Thursday, October 2, 2014

So today is Driver's License Picture Day and I'm ready.

I haven't shaved in about 10 days and I have a white T-shirt and orange jump suit out of the closet where it sat since my last picture 4 years ago.

I just was out in the driveway and a neighbor stopped on their way to work. He took one look at me and simply said, "God! You look like hell! What happened this last tour?"

"Nothing. I'm just getting ready for my new driver's license picture," I replied.

"I'll swing by after work to check it out," he said.

I'm going to go in early and have it done and the second I leave DMV I am going straight to Vladmir's barber shop for a shave!

To find out why the blog is pink just cut and paste this: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE WRITING OF TODAY'S ESSAY

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

The Doctor, me and the Chinese restaurant.

Mike Lewis's kid knew I was headed to Seattle. It was a supply run of sorts. I had money saved and needed a bunch of stuff and decided that the way to go was to buy everything in Seattle where my money went further and then ride back up the Alaska highway with the Doctor.  He was headed up for spring salmon season and offered me a ride back up having wintered at his parents home outside of town.

Mike's kid asked me if I'd pick him up a deactivated hand grenade from and Army/Navy store. I simply added it to the list of stuff I had been asked to pick up.

I arrived in Seattle and the Doctor met me at the airport and we took off and spent a couple of days shopping. My luggage consister of a duffel bag filled with other duffel bags to haul my purchases home. I would buy everything I needed in Seattle. My travel luggage was simply a wad of American Express traveler's cheques. 
As seen on TV and shilled by Karl Malden.

 I tossed my duffel into the bed of his pickup and off we went.
His pickup was a rebuild. He had originally found it somewhere and spent a lot of time and money rebuilding the old '54 Chevy. He'd had it since high school.

It had been rebuilt years beforehand and was now starting to go into the rattle phase which actually meant it had just been broken in. 

At the Army/Navy store I spied a small pail full of deactivated grenades on the counter and on impluse offered $10 for the lot. The clerk accepted. I threw down a ten and we walked off carrying it. I put a couple in the package I was bringing north that contained stuff I had bought for other people.

The pail I tossed into the cab. One never knows when they'd need a grenade in a hurry in the big city. When you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail. When you have a grenade, everything looks like it needs blowing up. It wasn't long before something needed blowing up.

On the way home a convertible full of young guys pulled up alongside us at a stop light. I down from the pickup onto the car. 
They were drinking beer. 

As a favor to them I told they they ought to keep their beers out of sight and the driver lipped off at me.

"I'm doin' you a favor and you smart off at me?" I shouted. Then I fished a greneade out of the pail, pulled the pin, flipped the spoon off and tossed it into the convertible.

The kids panicked and bailed out. One screamed that we were disgruntled Vietnam veterans as they were always being badmouthed in the news back then.

The light turned and we drove off leaving them scattered and awaiting an explosion that would never come.

The next day was a spring day and we were finishing up my shopping. I went to Penny's for 501 Levis and Pendleton shirts. I bought about a dozen of each and threw the package into the pickup. We dropped them off at the Doctor's place, packaged everything and decided to get lunch in Seattle and afterwards visit a certain tavern near Fisherman's Wharf.

We spotted a pretty good looking chop suey joint and decided to check it out. We had to drive about three blocks to find a place to park. We parked and wandered  in and were seated. We ordered and a young Chinese guy was our waiter. I think he was an actual Chinese guy from China instead of some other Asian. Some non-Chinese were hopping on the bandwagon and opening Chinese restaurants.

Incidentally, back then it was not unheard of  to hear someone call a Chinese restaurant a Chop Suey joint. It was a carryover from San Franciso and it had worked its way up the coast. I guess in this day and age a colorful term like that is some kind of slur but back then it wasn't. 

The original chop suey was a meal whipped up for late night customers. The cook would chop up the day's leftovers and cook them up for the San Francisco miners, sailors and other late night party goers. The San Franciscans started calling it chop suey and the name stuck. There really was no set recipe for the original chop suey. 

Chow was delivered and we ate and I think it was the Doctor's shirt that gave us away as Alaskans. The waiter commented and asked us if we were fishermen. When we confirmed it he started fishing for a big tip.

He'd heard the stories of fishermen leaving a $100 bill for a $10 lunch before and made it obvious he was fishing. I was mildly insulted but the Doctor was really irate. He later said things like this happened to him often.

I didn't know he had a grenade in his pocket and he turned to the waiter, said "Here's your tip!" pulled the pin and tossed it at the waiter. The waiter caught it, looked at it and said, "Oh, no!"
Then the waiter threw it as hard as he could away from himself and it hit the tempered plate glass store front window which crumpled into a million little pieces. It kept going and a passing car stopped it with its windshield, sending spider cracks through the glass. Two windows for the price of one.

Panic hit the restaurant! People gasped in horror. The car outside came to a screeching stop.

The waiter was running in circles shouting 'Oh, no! Oh, no!" It was pretty comical. The car owner was out of his car screaming bloody murder.

The Doctor and I simply and calmly walked over to the shattered window and stepped out onto the street and walked fifty feet past the car and its cursing driver unnoticed. I spotted the grenade on the sidewalk where it had bounced off of the car's windshield and grabbed it.

 We moseyed a few more feet then ran like hell to the pickup as fast as we could. When we got there the Doctor hopped in and fired it up while I covered the rear plate with a bandana. Then I hopped into the bed and laid down on my belly with my arms and legs spread. I knew I was in for a wild ride.

We hauled ass and started making turns as fast as we could for a while. A 1954 six cylinder pickup isn't a Ferrari but we did what we could. I slid around quite a bit on the turns. After a while we stopped and I pulled the bandana off of the license plate and got into the cab.

We then returned back to the Doctor's mom's place post haste, carefully  obeying all the traffic laws. When we arrived there I looked at the Doctor.
"Well, Stanley, here's yet another fine mess you've gotten us into," I said.

Obviously we skipped the tavern visit.

We decided then and there to leave for Alaska while we could. We packed immediately. I carefully stuffed the rest of the grenades into the middle of the duffel bag containing the stuff I had bought for my friends.We then hit the road, driving east for an hour or so before winding through the backroads to Blaine, Washington where we entered Canada during darkness.

It took several hours but we crossed over in the night and headed north and camped out for the night a couple hours north of the border in a cheap campsite.

The following morning we were on the road headed north to the Alaska highway and had a pretty good trip back to the Rock.

To find out why the blog is pink just cut and paste this: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE WRITING OF TODAY'S ESSAY

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

This post is a few hours early but I will be busy tomorrow.

Tom Lewis is dead. I just heard he died last year at 65 a couple months before retirement. He wanted to get a sailboat and sail the Caribbean. 
Now he can't.

Bill Michaels just stroked out and left his dream of taking a Winnebago all over the country in the crap can. He can't live his dream anymore because his health crapped out.

Tom and Janie Sanchez just bagged their plan of opening a bed and breakfast in New Hampshire by the wayside because Janie got sick.

Bob and Gail Wellington just sold their business and got a whole lot less than they thought they should have. So much for their retirement plans of going on a couple cruises a year.

My friend Dick has a heart condition and seems to have lost interest in his dream of camping and canoeing in Minnesota. 

Another soon to retire coworker has confessed he seems to have lost a lot of his drive and isn't going to take up fly fishing like he always swore he would do when he retired.

Fred and Lois are screwed. Their daughter was born with brain damage and likely will be living with them until they die. It's sad but those are the cards they were dealt.

Laurel and Hardy (Frank Hardy married a woman named Laurel so the nickname for them is a slam dunk) just took a pretty good hit. 
He retired last year but got cold feet. He doesn't see a good economy in the future so he returned to work as a consultant. He doesn't see retiring for several more years. His plans are on hold.

Personally, I don't see retirement as a viable option. I forsee getting my savings stolen from me by inflation and having to work for as long as I can.

What I have that nobody but Alzheimer's can take away from me is that I can look back and remember the neat things I did in my 20s and 30s.

The fishing, sailing, tipi dwelling, the traveling all over hell, my hitch in the army and general hell raising are very fond memories. I did this when I was young and healthy and could. Sixty-three is a little old to go fishing in the Bering Sea or wintering in the Rockies. (It is also too old to run like hell from someone chasing me!) 

The truth is that when I started my career and present lifestyle just shy of forty I managed to do well and get the house paid off in record time. I daresay I had the place paid off before some of my peers that had 25 or 30 year notes. If you want to call it 'catching up'--and I wonder catching up to what-- I did it in about 7 or 8 years.

As I see it unless I had managed to go into investment banking and make a gazillion bucks I would not be able to retire anyway with the future economic situation. I have little faith in our constantly increasing  national debt. The older I get the more I am convinced that I did it right.

I'm damned glad that I ate dessert first.

To find out why the blog is pink just cut and paste this: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE WRITING OF TODAY'S ESSAY

I just mooshed a pimple

 that I saw and did it right. After the damned thing popped I kept squeezing until the clear liquid passed and fresh blood ran then held direct pressure on it for about a half-minute and called it good. In a few days it will disappear.

This isn't anything new or different to me or anybody else. Stuff like this happens to everyone at times. Race, religion, color or anything along those lines has nothing to do with.  It is just something that goes along with being human.

The rich and powerful have the same things happen to them and I suppose the only difference is that the rich may hire some big shot dermatologist to squeeze the pimple for them. Afterwards the dermatologist fills the crater in with Bondo and sands it down and paints it or does whatever dermatologists do. Then the rich guy pays the bill and winds up just as well or poorly off as the guy that just mooshed his own pimple.

One of the things I have found out is that there are things that happen to all of us no matter who we are we have to deal with them. 

Years ago I stopped looking in the mirror to look into my own eyes to try in a feeble and lame attempt to see my soul. Now every so often I look into the mirror to see if there is another pimple on my nose.

Ever since I started doing that I have been a lot better off.

To find out why the blog is pink just cut and paste this: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE WRITING OF TODAY'S ESSAY

Monday, September 29, 2014

Here's a post dedicated to an Old School Real Live Yankee Lobsterman

 I went to school with. He was a pretty good student and successful in high school and he decided to be a fisherman.

I hadn't seen him in years and we met recently but I heard he was fishing lobsters for a living many years ago from a mutual friend.

I guess he spent a couple years in college but decided he didn't want to wind up another Dilbert in a cubicle so he chose between the family business of demolition or fishing and fishing won out. I can't say as I blame him.

Then again demolition sounds right up my alley. I probably would have taken that kind of a business to new levels by learning to blow stuff up. Imploding buildings seems pretty neat to me. Why use a ball on a crane when you can use det cord and TNT?

He's had his own boat for decades and it is his business and he goes out just about every day that the weather will let him.

Lobstering is basically hard work and to a point inherently dangerous. You go out every day and eventually SOMETHING life and death is going to happen that you didn't see coming and you have to deal with it.

One thing that hasn't changed since my boyhood is that weathermen can be wrong more than half the time and still keep their jobs. While weather prediction has certainly gotten better it is still far from perfect.

The weather in New England is constantly changing and for a fisherman that can be either a good or very, very bad thing. The sea can go from calm to a lump in a New York minute with little or no warning.

I'll bet that there are some changes since I pulled lobster pots as a kid with a couple guys from Damon's Point.

The hull shape is very likely the same or close to it but the materiels are different. Gone are the old wood hulls. They have been replaced with fiberglass and most of them now sport diesel engines instead of the old gas jobs I remember.

Electronics have changes, too. Back in the day the only electronics most guys had was a newfangled transistor radio so they could listen to the Red Sox games on WBZ or WHDH.

Now they sport Marine VHFs, GPS navigation, depth sounders possibly weather faxes. Some probably have a lot more than that.

One thing I'd bet hasn't changed much is the basic gear for pulling pots consisting of a block on a davit and a gypsy head. It's likely still that dead simple. The pots are different these days, though. They used to be made of oak. Now they're vinal covered steel wire.

I'm going to be in his area soon and hope I can drop by and check his boat out.

Of course, the business he is in is a true business where he is paid for what he catches. I figure he's probably pretty good at catching lobsters because if he wasn't he'd have gone broke long ago and doing something else.

One of the things he shares with cab drivers, waitresses, day laborers and strippers is that he generally gets paid daily or fairly close to daily. When he gets in he takes his catch to the fish pound and settles up.

You have to be disciplined to get paid like that. It's too easy to let a day's pay slip through your hands regularly because you think you can just make another day's pay tomorrow. In reality it doesn't work that way.

You have to be disciplined.

I drove cab for a while and was paid daily. I used to put my day's pay in an old coffee can and bank it every week or so I'd have money for rent, utilities and other things. I saw how it could be too easy to let it slip from my fingers at the bar or other dens of iniquity. A lobsterman has to be the same way.

Back when I was a kid I knew a couple of old Yankee lobstermen and both of them were real characters. One was a WW1 vet that had gone Over There to France as a private and returned as a captain having gone over the top with Black Jack Pershing.

He had been in college for a divinity degree but after the war he went back and changed his major.

Frankly I think he majored in profanity and drinking as he was often half in the bag when I saw him but I digress. Somewhere along the line he fell into lobstering and it agreed with him.

He was a character and about the only adult I called by his first name unless I was in front of my parents. I'd call him Charlie because he told me to and in front of my folks he was Mr. Wendell.

Sadly, the guy I went to school with isn't a drunk or even remotely as colorful and profane as the old guy I knew as a kid. It's a shame he isn't. In this day and age we could probably use a little more local color. I suppose in this day and age they'd throw him in jail if he got drunk and sang dirty songs.

Then again, if I remember, Charlie Wendell was no stranger to a jail cell but I digress.

 Still, profanity and drunkeness aside, I would imagine they are kindred spirits. Lobstermen seem to like the independence of fishing and being their own bosses.

I hope to see him soon and I'm posting this, printing it and sending it to him as a head's up that I'm headed his way shortly. I am bringing a bottle of Jameson's to try and civilize him a bit because I think he's a Jack Daniels guy.

To find out why the blog is pink just cut and paste this: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE WRITING OF TODAY'S ESSAY

Trying to keep up with my posts on a netbook, notebook, whatever the hell you call the damned thing is a pain in the neck.

I just looked it up. It’s a netbook and the problem I have with it is that both the keyboard is smaller than I am used to and I have not figured out how to deaden the touchpad which I keep hitting with my thumb. I also have to disable the caps lock key.

Still, until I can get the combat laptop replaced it is going to be a whole lot better than nothing.
I was actually thinking of getting a tablet of some sort with an external keyboard but I don’t think that’s a good idea unless I can find a full sized external keyboard.
Right now there are other problems to deal with in keeping my posts on line on a daily basis. The WiFi I have been using is going to dry up soon and I’m going to have to get some kind of wireless modem.
As I have posted earlier I am a Luddite as far as cutting edge technology goes. I’ll admit that it is odd for a guy that is a licensed ham operator. Most hams are technology guys. I’m not.
Still, there is a way I can get it together and keep things up and running. I’ll just have to get an IT guy or someone to teach me and show me my options. I have faith.
I do have another combat laptop coming but I can see the end of those being a viable option as the technology keeps getting dated daily. Things in the internet seem to work pretty fast. It seems like a week ago I got my first computer.
Anyway, we’ll see how things pan out.
If push comes to shove and I have to I will simply write my daily post wherever I am and post it when I can get to a WiFi spot or someplace I can get on line.
We’ll see.

To find out why the blog is pink just cut and paste this: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE WRITING OF TODAY'S ESSAY

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Yes. I am a Luddite. So what?

One of the guys I work with walked in on me as I was set up in an airport a while back and laughed and called me a Luddite.

Walmart cell phone, clunky old laptop and sitting on the floor, I was dug in writing another post while waiting for an airplane to show up and whisk me away to a faraway place.

I suppose he was right. I imagine I could have used a smart phone and a tablet but what I was using worked (and still works) for me. It’s really all I ask for.

I suppose in a way I am pretty primitive by today’s standards but I still get the job done.

Truth is it’s easier to write on a full sized laptop than one of the newer tablets and I’m used to it. The only thing I use my phone for is to make calls and an occasional text. The Wally World unit works for me and $30 a month is a pretty good deal. It keeps things simple.

It works for me.
Call me what you will, I’m basically happy even though I am probably a Luddite. Leave me the hell alone. I’m not bothering you.

To find out why the blog is pink just cut and paste this: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE WRITING OF TODAY'S ESSAY

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Men, we sail on the morning tide!

has been my answer to scheduling departures for a long time now.

Now, the morning tide may not come until, say, 2330 but it’s still the morning tide. I generally call it the 2330 morning tide.

Newbies always ask why I call the morning tide the morning tide if it’s 1600 and I tell them that you have to call it something. I sometimes call it the 1600 (or whatever time we’re sailing) morning tide.

“Men, we sail on the 1600 morning tide!”

I figure that the pirates in the movies always sail on the morning tide and if it’s good enough for Errol Flynn and Johnny Depp it’s good enough for the rest of us.

I always wonder what it was like to sail a galleon all hung over and sick because generally the word is given to the crew when they are in some tavern somewhere bombed out of their minds and groping the waitresses that work there.

Of course, in the next scene you see the crew bright-eyed and bushy-tailed heaving anchor while cheerfully singing a sea chantey of some sort.

I’ve done that a couple of times over the years. I’d be hauling in deck lines when we sailed cheerfully singing a sea chanty about whores, rum, sodomy or the lash and left the crew either laughing or shaking their heads. The all-time hit single of time all time seems to be ‘The Good Ship Venus’.

I would imagine the truth back when really involved groans, curses and puking but that’s not what Hollywood wants us to see.

Pirates are supposed to be happy people.

Still, I generally sail on the morning tide no matter what time of day it comes.

To find out why the blog is pink just cut and paste this: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE WRITING OF TODAY'S ESSAY

Friday, September 26, 2014

Alaska drew all sorts of people.

You never knew who would show up next.

I think Kodiak had a reputation of being a pretty accepting place because there were open gays there in the late 70s and early 80s and they were, for the most part, left alone. I say open in that they neither advertised it nor did they hide it.

While they were not still in the closet they didn’t put their sexuality on parade. They simply went about their business like everybody else.

Every now and then someone would take exception to one of the gay guys and get a little snotty. A couple people tried to do a little gay bashing and found out that just because someone is gay doesn’t mean they can’t fight.

One night three guys tried to rat-pack the biggest gay guy in the bar. They achieved an astounding lack of success when their intended victim simply picked up the chief tormenter and THREW him at the other two leaving a pile of three terrified young men in a heap on the floor.

It was the first of only two times I have seen a human being pick up another human being and casually use him as a weapon against other human beings.

When the victor sat down at the bar a couple stools down from me I leaned over and said dryly, “Not bad for a fairy.” The whole bar busted up, including the gay guy.

The chief tormentor later came up to me asking for sympathy. I simply asked him if he had learned to leave people alone. I had no sympathy for anyone that went looking for trouble.

By the beginning of the mid 80s I guess transgender surgery was beginning to get successful and I remember at least three people that had been transgendered or were in the process of it.

One was actually an MD that took care of me once. She did a good job and I had faith in her. I think she was pretty competent and that’s all I ask of a doctor. Their sex and sex life is their own business.

Afterwards someone asked me if it would bother me having her give me a short-arm inspection. “Why would that bother me?” I replied. “Hell, besides seeing a lot more of them than mine, she even used to have one of her own.”

There was also another transgendered person that arrived there for a while partway through the surgical process. She got a job there and became a part of the community. She left town for a while and had the rest of the process completed and returned.

She became a fairly well respected part of the community.

To tell you the truth, out of the three transgendered women I can remember, two of them would have been pretty effeminate looking guys had they stayed that way. The third one looked like a handsome woman.

I gotta admit the plastic surgery doctors know what they are doing.

What is interesting to note is the guys generally accepted them and left it at that. A few women were catty about them. One woman named Cathy after a couple of drinks made a catty remark to Alexis (not her real name). I was sitting there. I looked at Alexis and simply said, “Ever notice the women that take offense to you are the ones nobody wants to screw, anyway?”

A couple beer drinkers snarfed and the place went silent in anticipation of the impending horror show. My pal Blaine spoke up. “Piccolo’s right,” he said. “If a few of you would take heed at the way Alexis takes care of herself you’d be a whole lot better off. So would I. I’m tired of looking at your sorry raggedy asses.”

She started to reply and Blaine looked at the bartender. “How many beers have I had?” he asked.

“Four,” answered the bartender from across the bar.

Blaine looked over Cathy.

“Five more and you’ll turn into a ‘ten’,” he said to her, dryly.
The whole place cracked up. Cathy was humiliated. She turned beet red.
Katrina looked at Cathy. “I wish I looked that good,” she commented. Cathy looked shocked. I wasn’t. I knew Katrina well. She could be kind.
Katrina was a somewhat weathered for forty woman that was comfortable around men. She wasn’t a ‘one of the guys’ type, just a competent secure woman that men are comfortable around. They cleaned up their language around her but not simply because she was a woman. They cleaned it up because she was respected by them. Guys never referred to the lines on her face as sun lines or age lines. They referred to them as character lines. She was really pretty attractive.
Sometimes she could be self-effacing. She was then and I saw Alexis’s face light up at the left-handed compliment she had just made.
Incidentally, I seldom recall hearing an attractive woman make a rude comment about any transgendered women they met.
One of the things I learned in Alaska is grace under fire.
The woman that was half way through her trans gendering I knew because of my part time work at the strip club. I treated her well and sometimes we’d chat a bit. One time when I was fixing something at the dancer’s apartment she was there alone with me.
She took off her blouse and told me to check out her recently installed boobs. Truth is the doctor did a damned fine job. I’ll admit it, though. I was uncomfortable in that situation. I did manage to keep my cool though. I simply complimented them.
She told me she was headed south to California to get the rest of the job done soon and I wished her luck. I also told her to keep them under wraps because the strippers she worked with would likely get pretty jealous if they saw them.
When I said that her face lit up.
A couple of days later I ran into her downtown while shopping for grub. Blaine and another were with me. She came up to me and started talking. Then she blurted out that when she got back to town following the rest of her surgery she wanted me to try out her new vagina. This had come at me out of nowhere and I suppose if I were drinking a beer I certainly would have snarfed.
“That sounds interesting,” I replied. “I’m flattered that you think that highly of me.”
She beamed and wandered off. Blaine was agape and stared at me a minute. “That was gracious!” he said. Then he turned to the other guy. “You have just witnessed grace under fire,” He said. “He gave her a totally noncommittal answer and left her feeling like a million bucks!”
I turned to Blaine. “Who needs a deckhand and is headed to Dutch Harbor for a year or three?” I asked and the three of us laughed.
What eventually happened is she left for California and was gone a while. I heard she returned after I left town for several months to pick up my sailboat. When I returned she had a boyfriend of sorts which got me off the hook nicely.
Another thing I remember well happened one night when some clown non-rate Coastie with a snootful overloaded his face at the rock and roll club just as the band was beginning to play.
It came out of the blue and there was no call for it.
“I can beat the snot out of every fag in this place,” he shouted.
The band started playing a few seconds later and a buddy of mine ran over to my table and slid to a stop. “Piccolina, wanna dance?”
“Why certainly, Stephanie” I replied to my friend named Steve and got up.
We were not the first same-sex couple to hit the stainless steel dance floor. Just about everybody there had the same idea at the same time.
 This was not in the defense of the gay community. They could take care of themselves. This was about letting some dopey kid know that he was in the Big Leagues now and ought to smarten up before he got hurt. When that kid looked at the dance floor filling up with same sex couples he was stunned. I had seen him before and knew he knew the joint wasn’t a gay bar. Then it sunk in. He had thrown out a challenge and everyone in the place had accepted it. He fled.
Still, something was in the air and after he left the whole place continued same-sex dancing for a while. Then it changed back to normal.
We had a blast rocking out until the place closed at 0500. I sacked out on the boat that night soaked in sweat and woke up at about 1100 feeling pretty good. I had sweated the beer out of my system that night on the dance floor.
Nobody cared, especially the owner because he sold a lot of booze that night. That night was talked about for months. I think the only night I can recall that was as much fun was the night a guy named Uncle Bob came to town with a 5 gallon pail of magic mushrooms and started handing them out.
I didn’t eat any of them but laughed myself silly that night just watching everyone that did eat them. Sometimes there are times to join the crowd, sometimes there are times to stand back and watch the crowd. That was a night to stand back and watch.
I chose wisely that night.
I think a lot of the reason I got to see a lot of stuff a lot of other people didn’t get to see or have to deal with is because I simply figured that if it didn’t rob me or hurt me it didn’t bother me.
I dealt with people based simply on the way they acted and treated me.
I had problems of my own to deal with and in truth an insight to what I saw inside the gay/transgendered community made me glad I was who I was. I had it a lot easier than most of them.
As far as I am concerned the gay community had it a lot easier than the hard drug community by a longshot. I steered clear of that even though it was constantly around me.
Actually I saw that I had it a lot better than most people I met along my 63 years.

To find out why the blog is pink just cut and paste this: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE WRITING OF TODAY'S ESSAY