The aptitude of the home grown eConomist...Con being the opt word there.

In my lifetime I have seen so many examples of when people get a little money, they, then, begin to desire to have more money. As though these little slips of paper and shiny metal coins become and entrance to freedom. I would argue that it becomes more of an entrapment. And I find myself sometimes in that trap as well, forgetting my humble roots.

I ran away from home more than once. I ran. I bolted. I would sacrifice and give away...in order to be free. I wanted the opportunity to see. I wanted the opportunity to become. I took the risk and landed on my own, with nothing.

A bar is closing down to make way for a new condo complex. I used to beg for spare change there. Spare change for food. I had one of my great loves, and most terrifying events come out of that place, too. Ok, maybe more than one terrifying event. But, there was also laughs. And what doesn't kill you does make you stronger. Whoever first said that, was right.

Back to the money, though.

I was living on an apartment roof top across from this bar. Yes, the roof top. There was one way to climb up to the top. And it was a bit of a run down complex, so no one was going to check up there. I lived directly on top of a drug dealer's apartment. So, I did have to be mindful that I didn't get caught by some of the comings and goings of his customers. In years later, he would clean up his act, and become a normal citizen. He knew that I was up there, but he didn't tell. We both had secrets on eachother, so we bonded in a don't ask, don't tell relationship.

Sometimes, I would come down from my perch and he'd let me use his shower. And we would talk on his porch. I traded listening and girl advise for a towel and some hot water. There was a certain freedom in sleeping on a rooftop. All the breezes and stars, very simple sometimes.

One day, I went to have Chinese food with a friend. I had leftovers in a togo box, that I planned to eat for dinner. As I began to climb to my roof perch, I saw a man, about my age. His clothes were dirty, and he was digging in the trash behind a Wendy's. I looked at my container of food, and knew that I wasn't that bad off. I was clean and had just gorged.

I said, "Hey. What are you doing?!?" The man replied, "I'm looking for something to eat." I explained to him that I had plenty of food and had just eaten, and he was welcome to my leftovers, if he wanted. He took my leftovers and said only, "Thanks". He never looked me directly in the eyes.

I climbed to my perch feeling better about myself. And that I had enough to share with someone less fortunate than me. Good feelings can feed a lot of sorrow.

I settled down to read, when I glanced up to see the man digging in the trash can again. What did he do with my food, I thought. There was a ton left, he could not still be hungry. No way.

I asked, "What are you doing?" The man replied, "Looking for something to eat. I don't like Chinese. I threw it out."

Tell me what the hell you're supposed to say to that. Tell me. 'Cause I got nothin'.

I was floored, and mad, and floored. He could have just givin' it back. But, now I realized that he might be nuts and dangerous, so I couldn't go get my food back. So, I was stuck on my perch, floored and mad. Fuckin' crazy fuck! And the sheer oddness of what had just happened.

Years later, I was driving pizzas around. I grabbed a run, and it was to a crappy student complex, near the college, but still crappy. One does not equate big tip, or any tip, from so called "starving students".

As I pulled up to the complex, I could hear the heavy metal. Great, I thought...Drunk, shitty tippers. I could hear the ruckus as I neared the door, number 201. I knocked, and heard the stumbling to the door, through the beer cans, and the shush-shush, in case I was the cops, not the fucking pizza they had ordered fifteen minutes or less ago. I waited, and geared up, for the jokes and sneers. At that time, it was me and one other girl, in the entire town that were pizza drivers. Yes, even with fucking pizza sauce, baked cheese and greasy hair, a girl can still be harassed. (Just on that thought for a minute.)

The door opened. I looked up, from under the brim of my pizza cap, to give my usual speech. But, I stopped.

Again, for the second time, in my life, I was floored.

Who was it? Ah yes it was!

After all these years, there was the slightly older, young man, who threw out my Chinese food. It was his apartment. There was a couple of rock posters on the wall, a crappy worn couch, one lamp, and a jambox. And that was it. Well, there were beer cans everywhere, but that was it. It was a shithole...nothing homey about it. On the other hand, it was a shithole with a roof. So, as my mind raced, I realized that we both, in fact, had moved up. Then, I wondered if he would recognize me. He did not.

The man shoved money at me, and grabbed for the pizza. I counted the money. There was the pizza money, for sure, down to the change. Then there was a hundred dollar bill. I stared at it. One hundred dollars for a tip...shit, that could make my life a bit easier this week. But, the angel vs. the devil. I caved. I have a good heart. I can't take money off a drunk, crazy fuck. I sighed as I explained that this one hundred dollars wasn't necessary, and he must have given this to me by mistake.

This man, looked up, dead right in my eyes, and gruffly told me it was no mistake, and to take the money, and get out of here. Ok, crazy guy, you don't have to tell me twice. I'm outta' here. I took the money, put the old car in gear, and went back to the pizza shop.

Upon my arrival back in the shop, all the guys were standing around. Even though there was pizzas to deliver, they were waiting. All waiting for me. They all wanted to know what kind of tip I had gotten. The man was famous around the pizza joint. That address was notorious. And I just happen to get the luck of the runs to get it...all the pissed off faces told me that. I told them all that it was none of their fucking business, and what was so special about that crazy guy anyway. I did not pipe up that I had met this man before, and I did not explain what the circumstances were when we first met. No way!

Then came the story. The man was a millionaire. He was loaded...super loaded. When he was a child, his rich parents died, and left him the fortune. However, the money was no trade for his parents, and he went nuts...he didn't want to have anything to do with the money. Sometimes he was homeless, and sometimes he would show up at that shitty apartment. The complex owner was an uncle or something...so, he could be a nuts as he wanted to be and never get kicked out. I felt like an even bigger dirty shitbag for taking the guy's money. A dirty shitbag in need of taking his money.

It was three in the morning my shift was finally over. I sat in my shitty car. I took my hat off and ran my hands over my greasy face and through my greasy hair. I put the one hundred dollar bill on my dashboard, and sat there, tired. I sat there eating cold, chewy pizza and staring at the money. I knew that I would spend it. I knew that I had to spend it...all the bills right?!? Yeah, all the bills. I would spend it.

But, I needed to have that money just sit there for a minute, and not be spent. I supposed I needed it to be recognized for something. Also, the sheer weirdness of how this man and I met twice in a lifetime. Both times, being such odd things. This bill, this man, this me, his life, my life, this life...something. Something was there that needed to be recognized.

I spent the money. I never saw him again. Or maybe I moved on enough that I wouldn't recognize him if I did see him again. Whatever....

Right now: Yes, money can be a thing of entrapment, and being mindful of humble roots.

God, Guns and Guts. Let's Just Do All The Things That You Want To Do.

It is my job to give advice. It is my job to keep secrets. It is my job to be supportive. I'm good at it...I can do the job. However, I note, that just because I'm good at it, doesn't mean that I really enjoy it.

This week, those items, above mentioned, were tested. I had to be thoughtful. Really being thoughtful is mostly against my nature. I'm ultimately self-centered and a bit harsh. I do have a sense a fairness for all, but not at a complete cost to the completely unreasonable. I loathe being trapped into being professional, polite and courteous...which is the business norm. What a crock of shit that is. I would much more prefer to just say what I mean, and let the chips fall where they may; however, people don't like honesty. I should say people don't have the stomach for honesty.

So, when confronted with too many things that I have to be thoughtful about, man, oh man, does that ware me out. I found myself thinking this week: What?!? Are you kidding me?!? And, lacking the position to really say that outloud.

I found myself surrounded by klans, as well. We are all so traditionally comfortable with being part of a group, or klan, that we will cut off our noses to spite our faces. It is impossible to make everyone comfortable at all times. You can still be fair in the middle of being uncomfortable, that is possible. But, so many people lack the balls to do just that. Sometimes you have to have the ability to say no. You have to have the ability to say no, in order to reach the bigger goal. So many people lack the balls to do that. And we see examples of this in the larger scale of the world currently.

So, I was thoughtful and mindful this week...oh, yes, I fucking was. And I still watched as others blunder their way. I really have been liking where I work, up until now. The company wants to grow without making it's people grow with it. That is impossible. You will not grow if you people don't. They can not stay the same, small company, klan, family like people. And who said that I wanted to be part of a family at work. Are you fucking kidding me?!? I have a family, and I use my work as a way to provide fuel for my family to work. I do not go to work to include those people as part of my family. Yuck! Blah!

Thoughts of sarcasms boiled in me. Thoughts of why were these people try in sabotage themselves boiled in me. Then more thoughts of sarcasms boiled in me. I'm not trying to say from some mountain top, that I am the greatest thinker of all times...More like, I'm not the greatest thinker of all times...so, you guys must really be dumbasses.

I will use today to think of loftier things...take a break. With only whispers that me and all of Japan have the balls to say no, and sit in the uncomfortable chair.

I'm turning Japanese, I really think so.

The Art of Seduction, and why men cannot be Superstars

In out society men can still do pretty much whatever they want. Women, on the other hand, have to be so clever and take on so much. And now, there is a group of men, who have stolen and produced the secrets that women have used in the dating world for centuries. I watched the television has these couple of men claimed to have the answers, the full proof systems, even had seminars and coaches for this room full of chumps.

I was so angered. I wasn't angered that they were practicing this fine art...only that they thought they had perfected this art...that it was, in fact, their own art. THIEVES!!!!

I recalled how many Woody Allen films I had once endured to catch the prize. All those hours of Woody Allen. And once I finally slept with this guy, I was done...I wanted no more. In fact, after a long night of lovin' and tequila, I awoke groggy and heavy headed, to this guy asking for just one more hand job. I told him no, and got up to find my pants and get the hell out of dodge. He was so sad.

I also recalled the same scenario with a lover of Jim Jarmusch movies...with the same end result...looking for my pants and leaving.

In my time, I learned that buying the drinks often helped in the seduction.

And I learned that one should date the pretty guys, only every once in a while, to up your street cred, but ultimately, those guys were not very good lovers. It was the geeks and the freaks that could really do the deed correctly...the only trade off with them was the emotional baggage, or their obsession with something (i.e. film, star trek, etc.), that you might have to endure a bit of to get to the weenier. All the talking about them...can be tiresome.

I also thought of a guy, who once was big in the music scene, that a friend bet me a Taco Bell, Bean and Cheese Burrito,WITH a drink, that I could not get to ask me out. I had three weeks to do so.

I immediately got to work.

I completely showed up wherever he was, and completely ignored him. I was not a hot, rock n' roll babe. So, I had to be extremely precise and careful. I ignored him completely. And he began to come around. What could the fat chick have? Why isn't she interested in ME? I am a bad, muther fucker!?!

He finally ended up in a conversation with me and another guy, of less stature than he. Oh, he tried to talk to us. And I have to say, he was a cutie, but I could not falter at this time...this was the deal breaking moment. I gave away my attentions to the ugly guy, and even poked an ever so tiny amount of fun at cutie. Then, without a moments notice or hesitation, I abruptly got up and left.

Would it work? Only time would tell. The wait had begun. This entire process had taken almost the entire three weeks. Would I succeed? It was the final night, before the final day of the three weeks. My entire reputation and my lunch was on the line.

The next day, I was sleeping my hangover off, and the phone rang. My roommate nudged me from my sleep and handed me the phone. All croaky, I said hello.

It was cutie. He had even gone to the trouble of finding my number on his own. Fucking bonus!!!!

Cutie asked me out. I held the phone up to my roomate's ear and asked cutie to repeat himself. He did. I had won the lunch. I told him that I had only tried to get him to ask me out for a burrito and drink, and thank you, but no, I didn't want to go out with his conceited ass. I hung up and went back to sleep.

Years later, this same guy would show up fat and road worn from his rock and roll life style. And he pointed to me, came over, and told me that I was the only girl that ever said no to him. I told him I was sorry about that whole mess, I was young...blah, blah, blah. And I'll be damned if his fat ass didn't ask me out again. I told him no, again. End game.

So, all I'm saying, is that these men, these super stars of The Game, did not invent the game, they did not master the game, I'm not even sure if they even know were the game is. Because, even though I have retired my gimmicks and my gags...there is a whole new generation of plump, slightly off in the looks department, young women, who have generations, upon generations, upon generations of women gamer's blood running through their veins...a wisdom the likes that these men have only begun to barely even catch a wiff of.

Nigga' please.