That's where God lives. In the possible. It could be spiritual. You could make a case. Maybe it's not all light and transcendence. You could find God in the gutter. Maybe?

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 52 (view)

You're served motherfvkcer Posted: 11/6/2009 9:07:53 PM
So the guy hired me. Why not? It was straight commission. No serve, no pay. Unless it was a not found. Unless I was given wrong information. A wrong address for instance. In fact I had no idea how I was getting paid. It was complex. 25 cents a mile after 25 miles out. Like going to the high desert cities. I don't know what filings paid. I couldn't really figure out what serves paid. I was clearing about 200 bucks a week. Minus gas and repairs to my old Honda Prelude. I was supplementing my income with Gold cards. I would be doing serves and also court filings. Also I would be checking records. Digging up dirt on people. For employers. And scut work for lawyers. And lawyers know the value of a dollar. Believe me. I covered the three counties. San Bernardino, the largest county in the United States and also Riverside. This was the Inland Empire. And also LA County but not so much. I didn't know what I was doing, so Sam, the owner, put me with an experienced guy for three days. At the end of the three days I think I knew less than when I walked into the office. One problem was I didn't know the freeway system there. That took a while. The 91 splits. Right, you go to Uplands and the mountains. Left fork and you go to Riverside. I spent three days going the wrong fvcking way. It was stressful. I dressed business casual. Dockers. Short sleeve patterned dress shirt and a tie. A clip on tie. I had a beeper and a cell phone and after a while I got a 6 D cell mag-lite. Which made everybody a lot more cordial and cooperative. Although in truth I was more afraid of dogs. But threats and foul language was the daily fare. I would recite in a monotone "If you strike me you are striking an officer of the court and you WILL go to prison." But the mag-lite worked a lot better than my empty cautions. One of my early serves was an eviction of a young black couple right in San Bernardino. They were packing when I got there. I gave them the serve and they were bitter. "We are leaving anyway!" "Yeah but he just wants to make it legal." I had some sympathy. Although a lot of folks only pay their rent once every three months. They just keep moving on. Pay the rent and the down. Then don't pay and wait to get evicted. It takes a while to get someone out in Cali. Anyway, I asked these people "Please sign this, it just acknowledges that you received the serve." It wasn't absolutely critical but it might help me get paid. She didn't want to. I'm cajoling her. Finally she tells her man "Just sign it and get his ugly face out of here!" When she said that I just lit up inside. I was smiling. Here it was again. It appealed to my sense of irony. During my "training" period I went to the juvenile detention in Chino with the experienced guy. We drive up to the gate. A hefty, no nonsense, uber tough lady guard. We are serving child support papers on a young prisoner. The State wants to establish rights to this guys future earnings. The State is supporting the mother of his child and they plan to get some of the money back someday. If this kid ever does make a taxable income. The whole institution is on lock down. All the staff are angry. Two days before a prisoner, a young black man, incarcerated for a rape/murder, had raped and murdered a counsellor and stuffed her body in a trash barrel. He stalked her for a week. We drive up to the parking lot and walk over to the reception area. There is some paper work. I use my Clark County gaming licence for ID. I didn't have a Cali DL yet. I was still on my Nevada drivers licence. We are escorted to an office and and this is where the administrator explains what happened and why the institution is on lock down. He's very angry. The rapist is going to Chino. State prison. Gladiators school. The administrator says that he will get taken care of there. They bring the kid in, the kid getting the serve. A husky black kid. He shuffles into the room in ankle chains and cuffs. My trainer explains the serve, serves him and we leave. On the way out I tell the Dyke looking guard that I plan to never break the law. She tells me that's right, you better not. I can't do this phase of my life much justice. It's jumbled up in my memory. If you do this work...if you're awake you are working. I would get my serves and study them. See what I could figure out. What kind of work do they do? Baker? Got to hit them about four in the morning. Different things. We had a reverse directory in the office. It's hunting is what it is. You got to find them and catch them. You're the last person they ever want to see. I did a lot of serves for a dentist. He got a bulk discount. He had a lot of poor patients. Deadbeats. I phoned one guy. I told him "Meet me on the corner of such and such, I got a prize for you." An older, small black guy walks up. "Here." He walks away reading it. What the hell. I had one apartment complex in San Bernardino. I saw a lot of those people. The leasing agents were attractive black ladies. When I served evictions there the people took it in stride. "Oh, is that all?" I told my boss that I was driving into LA on the weekend to go to Venice Beach. He digs up a serve for me. Might as well make a few bucks. Divorce papers. I get a picture of the woman's car. A GEO tracker. Personalized plates: Buffalo Gal. She's a school teacher. They are expecting me at a certain time. She knows she is getting served. I get there early, locate her little house, see the vehicle (Buffalo Gal) and go to a coffee shop to wait. I order coffee and go into the washroom. Two inches of water all over the floor. I go out and tell the manager "It's high tide in there." He goes to look and shortly comes out and thanks me for telling him. I go to meet Buffalo Gal. Give her the serve. There is some big fat guy hovering over her. It's clearly a watershed moment for her and the fat boy has an obvious agenda. She is pretty and even I start sniffing around. But fatso ushers me out. He staked his claim first. He's going to help her through her divorce and she will be so grateful that... I had to go up into the hills of Corona. Way up. This took time. I expected the person to be there. The car was in the driveway. I knock. Nothing. I'm looking around. Looking for light inside. I knock some more. I even go next door and ask the neighbour. "Do you know when these people are usually home." One thing about me was I was very persistent and aggressive. I'm trying to make a living. I go back. Now the door is open a half inch. This is a setup. I push it open six inches. What I did was illegal. I had just entered. As opposed to breaking and entering. I knew it was illegal but I didn't care as I planned to lie about it. I'm calling. Nothing. I go out on the driveway. Some white bread looking MFer with a goatee, I put him about 200 lbs. He comes out and he is very belligerent. I don't have my mag-lite and I give him the usual "If you strike me..." He goes in his garage and informs me that he has a Glock 9. I'm craning my head. Trying to see. It sounded like some kind of space gun. He's crouched down. He tells me I'm stupid for not running. I'm mad now. I tell him he's a macho wimp. "Go ahead! I'll be free and you will be in Chino getting fvcked up the ass!" I had come all that way for nothing. He said he phoned the cops. I phoned them also and said " come get me. I'm waiting." I had cops come before. They would know immediately: "You serving?" "Yeah." "Maybe you should go away for a while until they settle down." And no, they wouldn't help you make the serve. Anyway I left. The next day the other guy tried and got the same bullsh1t. Then the boss called the wife and threated a law suit. They took the serve then. It was only deposition papers on an insurance case. Favourable to them. The guy watched too much TV. They told Sam that they saw me snorting coke in my car. Yeah and I was running around with underwear on top of my head.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 4 (view)

Hunter S. Thompson... Posted: 11/5/2009 3:33:33 PM
Yes, Hunter was a disappointment. He painted himself into a corner. He created a monster and he didn't have the fortitude to step back, or let go. He was surrounded by enablers, who put on a shameful display at his funeral service. I'm thinking particularly of Johnny Depp, here. But guess what, re: killing himself with his kids in the house. There is nobody more self centred and selfish than a drug addict. Mailer was also seduced by celebrity. Hemingway as well. All successful writers are vulnerable. They become parodies of themselves. Hunter wrote the same book for the last twenty years of his life. He became a clown and those Hollywood vampires fed off him. When I lived in Vegas me and my drug addict/alcoholic cronies idolized Thompson. He had the money to get away with that sh1t for a lot longer than I did. Somewhere I grew up and got out and his destroyed talent doesn't mitigate what he became. And all those lame, phony syphons who egged him on are left to spout off effusively about what a great man and writer he was while they lived vicariously through his self destruction. And call it art. Instead of degradation.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 51 (view)

Out of the inferno Posted: 11/5/2009 2:36:28 PM
Listen to me! Vegas has hundreds of casinos. I only burned down twenty of them. What was the problem then? See a lot of these casinos are "Groups." The Boyd Group. Gaughn has multiple holdings. A lot of casinos are financially connected. You fvck up somewhere and you burnt down two or three other joints. Plus as I mentioned my age didn't help. I would go audition somewhere, Texas Station for instance and get a recommend for hire by the shift boss. I mean, I could deal. I was good. But I couldn't get through corporate. As far as lying goes, which I will do in a heartbeat, it's all there on your gaming card. It' s on file at Metro. I got my printout. With me. Here. In New West. A keepsake. I was at loose ends. I thought about Laughlin. Laughlin didn't really appeal to me. There was something else. I was clean. I had stopped using street drugs, but if I hung around Vegas I would eventually slip. Every addict/alcoholic that reads this knows: the geographical cure doesn't work. On the other hand if you don't want to slip then you don't hang out in slippery places. You don't hang out in bars, crack houses, shooting galleries. The whole State of Nevada is a slippery place. Now there's plenty of AA meetings in Vegas. 24 hours a day! But it seemed like getting out of town might be a good idea for someone like me. If I wanted to live. I kicked around for a week and a half. Didn't know what to do. What's my move? I didn't have much money in the bank but I had three gold cards and a bunch of department store cards. I phoned Zoya, my childhood friend. Her parents were friends with my parents. Everybody from NY. Zoya's mom, Barbara had lived in Tel Aviv for years. Barbara had divorced Zoya's father. Anyhow, I phone Zoya and get her mom's phone number. Her mom don't live in Israel anymore. But I figure I can get information. I talk to her, Barbara, and she tells me that Israel needs professional people and committed Zionists. I mean that's a tough world over there. She told me they don't need lost people trying to find themselves and in fact they avoid them. She told me this and I was not offended because she had me dead to rights. My plan had been to whack out my credit cards and run off to Israel. Which I ended up whacking them out anyway. A few days later Zoya phones me. She tells me that her fiancée, Denis had a house sitting empty in San Bernardino, that was always getting broken into and Denis also had a friend who ran a process serving business and might like to give me a job. Denis was living with her in Sherman Oaks. A place to live for free and a job! It sounded good. Also, process serving. Another eat sh1t and die job. What more could I ask for? I cleaned up my business in Vegas. Drove out there. I met them at the house in San Bernardino. They took me to an Italian restaurant. I ordered the Gnocchi but I didn't eat too much. I was talking Vegas. Spewing all over them. My intensity, the mania showed up more when I didn't have the camouflage of Vegas to hide in. The next day I was standing in the house and Zoya looks at me: "There is something wrong with you. You're crazy." I'm laughing. Yeah, I'm a wild and crazy guy. She says "No I mean there is something chemically wrong with you." She told me she would talk to her father, a psychiatrist who owns a private hospital. I eventually went to county hospital and started on the medication. I'm bipolar two. It was the meth that exacerbated it. Which I got no regrets. The medication is the best thing that ever happened to me. I did the process serving for six intense months and I have to really think about it. It is kind of fragmented. Some of the serves stand out. Most of it is just a blur.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 50 (view)

Flunking out. Posted: 11/5/2009 1:47:45 PM
In late May of 1996 I got fired from State Line. I was asking for it, pretty much. Lipping off and finally a customer complained and they were cleaning house anyway and the customer made a stink at shift change and all the bosses were around and goodbye Buffalo Bills. Fortunately for me I could feel it coming and I quit using narcotics and pot (especially pot) about 10 weeks previous. Because State Line had no drugs screen. Meth in particular was rife out there. Most and in fact all good jobs in town drug test. I was clean but I was still drinking. I got a survival job at the King 8 on Trop off Vegas Blvd. They had slots, one dice table and a small blackjack pit. Like four tables. They ran silver on the dice table and the other table games, looking for crossover play from the slots. It was a forty dollar job plus the occasional score. When the shift boss talked to me about the job she asked me no less than four times "You're sure you can pass a drug test?" I got the look, I suppose. I quit King8 pretty quickly. I wanted more action because I was under the illusion that I could get a decent job again. I wanted to keep my hands and my game sharp. I got a job at the Casino Royalle. This bottom feeder was tucked between O'Sheas and The Sands. It was owned by Gilardi. This guy and his family owned the Frontier, which at the time hosted the longest running strike in North America. The Culinary Workers strike. In fact Gilardi sold rather than settle the strike. But that might give you an idea about what kind of pr1ck this guy was. Yeah the money sucked, but what was worse was working with the brutal lumpy dealers they had working there. I mean this was basically a break in joint. On par with Slots of Fun, or Silver City or Bourbon Street. I was still clean at this time. But I was definitely not right in the head. I was having trouble controlling my temper. Especially since I wasn't really even trying to control it. I was head and shoulders above these dealers and being a compulsive perfectionist I would have to correct their bad pay outs and what not. I don't care to give away money. Even though it's not my goddamn money. So, anyway, these dealers are going crying to the casino manager..."boo-hoo, he's making us look bad!" So they told me to lay off. This one lady, I had a serious hate on for her, a hard ten rolled, 5/5. She points to the bet. Tells me to pay the player. Me: "Why should I?" I couldn't help myself. I saw it go down on a 6/4 and I knew, KNEW, it would come the hard way. Her (impatient) "Because it hit!" Me: "That went down two rolls ago." Her shocked countenance. Whatever. They could have rolled back the video. I should have just kept my mouth shut. I worked so hard to be a good dealer, that... My last shift there I was on second base and the dice went off the table. A player, not the shooter yells "Same dice! Same dice!" I'm half asleep wishing I was on another fvcking planet. This was a jammed up game but flea bets. I mutter "Same dice? They're all the same." The shift boss who just came on says " How long you been dealing? " He's standing beside me on the inside of the pit. Me: "I don't know. Why?" "I asked you how long you been dealing?!" Me: " I don't know. Six years." "Don't you know by now that only the shooter can call for the same dice?" I told him that I didn't even say that. He was just trying to pick a fight. He backs up and starts hemming and hawing and tells me that he's not in a good mood that day and "don't start with me." Like I fvcking care. But suddenly my head exploded. He had told somebody to tap me off the game. I couldn't take being bullied by this guy and I clapped my hands, stepped back and advised him to "Go fvck yourself up your mothers ass!" He called for security and as I walked out into the basement to my car I passed a security guard making his was slowly to the dice pit. I got in my car and drove home and that was it. Nine+ years and twenty joints and it was over. Vegas was over.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 48 (view)

Bitter ugly rant Posted: 11/2/2009 1:34:29 PM
Nothing fvcking balances. I phoned my tutor in desperation and I am waiting for her call back. You know what? Nobody on this planet has hurt me the way women have. They enjoy it. They got a lot of power and they got no power. When my girlfriend told me she was leaving me, I cried like a fool. I could feel the contempt coming off her in waves. I should have been laughing. Years later I'm making money, I got a status job. Who turns up?!!! She got my address off my mother, another b1tch who beat me in the crib. I told my mom, "I don't like that." I knew what my ex was doing. But my mom: "No, she's my friend!" You know what? I don't miss my mom, I forgive her. I forgive women. They can't help what they are. I forgive em but conversely I do NOT apologize for being a man. For who I am. Yeah, Brenda, men are sh1ts but I got my own problems. See what I'm saying? I do better this way. That's what matters. You see that last thread? The last post? That guy is not P.C. but she is turned on by him. Do women lie? Only when their lips are moving. Yeah, men lie too, but I ain't worried about men. I don't make myself vulnerable to men. And I can't figure this sh1t out. There is no solution. Not yet. I haven't found it. Maybe I'll get lucky. A hot woman with a real heart. But why would she go for me? Your bitter friend, Jesse 10/11/2008 4:07:23 pm Somebody p1ssed in my cornflakes.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 47 (view)

Did I even deserve it Posted: 11/2/2009 1:30:26 PM
In 2000 I was living in the San Fernando Valley. I had taken bakery at school. I got a job interview at a small wholesale bakery in Northridge. They were a vendor for Trader Joes. So Sandra, the owner, was impressed and called her husband Benny to the bakery to meet me. Benny Stern was from Israel. I have never been to Israel, but I have relatives there. I used to think I wanted to go live in Israel, but after getting around this guy... So they wanted me and they hired me and then they started pressuring me to be the manager. On account of I was white and they trusted me and everybody else was Mexican ladies. I didn't want to do it. I don't like being a boss. I like to work alone. I kept saying "what about Norma?" She made the cinnamon rolls. She was smart, tough, and she really LIKED bossing people around. But..."Well, we like Norma, but we don't really trust her." Well, I wanted and needed the extra money, so yeah, I took the position. But there was some big Mexican kid there. He helped with the deliveries to City of Industry and other little duties. This kid started insinuating himself as some kind of power broker between me and my subordinates. Because he spoke Spanish of course and all I had were palabras (words) . He's coming to me: " The girls are saying this, the girls are saying that!" After about three days of this bullsh1t I told him, "The next time you come to me like that, I will send you home on the spot." Well, the whining started: "That's not fair! They are coming to me!" I told him, "Well, If I were you I would tell them to fvck off then." Then I went to Norma and told her "I'm the boss, I'm gonna be here a long time (a lie) get over it. Any problems, you come to ME." I also told her "And quit calling me a chinga (a f--k)!" Which actually, I was charmed by that. Yeah, it didn't bother me at all. I thought it was funny. Hey! I was the Gringo boss. Of course they hated me. I just wanted her to know that I wasn't completely stupid. Actually I loved those ladies. They worked hard. One day Sandra, the owner, called me into her office late. I knew what was up from her tone of voice. She told me she had uterine cancer. I was struggling to maintain my composure and keep a poker face, which believe me I'm not good at. Because inside my heart was bursting with joy. I was thinking "Well that ought to keep this b1tch out of my hair for a while and maybe, God willing, she will die. But I did carry the place for five months with very little help from her husband. I even visited her in the hospital. Every week. I had no health insurance. No vacation pay. No holiday pay. Not even the four percent. This is the US. I made 9.50 per hour and earned $17,000.00 in overtime in one year. These people were unscrupulous. They screwed their creditors, relatives and anything that moved. One time Norma showed me a snapshot of her as a young lady. She had three kids when I encountered her. The snapshot took my breath away. She was stunning. High sculpted cheekbones. She showed me a picture of her husband. He was also genetically superior. I whispered "Bonita (pretty)." I understood what she was telling me. These two people, more beautiful than movie stars and just anonymous poor Mexicans. Sometimes the husband would come to the bakery. We were located in an industrial park. I would open the door. He shows me a bag " Lunchy for Norma." Then I would call her and she would come to the door. Her husband would stand there and stare into her eyes with rapt devotion. Three kids and she had put on some weight. But he still worshipped her. I mean, I was watching surreptitiously. Yeah, I felt envy. You know...would I ever find that kind of love and did I even deserve it.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 46 (view)

Not worth a title Posted: 11/2/2009 8:53:29 AM
Well if we are going off topic here, slightly off topic, you could chalk up the current economic crisis to the peroration of a long decline. There could be a lot of breast beating about the inequity of the capitalistic system, which no doubt about it, is not working well at present. Capitalism seems to be imploding the way communism did in the late eighties. Remember the euphoria? The end of history? The annihilation of the middles class spells the destruction of democracy. It seems inexorable and inevitable. If the wealthy want to live behind a moat...but don't bet that they won't trade off freedom for comfort. The economic and sociological fissures appearing in the US and to a lesser extent in Canada, appear to have a life of their own. Until the pendulum swings back to a more even economic keel. The wealthy and powerful always espouse their superiority and divine right to prosper and rule by self evident genetic superiority. But! No worries. Because if something goes wrong there is always Joe Public, the anonymous loser, to bail them out. We need new managers? More love? Less greed? A kinder gentler...? I don't have the answers either. The following is a response to commentary on the above piece. But he won't get a piece of my thread. He had nothing to say as far as I'm concerned. He didn't speak to me. He can run it up somebody else's flagpole and see who salutes it. As follows: Hmmmmmmmmmmmm! Yes, I see what you're saying! I hear you loud and clear! Been there, done that! I hear what you're saying and I feel your pain. WHAT DID YOU THINK OF MY STYLE??? Hey! I'm trying to write here! That was just a post on some thread, some guy having a Hallmark moment, decrying the loss of common values, and I would personally like to stuff his head in a meat grinder. Because I loathe sentimental pap.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 45 (view)

No light at the end of this tunnel Posted: 11/1/2009 9:23:39 PM
Any recent news? You will be busy now, with your dad. It's a terrible time. When your parents begin dying, you lose your past and you step up to the turnstile. I console myself that by outliving them, I have spared them the devastation of outliving their children. Why is life so painful? But it is. I don't really believe in the silver lining thing or that it's a learning experience. Learn what? How to suffer? But I do believe in stoicism. I would stop in to see my mom every day on my way to work. She died of cancer and she had it before and survived about 27 years. A good run. In the end she was rotten with it. All through her, even on her skin. She lay there but she weighed about 65 pounds. Then I would get on the train and head for work. At the end she was in a light coma. I worked a graveyard shift. She was close and I prayed. Prayed for her to die. "Take her. Please." There was nothing left. That body wouldn't support life. In the morning I stopped and looked on one last time and held her hand. I went home to bed and my father called me at about 2 pm and that was it. I had cancer in 1985. It will come back and kill me in the end. I am certain. Anyway, something will. I pray I don't outlive my sister. She is my best friend. After my dad dies...just her. I don't want to be alone. My life has been lonely. It seems selfish, me talking about my loss and pain, when you are confronting your own pain. That's how it is though. My empathy for you comes from the places I've been. I had to mourn my best friend. He passed at 30 years old. It's just weight. I keep a place for you in a corner of my heart. Jesse

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 44 (view)

A soundless voice Posted: 11/1/2009 7:17:52 PM
I was proselytized in Vegas in 1993. I was just trying to be polite and get rid of the guy. He asked me to say the sinners prayer. To ask Jesus for forgiveness and I started to follow him, I was repeating his words and something happened and I broke before God and I started sobbing and I am crying now because this is eternal and timeless. I mean at this point in my life...a town like Vegas...I was a dice dealer and out of work. I was close to a full blown crack addiction. I was looking at suicide as a logical response to the existential dilemma of the fundamental meaninglessness of life. Because without God life means nothing. To live? For me? It wasn't remotely worth it. And all the crack in Las Vegas couldn't kill my pain. All the drugs and booze. Anyway, after I had that experience, which still is the most real thing that ever happened to me, I was scared and couldn't, still can't find an identity as a Christian. I did go to a Spanish language church for a while. The people liked me. Then I went to a Messianic church. But I was bored and the congregation seemed smug. I was baptized also. In a swimming pool by Mccarren Airport. But all the water in all the pools in Clark County couldn't wash the Jew off of me. A while later I decided to get clean. I quit drinking, narcotics and cigarettes all at once. I was living in the Peter Pan Motel at 14th off Fremont. 80 bucks a week. I was dealing dice (craps) at the Las Vegas Club up the street...downtown, Glitter Gulch. Anyhow, I had bought a new shower curtain, the hitch hiker series, and it had pictures of licence plates from all the different States in the Union. I was staring at it with pleasure. It was colourful. I was happy. I was clean and alive and I was living. Suddenly I heard a voice, a soundless, powerful voice. It came from outside my body and the dead centre of my brain at the same time. The voice said " you can barely conceive, you can barely see, you can only glimpse what I have for you." I was startled. Did I hear it or think that? The voice levelled me and I wept.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 43 (view)

The 800 pound Gorilla Posted: 11/1/2009 8:19:13 AM
Whenever somebody tries to force feed me scripture as a palliative to the human condition, I want to ask them the question, the question that is the 800 lbs Gorilla sitting in the theological tearoom of monolithic religion. The big ape that everyone is politely doing their best to ignore. When they were marching my people, men, women, and children...WOMEN AND CHILDREN, off to the ravines to be murdered, WHERE WAS GOD THEN? Keep in mind that any answer you or any body else supplies is a lie. Has to be a lie. And there is nothing left but to live the question. If, as my witness said, you tell me it's because the Jews killed Jesus, I will move backwards very, very quickly, as I did with him. I was not mad at him, no. I was disappointed, because that is a cowardly answer. He diminished his God with that answer and he clearly did not think. I am not interested in stopping thinking via a prescription such as the Bible. I am not interested in that kind of Christianity nor in being that kind of Christian. I am not looking for the answer. The one final answer. To life. The living is in the questions. I'm leery of those that say they have the answers. I don't believe them.

bodypro8

Joined: 12/10/2007

Msg: 13 (view)

Does this really make me shallow? Posted: 10/26/2009 9:34:26 AM
This thread is going to be deleted, so I can do this: What about women who don't want short guys? What about that, huh? Short guys with lousy jobs. Is that shallow or what? Short guys with lousy jobs and sordid pasts? How shallow is that? Short guys with heavy tattoos? What about that? Short guys who happen to be short? What do you say about that?!!! Short guys that go beep, beep, beep. Now what do you say?

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