I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

I'm knackered. I've love a lie-down, but the hillbilly's are having their all-night party down below my windows, and the kids are being allowed to shriek and bellow and wail and blow their stupid party horns. These gawd-awful zoo-keepers, erm, I mean "parents," (the one's who've had the police called on them repeatedly, for neglecting their brats--erm, kids, just let them do whatever they want, inclding screehing at the top of their lungs for hours on end, for no particular reason. Really, the little girl just likes screeching continually--not because she's unhappy, but, apparently, 'cos her mum thinks it's funny. Charming.

Someone paid me back 25 dollars she owed me--long story. So, I took 15 of it, and went and got another pair of those 45 dollar pair of Cosmopolotain jeans that were on sale for $14.99, while they still had some left--they only had two pairs left in my size, so my timing was good. Now that I have to work Saturdays, I need a couple of pairs of posh jeans for the office (casual dress doesn't me ratty old jeans, we can wear jeans, but they have to look half-way decent.) These have floral embrooidery around the front and back pockets--tastefully done, none of this garish chav bling-bling look that somehow took hold here in my part of the world, the last three or four years...thankfully, bling-bling seems to be dying out a bit, now. Now the country-girl/ amatuer prostitute look is in, with the Wal-mart crowd.

But, I'm a bit tired. Didn't sleep well last night, and then was sick this morning.

While I was waiting for the bus back home, I nipped into a local snack bar by the bus stop for a Pepsi. They sell submarine sandwiches and roast beef sandwiches--the roast beef is great, they roast it themselves...it's served warm, semi-rare, on a "wick" roll--that's a crusty roll with course salt and othe rseasonings on it, and then you if you don't want it plain, you can put any toppings on it you want: bleu cheese dressing, BBQ sauce, horseraddish mayonnaise, or honey-mustard. I used to eat there a lot, a few years ago, when I had the cash to spare. I have food at home, so don't see much point in eating out tonight---I got some Chinese takeaway last night (had a coupon for $2 off), anyway.

So, I'm ordering my diet Pepsi, and this tourist walks up to the counter and says, "what's the roast beef?" The server just sort of looks at him--(wouldn't you?) and says, "Erm--what's that, sir?" The guy gets a bit put out and says again, "it says roast beef, what is that?" Okaaay then. Dead cow meat, ya' dimwit, whadd'ya think? Well, one of the women servers piped up and said, "I think he means how do we serve it?" The server sighes and say's "It's shaved fresh roast beef, served plain on a roll." The tourist looks blankly at him for a moment and said, "So, you don't serve regular meals here?"

The poor server was really at a loss for that one, but thankfully the lady server piped up again. "We don't have dinners, no. Just sandwiches and subs, sorry."

Gotta' love the tourons.

I'm going to try and lie down for a bit. But if the screming brats, erm, little angels get too much for me, I might just go do my laundry tonight, instead of tomorrow.

FTypical summer wear for the blue-collar (that's Yank for "Chav") folks, at Walmart this summer:

Why do parents give their children party horns, toy firetrucks with wailing horns, pistols with lazer sound effects and other noise-makers, and then get flipped off and start yelling at the kid to stop making so much noise?

Why do we walk into the restuarant or pub, look at the "SPECIALS" board, then, after we're seated, ask the waitress what the specials are?

Why to we push on a door that boldly says "PULL?"

Why do we walk up to a vending machine that clearly is marked "COKE," and look to see what kinds of soda it has?

Why do we see a bus with the destination printed on a (often lit up) sign right on the front of it, and after we board ask the driver where the bus is going?

Why, at an airport, do we walk all the way to our gate (which I don't know about you lot, but in my limited experience, my gates are always, inevitably, the very last one's) but, why to we get up to our gate, and then ask if that is the correct gate--even tho' it has the number right there, plain as day?

Why do we pick something up at a flea market, yard sale or boot sale, and item with the price clearly marked on it--and ask what the price is?

Why, when we go to McDonald's, and tell the server that our order is to go, the server STILL asks, after he or she takes your order, if it's "for here or to go?"

Why would anyone let themselves be used as a human paintbrush?

Flame barely knows I'm alive when I wake up in the morning. She's like, "Oh yeah, it's you." (Yawn.)

Until, that is, I walk into the kitchen---mind you, I was only going into the bathroom for an aspirin, but it was the right direction for her...as I walked through the curtin seperating my bedroom from the kitchen, she ran ahead of me, meowing frantically, and doing everything but picking up her food dish and throwing it at me--which she probably would, if she could.

It was almost comical to see the genuine look of disbelif and disappointment on her little feline face, as I walked into the bathroom. Flame immediately ran after me, jusping up on the cast iron radiator, and whinging pitiously at me--waving her paw in my direction and looking at me, with a "don't you love me any more?" expression.

So, I walked into the kitchen, popped open a tin of food, Flamey once again rewnewing her frantic cries--as if she hadn't eaten in days, despite the fact that there was a very full dish of dry food sitting right next to her--, and the greedy smacking as she buried her snout in the plate with the tinned food (sliced chicken in gravy).

Now of course, she's no where to be seen, having gone back to bed. She does love me when she's hungry, or cold--when she's cold she'll bug me to let her sleep under the covers with me at night. There's a cat who knows what she wants, and how to get it, I'll give her that. Cats...sheesh.

Hope you are having a fabulous Saturday.

I woke with a bad stomach ache, so I can't say I'm thrilled to be here, ha-ha. Been dealing with this stomach bug on and off all week, it's not the worst one I've had, but it's stubborn...just when I think it's gone, it comes back again the next day.

Ah well. The computer actually is working--more or less, this morning, so far. Still getting the "Error Generic32" message popping up, which is horribly annoying.

A somewhat hazy and sunny morning. Supposed to be quite warm today, with a chance of storms possibly, later. Rained hard for about 20 minutes yesterday, then by mid-afternoon the skies cleared off completely, and it was a brilliant day. Unfortunately my errands and various other chores prevented me from enjoying it fully. Would have been a bang up day to have gone for a sail or a horseback ride or something.

Alas, I have to leave for work in an hour and a half, and work this afternoon. My hillbilly neighbours have invited me to a birthday party for the son of my neighbour's sister--the guy who's the convicted drug dealer/drug addict. Oh boy, there's the invitation of the year, ey? I'll have to pull my posh dress out of the wardrobe, ha-ha. I'll pop over of course, it was nice of her to invite me, and I'm certainly not going to be churlish about it...but not hanging around too long, 'cos I'm not a hypocrite, either.

I still need to do laundry.

I think that I won't go to the Lake George laundromat so often any longer...only in a pinch.

I just found holes in one of my newer tee-shirts. It's burnt orange colour with a small retro-California surfers motif on the front, so I don't wear it that often, burnt ornage not being a usual colour for me, tho' it doesn't look bad on me or anything. But, I've not only worn it maybe four or five times, and it's got all these holes in the back. Blimey! Don't make things like they used to, do they? I'd washed a pair of jeans there on a seperate occaision--jeasns that were also brand spanking new, and they came out all ripped, as well, so I'm thinking that either the laundromat's washers are not good, or that I have some really, really hungry moths.

Actually, I do have moths, so I'm thinking I'll get something from the store when I get the chance to ward them away from my clothing. They're only little moths though, and I can see the small holes, but find it hard to believe they'd rip a hole in my shirt the size of two of my thumb nails...tho' I suppose one never knows.

WEll, I've got to go scrounge around for something to wear, since I didn't do the washing yesterday. Have a good day everyone.

Gawd, my neighbour's sister is drunk--very obviously drunk, and standing under my windows, screaming out her son's name--don't know why. Either he's locked her out or he's stormed off again after one of their rows, and she's looking for him. I'm staying well clear of this one. I'm gonna' try to go to bed, but I'm doubtful if sleep will be coming soon. I hate Friday nights...and Saturdays, and Sundays--sucks living in a "party" building, when you don't particularly like loud drunken parties.

God, I miss my caravan in the woods. I miss my home I grew up in, on that nice, quiet little dead-end street, with mostly woods and fields and cemeteries for neighbours, in a time before there were cars with vibrating boom boxes and drunken hillbillies, and skateboarders at 2am. Those were the days.

Since my computer may crash at any moment, and since I own nothing on which to save my files, I thought I'd post this here, while I can.

I only know of two people who have actually read this, and certainly, I don't expect anyone to be reading it, so you can ignore this post, as it's mostly for me, and two people, Lydia from the writer's forum, and a certain blog friend.

I spent about an hour or so, jotting off a page and a half, roughly, of this play. It's not especially good, as plays go...bit of a snoozer, if you ask me, as are most of my plays. But, it's something to do, as I still suck at suduko. Also, I'm staying up later than planned, 'cos the building is especially nosiy tonight...big party going on up over my bedroom, someone hammering across the hall, people running (thumping) up and down the stairs, slamming doors and shouting.

I'd hoped to be in bed by 10pm, as I have to wake early for work, but..no such luck. I never did get to the laundromat, as the cab was forever getting me to the grocery store, and I missed the trolley to Lake George--and ringing up a cab to take me to one of the other launderettes, would have meant hoofing it over to the conveniece store, four or five streets away, to use their phone. So, I washed out some of my "delecates" for tomorrow, and will just have to make do.

Anyway, here's the play--about halfway through, a little more or less....haven't decided if it's to be a short one-act, or a 10-minute play, yet. Since it's been a week since my last post of the play, I'm posting the whole thing, with the new bits that I wrote tonight, in darker print.
____________________________________________________________________

Bitter Revenge

SHORT ONE-ACT PLAY

SETTING: Los Angles, California, the summer of 1941.

CAST:

DANIEL……...A retired police officer, working as a private detective.
RITA…………Daniel’s fiery ex-girlfriend, whom is presently dating Edgar.
EDGAR………A formally wealthy nightclub owner, who now tends bar on Skid Row .
TWO HIRED THUGS

AT RISE: It is late morning, on a hot August day. As the lights come up, they reveal a sun shining through the blinds, in the spartan surroundings of a private detective’s office. It contains a plain wooden desk and swivel chair, behind which sits a hat stand with a fedora hat and a wide striped tie hanging from it. The only other furnishings in the room, are a straight back chair in front of the desk, a worn sofa, and a dusty filing cabinet. A fan is sitting on the desk, going full out. Daniel is sitting at his desk, with his shirt partly unbuttoned and his suit jacket flung carelessly over the back of his chair. He is holding a glass, morosely contemplating a half-empty bottle of bourbon. There is a knock at the door.

DANIEL: (Calls out wearily) If you’re a bill collector, beat it! Nobody’s home. If you’re a client, obviously I’m here, so just come in already.

(RITA enters from stage right, raising an eyebrow at the sight of DANIEL. For just a split second, he seems interested. Then, feigning boredom, he chooses to ignore her, going back to staring at the bottle..)

Oh, it’s you.

RITA: Hello Daniel. (She sidles up to the desk, coolly giving DANIEL a demure look.) Long time, no see.

DANIEL: Not long enough, doll. Not nearly long enough. What do you want, Rita?

RITA: I see you’re still a smooth talker. I’ll bet the girls at Ciro’s nightclub can’t keep their hands off of you.

DANIEL: (Squinting up at her.) Something tells me you didn’t come here to discuss my sex life. On the other hand, if you have, I’ve the sofa over there, if you’re in the mood.

RITA: Still as crude as ever, Danny. You’re never gonna’ change.

DANIEL. (Lets rip with some flatulence.) Yup. And don’t call me Danny. Makes me feel like a little kid.

RITA: (Makes a face, and pulls a lollypop out of her purse and holds it out to him.) Here, have this then…Daniel.

DANIEL: That’s not what I’d like to be suckin’ on, doll.

RITA: Oh Cripes! How ‘bout you keep it in your trousers for a while, hot-shot? I’m here on business, not (distastefully) pleasure. And don’t call me doll. Makes me feel like some cheap floosy.

DANIEL: (Finally deciding to pour himself a drink.) You know what they say, sweetheart; if it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck—

RITA: You’d better not finish that sentence with a rhyming word beginning with the letter ‘F’, or I swear you’ll be wearing that booze instead of drinkin’ it.

(DANIEL appears as if he’s tempted, but then leans back with resignation.)

DANIEL: So, what are ya’ here for, Rita? Can’t be ‘cause ya’ miss me. Though you have to admit, for a while there, we made a pretty snazzy couple.

RITA: (Smiles) Yeah, we had our moments, didn’t we? If I hadn’t of caught you with those two young blonds in the back seat of my convertible, we might still be a couple…and don’t give me that same old song and dance about how you were on an all-night stake-out and it got cold, and the top wouldn’t come down, and then these two girl scouts happened along…

DANIEL: They weren’t girl scouts. And you know that’s not how things happened. I was keeping an eye on them for their father…

RITA: Child-minding a pair of nineteen year old twins? And if anyone buys that, I have a certain bridge in San Francisco I can sell them! But, that’s not why I’m here. (Leaning her hands on the desk, her look softening.) But, I have missed you, Daniel. How’ve ya’ been?

DANIEL: Oh, you know, same old, same old. (He smiles faintly) I miss you too, Rita. The nights get kinda’ long and quiet, since you walked outta’ my life.

RITA: Well, maybe I can help liven things up for you a little. I think I may have some business for you, if you’re interested.

DANIEL: (Puts down his glass and leans forward.) I’m all ears doll—I mean, Rita. What’s going on?

RITA: (Sitting down) Daniel, the truth is that when I left you, I thought that I’d never want to be with another man again. But then one night, that all changed.

DANIEL: What happened?

RITA: You remember my former room mate, Gladys? Her mother was ill, and Gladys had to work late at the nightclub, so I stayed up with her mom until Gladys could get there, then I took the last trolley home. Well, as I got off the trolley, a man got off with me. He began following me. So, I started running, and then he began chasing me. I just kept running and running—thank goodness I was wearing flats instead of heels! Well, I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because the next thing I knew, I was in the middle of Skid Row.

DANIEL: (Standing) What? (Abruptly sitting down again, he briefly runs his fingers through his hair, exasperatedly.) Rita, how many times have I told you to take a cab? The streets around there are hideously dangerous at night!

RITA: (Standing, she reaches into her purse for a cigarette, pulls one out, stares at it for a second, before tossing it back into her purse again. Then, she begins pacing while she speaks.) Yeah, I know, but cabs cost money hot-shot, and that’s not something I’ve had a lot of lately, since I quit singin’ at the club and decided to find a regular job. Anyway, Daniel, I’m obviously okay, so don’t get your shorts in a twist. You see, I was running past this alleyway, when another guy comes outta’ the dark. Well, my first thought is, ‘Okay Rita, your number is up, you’re about to buy the farm.’ But, as it turns out, this other guy gets between me and my pursuer, and pulls a knife out of his suit pocket. Then he’s standing up to the creep, tellin’ the guy that he can either beat it, or find himself with a second belly button. So, the guy that was followin’ me takes one look at that oversize ice pick the man was wavin’ in his face, and beats it outta’ there like his pants were on fire. (She stops, takes a breath, looks distractedly in the direction of stage right.)

DANIEL: (Whistles) Nice timing, him coming along like that. You’re one lucky woman, sweetheart. (Putting his feet up on the desk and sipping his drink.) So, who was this knight in shining armor?

Oh, now, on it's own, my PRINT on the internet just got smaller, and being extremely nearsighted (not to mention very marginally blind in one eye), I can barely see/read the print! No fix, either, it seems. That just...sucks.

I literally can no longer read my own posts! I'm telling you, life sucks and then you die, people, that's my motto.

Write like Shakespeare?

Yeah, dream on. Dyscalulia and DCD don't lend themselves well to lyrical poetry, or music, for that matter.

I see things, feel things, and long to share them--but I've just not got what it takes, no gift for touching, for reaching out and touching people, and making them see, and feel and become part of my experience.

I sometimes feel like it's in there, but I can't open my internal Pandora's box to let it out. That's what often amazes me with actors and artists and really good writers--the way they can open an emotional vein and just let it pour out of them, the way they can connect with other human beings.

I could never do that, no matter how much I want to. I suppose, perhaps, in a different life, if I'd lived in other circumstances, or wasn't bogged down with my physical and emotional barriers, if I had the right guidence and strong supports, that maybe I could lay open that vein, but...that'll never happen. Not for someone like me. I'm going to be eternally obscure. When I die, it'll be like I've never been here. I won't even get a gravestone--sis says she'll have me creameated...even tho' I have an aversion to that. Not sure why. Mum was the same...tho' she hated wakes, also, and I figure I'm dead so who cares if there's a wake or not? Funnily, I don't feel that way about being reduced to ashes, though. Go figure. We humans are a strange lot sometimes, ey?

I was sitting here, eating supper---treated myself to some cheap Chinese takeaway--when I broke a tooth!

Now doesn't that just take the biscuit.

Fan-friggin' tastic. What next? Never mind, I don't want to know.

Lovely sunset tonight...of course, I can only see the reflection, as my windows face southwest, and the sun is setting in the northwest.

I had to deal with those snarky, miserable American crafters all week...misterable job. You try to sound interested for hours on end, over knitting and crocheting and painting and scrapbooking and whatnot, while dealing with snarling mad women and their whinging husbands...both sexes with manners that are better suited to a farm yard, the docks or a truck stop, if you know what I mean.

But, two people told me that I have a lovely voice, and another said that talking with me made her day. I don't hear that much, so it sort of makes my day when people are kind enough to tell me that I've made their day--if that makes any sense to you at all.

I do like working with my voice. I'm too old to be a DJ, and don't know enough about music, anyway--especially popular music. I listen to it, but unless an artist or band or whatever, really grabs me--like the Proclaimers and the New Pornographers and Runrig and Kate Wolf, say, I don't generally pay the artist much mind. I seldom buy--or have bought, music, and merely enjoyed whatever was on the radio.

I did have a suprise today--I was in produce at the PriceChoper supermarket, standing under the speaker that plays the "shoppers music," when what should come on, but "I'm Gonna' Be (500 miles), my second-favourite proclaimers song! Cool!

I remember Christmas of 2006, I was in K-mart shopping, and of course the store was playing Christmas music, and I'd just finished watching Dr Who Christmas Invasion again, and walked into the store, and they were playing "Merry Christmas Everybody," by...slade? Was that the group? They weren't that popular over here, like they were in the UK, so that's the LAST song, which I expected to hear!

I really, really miss my Pandora and Youtube, they totally made the evening pass by quickly. Before, when I lost internet service at home, I still had the computer, to use--MS Word so I could write (I can't write by hand well, due to a combination of arthritis, the DCD and a physical deformity in my right index finger), and then I also had my card games, as well. I have about six CD's and can get in one local radio station--the "easy listening" channel

WEll, I'm of half a mind to go for a trolley ride, but nah--don't want to tire myself out, 'cos I have to work tomorrow.

Have a good night all.