I jerk awake this morning to the sounding of my cell-phone vibrating its way across the little wood table that sits next to my bed. The wife was already up with the kids, which is standard operating procedure around here. I swear; that woman doesn’t need to sleep. She goes to bed late, gets up early, and is in an ungodly state of chipperness at all hours. I go to bed late, I get up late, and find physicality distracting, which in of itself renders me cranky. I’m human, and this morning, as is often the case, I’m still fighting through the fugue and discomfort of encroaching consciousness.
It will take a scalding shower and a pot of acrid tasting hot stimulant to render me fit for human consumption, but sometimes the world proves less than sympathetic to my cause. I realize, as the phone drops from the bedside table to the carpet, that the vibrations are the long ones – the one’s that tell you someone is calling and its not just your voicemail – and make a Pavlovian and completely unnecessary lunge for the phone, flipping from my back to my stomach with such impressive gymnastic prowess that I manage to pop every disc in my spine and end up with my legs still in the bed and my forehead and one shoulder on the floor.
I hit the green “ok†button as the third vibration starts, silently cursing the universe as I realize I haven’t said “modeh ani†– a blessing to the almighty said immediately upon waking in thanks for another day of life – and manage to croak out, without moving from my inglorious position and muttering “dam nit,†a disjointed and confused “yeah?â€
I’m not really listening for the response, though, because I’ve started thinking whoever is calling at this godforsaken hour – I wonder what time it is and pull the phone away from my ear to check the time on– okay, its 9:45, so its arguably not godforsaken, but still, I’m whoever has woken me had better have a sound reason for calling. A major terrorist attack, preferably somewhere I care about; a second great Seattle fire; an assassination of someone relevant; world war three; a sudden obscene influx of funds into my bank account; the coming of the messiah…
I realize there is a woman yapping at me on the other end of the phone. I don’t recognize her voice, but she sounds youngish – maybe in her twenties – is probably white from her tenor and inflection, and passably educated. She’s not half bad to listen to, either. Not sexed up, but mildly breathy and a touch personal. Then she stops and asks: “Hello?â€
“Yeah,†I repeat with stunning eloquence – a trait I’m known for. It occurs to me my forehead is still pressed into the carpet so I decide to roll onto my back, letting my butt fall from the bed to the floor with a thump. Now the blood is rushing from my legs to my head. Taking calls in the morning is proving to be a workout. I get back to the woman†“Come again?â€
“My name is Sharon. I’m calling to see if you’re still looking for girls?â€
My toddlers, having heard the massive crash of my buttocks upon the carpet, have realized I’m awake. There is a stampeding of little feet, a loud thump as someone’s head, probably Bat-Sheva, the younger of the two, hits the door, and then a cacophony of banging that would make the defenders of caste perilous cringe in fear. There are little voices demanding I show myself “Abba! Abba!â€
Girls? What is this woman talking about? I have plenty of women in my life. I’m outnumbered 3-1 in my house. I’d actually like a boy if we decide to go for number three, which we probably will. I’m struck with another spasm of linguistic mightiness: “Girls?â€
“Yes,†she said. “Girls. I saw your ad in the Seattle Weekly.â€
The banging of little fists and insistence of little voices dims as my brain suddenly brings this into focus: Advertisement... The Seattle Weekly… Girls. Son of a Motherless Goat! I start holding back a stream of expletives in a number of languages that are spring to mind. The Seattle Weekly, along with the Stranger, are the well-known bulletin boards of the area’s sex workers. The Village Voice owns The Weekly, incidentally.
I DO NOT need this: “What ad?!â€
“For the escorts,†she says, sounding a little perplexed. “I’ve been working for /name of agency/ for a while, but I’ve heard such good things about /name of agency/…†Her voice trails off. She’s starting to realize something is amiss.
“I didn’t place an ad.†I tell her.
“Your not painfully gender neutral name, are you?â€
I wonder if she can hear my kids banging and screaming away at the gate – demanding their father’s presence.
“No,†I tell her. “David.â€
There is a poignant pause. I can hear her breathing. There is a rustle of someone fussing with a paper. “This isn’t 206-XXX-XXXX.â€
I want to scream. The number IS my number, and she got it from an ad in the Seattle Weekly, and that means... OH NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! I am not a happy man. I have calls I have to take later week. Important calls dealing with embassies and agencies and people who don’t want me to find them people who will pay them for sex. Changing the number at this juncture is not an option. Sending everything to voicemail and screening it is not convenient. I grunt at her with more vehemence than she probably deserves: “That’s my number, alright.â€
I’m about to ask if it was a general business line, or just one for “applicants†when the line goes dead. She hung up. Crap!
I tell myself that the Weekly comes out on Fridays. It can’t be a general number. It just can’t, can it? My phone would have been ringing off the hook, wouldn’t it? Right. I really want to believe. Really, I do. But then, I always turn the phone off for Shabbat, and my wife didn’t turn it back on until before we went to bed last night (sometimes we forget about it)… Crap!
I give up and go take that shower, boiling dead skin off in the process
II. The Voice Mail
I’m almost tolerable after my first cup of coffee. I’m dressed, sitting at the table, looking at a bowl of white rice in steaming turkey broth, salted and peppered to taste. My children are done jumping up and down and dancing around in circles because I have emerged from my cave and given them the ritual grumpy greeting, which consists of an affectionate series of grunts and a mussing of their hair. I’m musing on whether it would pay to have my voicemail message include instructions for all the would-be-up-and-coming-sex-workers who now have a direct line to my home.
I decide that would constitute aiding and abetting. Not in a legal sense so much, but in a moral one. I tend to reserve judgment on what consenting adults do – that’s between them and G-d – but I don’t have to participate or render cheerful assistance.
My wife brings me the phone and refills my coffee saying there are messages. For some reason I’m the one who checks the messages. It is, inexplicably, MY JOB. I don’t think she’s ever checked them since we got married. She never checked them before we got married, either. I’ve asked her about it. The answers are always noncommittal enough to do a politician proud. It’s just her phone policy. She also pampers the hell out of me. I’m not going to complain about a few idiosyncratic behaviors. Lord knows I’m full of them.
I look at the display on the phone. I have messages. Normally, even after several days, I’d only have one or two. I’m feeling perky today, I mean, I didn’t even make it out of the shower until 10:30 and I’m now onto my second cup of coffee. There’s a real sense of urgency in my life these days, hug? Oh well, I might as well get it over with. I hit the speed dial for my voicemail and enter my pin.
YOU HAVE 12 NEW MESSAGES, TO LISTEN TO YOUR UNHEARD MESSAGES PRESS 1, TO…
Beep!
FIRST MESSAGE
“Hey painfully gender neutral name, its me, desiree, I wanted to ask about working for you. Could you call me back, 425-XXX-XXXX.â€
END
I wonder – as I delete erase button – what this person with the painfully gender neutral name, is looking for in her prospective candidates I mean, what does a resume for people in this line of work look like? Is it like a parachute instructors gig, where each jump and potential variation is tallied? Do you put your age, height-weight, and measurements, in the cover letter? I’m not too impressed with the woman who’s message I just erased, however. She had a scratchy smokers voice and sounded like she was gifted with considerable mass.
NEXT MESSAGE
"Uh, whoa, can you call me back right away. 206-XXX-XXXX."
END
No, I cannot call you back right away. I do not know who you are, why you have called, or who you are calling for. I do not recognize your voice and I am not inclined to call anyone back who sounds utterly and completely stoned out of their mind. What's more, I suspect based on a vast array of factors, that you are calling for painfully gender neutral name, anyways. I suspect painfully gender neutral name isn't going to be terribly interested in returning your call, either. Don't ask me why. Is just the verve I'm getting. I delete the message.
NEXT MESSAGE
"You fucking sexy whooooore! Yeah, bitch, I want to lick you..."
It drones on and on and on.
END
Its times like this I wish my voicemail would let me skip to the end of a message, or erase it, while its still playing. QWest must die a painful and horrible death. Oh, well. I'm only going to have this phone for another month. I wonder if painfully gender neutral name gets a lot of this. I'm thinking deep thoughts today, aren't I? I delete the message.
NEXT MESSAGE
"Shalom. This message is for Yael. It’s Boaz from the Jewish Agency. I'm calling to confirm our meeting in downtown Seattle at the JC tomorrow. I'll be flying up tonight. My number is 415-XXX-XXXX. I hope you had a good Shabbat. Shalom, shalom."
END
Man that guy's accent is thick. And he mutters. I tell my wife the sheliach from the Jewish Agency called to confirm our meeting. I would to, he's flying up from San Fran just to finish our immigration paperwork. She wants the phone now. I tell her to wait till I'm done. She already has the number, but I save the message. I get a nostril flare. She’s impatient. What am I thinking? Of course she’s impatient. She’s Israeli.
NEXT MESSAGE
"Hello painfully gender neutral name, my name is James, and I'd like to tell you about our exciting new adult advertising website, "www.somewebsit.... Text advertising rates start at $50 for..."
James has quite a shpiel.
END
I'm really wanting to find a suitcase nuke and smuggle it into QWest's call center at this point. And I'm sad. Even sexual workers get telemarketing calls? It must make it hard to take a walk on the wild side when sales people are calling you in the middle of your escapades. I wonder if the heads of the five families get interrupted at dinner by these bozos? I delete the message.
NEXT MESSAGE
"Oh, hi, like, I'm calling painfully gender neutral name. I have the right number, right? So, anyways, my name is Elizabeth /last name/, and I've been thinking about going pro for a couple of years, but you know, I'm pretty nervous about it, because I don't have a lot of experience, and my family is catholic, and I was wondering about a couple of things. See, I've been interested in wild sex since I was like a junior in high school. You see, I had this student teacher in my gym class who was really good looking, and anyways, we started making out at his apartment after school, and he had all of these crazy toys and lotions and restraints and things, and he'd bring his friends over. I was a bit intimidated at first and it freaked me out, but now, looking back on it, I can see that I really liked it, and I used to wonder about looking him up, but I wouldn't want him to think I was stalking him, and maybe he has another girlfriend now, and I was wondering how many guys your girls see in a day, and - " Beep!
END
Oyveh! What a motor mouth. Could she have saved the biography up for an A&E special instead of my voicemail? I guess leaving a message about going pro and taking a walk into the vice ridden dens of iniquity that are eating away at the soft underbelly of our fine city would be enough to make anyone nervous. Maybe painfully gender neutral name gets a lot of calls from people who are nervously chatty. I've been told I have the patience of Job, but frankly, Job's patience is wearing a bit thin today. I don't like it when people I know blather at me nonstop on my voicemail or on the phone. Its nothing one of her principle duties in her would-be profession wouldn't eliminate, but for me its a mood breaker, and I think it might be for a lot of painfully gender neutral name's clients, too. I'm guessing I'll be hearing more from dear Liz. In her case less is more. I delete her message.
I wonder if painfully gender neutral name knows Karen. I hope so, otherwise, it’s a weird way to make a good impression on a prospective employer. She sounded rude. One of those my-phone-company-charges-by-the-word types. I wonder what you wear to and interview for this kind of work? Do you go casual, but sexy? A moneyed look? Summer fun clothes? Sex me up clothes? A cheerleader's outfit? Streetwalker wear? Businesswoman by Georgio? Just your skivvies? Three inch pumps? A Josephine wig? Do you bring your working gear in an oversized purse? Its more than I can handle before my third cup of coffee. I delete it.
NEXT MESSAGE
"..."
END
Moving right along. I delete it.
NEXT MESSAGE
"I want you to be my whooooore ho! I want to f--- you up the a-- you f------ puta! I..."
He drones on and on and on.
END
Its the same guy as before. I don't think he read the advert. It was looking for "whores" from the sounds of the calls I've gotten so far, not people who were looking for "whores." I haven't even read the ad and I've figured that much out. I'm sure, however, that if you are interested in the work, that painfully gender neutral name would be happy to arrange to have all those things done to you. Call it a variation on the golden rule. What an insufferable jerk. I delete his message.
NEXT MESSAGE
"Uh... painfully gender neutral name, it's Elizabeth, you know, Elizabeth /last name/ from earlier, sorry about that, I guess I talked too long on the last message, but I was, um, wondering about the job? I have some serious kink and wanted to know how many of your clients were into that sort of stuff, I mean its kind of personal, but I really like having sex with lots of guys. I mean with lots of guys at one time. Are your clients like into that - you know: 2 or 3 guys seeing me at one time. I'd be totally down with it - are there, like, group rates for that kind of thing? I'm totally into pee-scenes, too. Would that be okay with some of them, do you think? I mean, I know escorts do all kinds of crazy stuff, but I wouldn't want to gross anyone out. You're website is really cool and all, but it doesn't cover some of this stuff. I mean, if you’re not okay with the weird stuff that’s cool. I can do vanilla stuff, but I've got some way out there fantasies. I should probably give you my number before I get cut off again. 206-XXX-XXXX. I should be home all afternoon, but I may run out later, but I'd be..."
END
The only person grossed out at this point is me. have a few hard rules in this department. No animals, no men, no minors, no married women, no urine, no blood, no feces, no permanent marks. My antecedents and descendents are also out. I have no siblings. This is far more than I, and probably painfully gender neutral name, wanted to know. I wonder vaguely if Liz realizes that the men who pay escorts are paying to fulfill THEIR fantasies. Oh, well. At least the message ran out before she started giving me her battle vectors for the next 24 freaking hours. DELETE!
NEXT MESSAGE
"Hello, my name is painfully gender neutral name. I'm calling because I think I owe you an apology. Your number was placed in an ad my company ran and I'm afraid you've been getting some calls intended for me. I really am terribly sorry. I hope I haven't caused you too much inconvenience. I've already called the paper and seen to it that the ad will be correct next week. My number is 206-XXX-XXXX."
END
I hit 8 to call the caller. This woman has an incredible voice. Smooth, cultured, and intimate. In her middle thirties or early forties I'd guess. It a good voice for the job she seems to do – I assume she’s the madame/phone contact for an escort agency. I note there is a one digit variance in our numbers. Whatever, I just want to ask that question I was going to ask my morning caller.
III. Painfully Gender Neutral Name
Ring!
Ring!
"Hello, this is painfully gender neutral name. May I ask who's calling?"
I'm still impressed by that voice. I could probably let her drone on at me forever and be happy about it – unlike Liz. "My name is David. You left a message about a little mix up we seem to have had."
"Oh, yes! I am so sorry, David. I'm really very embarrassed. This isn't at all acceptable. I hope you aren't offended. I assure you the next edition - it comes out on Friday - won't have your number in the ad. I called last night and was very emphatic about it. I hope you haven't gotten too many calls..."
It occurs to me she’s hoping I have information to pass on to her. "A few. Nothing too dramatic. I wanted to ask a question though."
There is a pause: "Oh?"
"Was this ad just for prospective employees or was it your regular business line?"
"Oh! I see. It was just for the help wanted ad as it were. I have another line for our customers to call. Its on our website and in our ad. If it had been our regular ad you would have had more than a few. We're the best in Seattle. That's why I'm expanding. We can't meet the demand."
Too much information for me, thanks. "It sounds like your industry didn't go into recession with the rest of us."
"Not really – some things are essential services. Some of the indies have been giving reduced rates to their regulars, but we haven't had to."
"I've just been erasing my voicemail. I hope that's okay." Its not really a question, and while I'm being polite, I think we both know I don't really care if its okay or not.
"Well," she says. You aren't an answering service."
We laugh. I don't know why. Maybe the whole situation is absurd.
"May I ask you a question, David?" She asks. She keeps putting an emphasis on my name, like it’s all spiffy to say and making her warm, or something. Somehow I doubt it.
"Sure."
"May I ask what you are going to do?"
Ah, there it is. The kicker. What am I - the unknown quantity and potentially upright-law-abiding-morally-outraged-citizen confronted with rampant sexual outlawry going to do?
"Keep erasing the messages until Friday."
"You aren't going to call the police?"
A fat lot of good that would do me, my dear - presuming I wanted to call them at all. This is Seattle of all places. One of the counter-culture centers of the universe. SPD has, get this, 12 vice detectives. 12. That's for a city of a million people. They have 18 homicide detectives - and one of the lowest homicide rates on a per capita basis in terms of metropolitan areas in the country. 12 isn’t an enforcement group. Its a management group. Call girl busts are so rare in Seattle that they actually make the worthwhile news stories in mainstream papers.
They don't want to eradicate prostitution in this town. They just want to keep it invisible. No streetwalkers, no brothels, no massage parlors. Just websites, ads in weeklies, and discreet in/outcall services. And that's the other thing. Who is the idiot who thinks the police don't know who all of the pros in town are. I mean, cops read the Seattle weekly and surf the web, too. Yeah, let me ring up Seattle vice right now - they'll just jump all over this!
I dont' say all of that, however. Instead I sound a little shocked: "In Seattle?"
"True enough," she seems to know what I'm thinking. "Normally we screen pretty carefully, but you seem nice, and I do feel really bad about this. Can we do anything by way of apology?"
A comp? I don’t think so. I've got my honey. "A generous offer, but no."
"Pity. Again I'm sorry. Caio."
"Caio."
I hang up and call my voicemail back.
LAST MESSAGE
“Yo, D. I wanted to know if you wanted to go get lunch or something. Its, uh, Ward. Call me.â€
END
At least one of the calls was for me. And yes, Ward, I recognized your voice. I've known you for fifteen years. Lunch sounds great. I hit 8.
I was dining with some older friends of mine tonight. Rosario, one of them, had just received an invitation for a get-together with his old high school class - people he hadn't seen for almost 30 years. He was quite excited about it; besides, the "girl" (48 woman, actually, but Rosario still calls her a girl) who had organized the get-together had gone through quite a bit of work to track down over 30 persons he hadn't seen in 30 years.
As Rosario is showing me some photos from his high-school years (and did he look funny when he still had all his hair), I ask him, "So, do you think they'll all make it or will someone miss the event?"
Rosario shrugs and says, "Not all of them. One of the girls died five years ago". I look at the photos and, without thinking, point my finger at one of the girls and ask "Her?".
Rosario looks at me in amazement and mutters "Yes, why... how did you know?". Fact is, I do not know how did I know. I've been trying to rationalize that, to no avail. There was no visual clue from Rosario - he was looking at his meal, not at me or the photos.
There were some twenty girls in that photo, but it seemed to me glaringly obvious that she had to be the one that died. I just had the sharp feeling, by looking at that picture, that she was somehow destined to die before the rest of the class.
What's up with country music and inordinate amounts of babes? Why does line dance drive chicks crazy? Why doesn't Roleplaying attract flocks of gorgeous girls, and nu-country does?
From that prolific character generator, Death Tribble... Poley Bear. And a bit of DT's musings on the character....
What's worse than a Polar Bear ? A Polar Bear with a gun
What's worse than a Polar Bear with a gun ? A Polar Bear that knows
he's cool
How do you know that the Polar Bear is cool ? Because he's wearing a
leather jacket
What's worse than a Polar Bear wearing a leather jacket and carrying a
gun ? A Polar Bear that's mean
How do you tell whether a Polar Bear is mean ? Because they've been
able to go to the dentist and get a gold tooth
What's worse than a mean Polar Bear wearing a leather jacket and
carrying a gun ?
A Polar Bear that's evil.
How can you tell that a Polar Bear is evil ?
Because he's setting a bad example to kids by smoking
Mage is a Champion Maine Coon who we got when the breeder retired him from stud. When we first got him, he was a powerful jumper. To the point that he could jump up onto the bed from about 6-8 feet away by traveling IN A STRAIGHT LINE. Very impressive jumper.
Well, a while ago, he started getting clumsy. He started missing his jumps and smacking his back feet into whatever it was he was jumping on. So, we took him to the vet. The vet diagnosed him as having luxating patellas. Basicly, the kneecaps on his back legs keep popping off to the side. This has caused him some mild discomfort, and has made it difficult for him to walk, run, and jump as his back legs will extend fine, but won't bend properly.
As he's started having trouble moving around, Mage has also started losing weight. It's hard to tell exactly why. There doesn't seem to be any physical cause for his weight loss. But there is Grace.
Grace is our oldest cat, and she's rather territorial. She's been trying to convince Mage to leave the house for the last two years. She hasn't been quite so bad lately, but she still growls at him. We're thinking that when Mage started to lose his mobility, he became more paranoid about those times when he was vulnerable: eating, and using the litterbox. We're wondering if he's been avoiding eating to make sure that Grace doesn't sneak up on him and attack.
Kee took Mage to the vet today. His weight seems to have leveled off, but he hasn't seemed to gain any weight. The vet wants us to isolate him and keep track of how much he eats, so we can be sure he is eating before trying to look for reasons why he doesn't seem to be getting enough nourishment.
So, for the next week or so, one of us will be sleeping in a room with Mage, and the other one will be in our bed keeping the other cats company.
I feel the need to spew random thoughts onto a public board from time to time so I thought I'd start up a thread to do it. Of course everyone else is welcome to spew here also--the only rule is that you cannot reply to someone else's post. Each post should have as little to do with the others as possible.
Just got back from a weekend in the Rhine Valley. I hadn't taken a day off in months and I needed it. Three days of daily museum-prowling, nightly carousing and sleeping three hours per night, and now I feel completely recharged. Sometimes a small change of pace is all you need.
I just wish Germans could make some decent coffee.
OTOH, I also wish Italians could make some decent beer.
I've come to conclude that "reputation" is only fun when you actually have some. Sitting at home, alone, unable to find work, feeling the energy being sucked out of your soul is bad enough. Seeing your name steadly slide down the scale on the reputation list only makes it worse... especially when you go out of your way to NOT be a post-padding munchkin and only say something when you feel you've got something useful to say. It is a very graphic reminder of just how little effect you have on the world around you - and that is something I do not need at this point in my life.
I really wish I could turn the stupid thing off....
I watched Gibson's "Passion" with a Japanese friend of mine. Throughout the second half, she was weeping all the time. Not for the reasons I would expect, though. As we left the cinema, she told me she was expecting an happy end and was upset they didn't find Jesus innocent and release him!
Solomon got a reaction from Mantis in Musings on Random Musings
Solomon reacted to Storn in Storn's Art & Characters thread.
Solomon got a reaction from death tribble in Answers & Questions
Solomon got a reaction from L. Marcus in A Thread for Random Musings
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