January 30, 2007

The Folly of Youth


Hee Haw... Pickin' and a Grinin'

In my wayward youth, I had this great friend, Lulu. Lulu was a nickname that her father’s rugby-playing buddies gave her when she was a pre-adolescent. There was a corny 1970’s variety sketch show that catered to the Grand Ole Opry crowd called Hee-Haw. Scrap (Lulu’s dad) and his buddies used to tease her and tell her that she looked like Lulu the Fat Lady from Hee Haw and it stuck.

As a point of clarification, Lulu was gorgeous. She had long corn silk blonde hair, deep blue eyes and was stacked like nobody’s business. She had the attitude of a gal being raised by her single, rugby playing father. In short, hanging around with Lulu was always a good time. At 17 years old, it was a dream come true to be able to hang around a bunch of big, sweaty rugby players who let us get away with drinking beer while we had moderately disturbing adolescent fantasies about them.

Often we would spend our weekends in Isla Vista, which is the town that houses the majority of the students and fraternities for the University of California Santa Barbara, drinking beer and mocking frat-boys. It was usually one big street party there on the weekends with crappy keg beer flowing freely. The agreement was always to meet up back at the car if we lost track of each other.

Even at a tender 17 years old, we were both cynical and twisted girls. We were quickly bored by the keg scene and the silly college boys vying for position with the ladies so we made up games to entertain ourselves. The most popular and fun game was “how far”. The challenge was to see which of us could get the furthest with a fella on any given night. (Fathers out there, beware: your daughters would do this, too) It was relatively innocent, because we were floozies, but we did have our limits.

Sure enough, Lulu and I became separated one evening. I started thinking that I was about to win the Hell out of the game. I had come across Rick Galvan and I had no idea where Lulu was, but Rick seemed quite smitten with yours truly so I gave him the time of day.. er.. night. We were fooling around and there was heavy petting aplenty. Things hadn’t been going quite so well for Lulu before I’d lost track of her so I thought I had this one in the bag. Eventually, I pulled the plug on poor Rick (now known as Blue Ball Rick). I could have gone so much further with the fella, but he committed the fatal act which was to push my head toward his nob and it was game over for Blue Ball Rick. I was tired and he had just become tedious. All that was left to do that evening was to wrangle up Lulu and get home before my father flipped out.

Upon arriving back at the car, I saw Lulu in the front seat. Victory was mine since she was alone. Fully prepared to gloat, I hollered her name at which point some random college boy’s head popped up from between her legs that were propped up on the dash board. Apparently, victory was not for me to taste on that night. However, random college boy had a nip at it.

January 25, 2007

Sunset at the Landfill


Pretty, no? About 10 feet beneath the snow methane gas and hydrogen sulfide are being generated by the decomposition of rubbish. Lets hear it for impermeable geotextile cap liners allowing landfills to be recycled for golf courses, playgrounds, and sports pitches with a pretty view!

January 23, 2007

A Breath of Fresh Air

I've been tethered to my desk at the office for the past two months straight. I just learned that I supremely screwed up some field work, so tomorrow I am being sent to New Hampshire to collect new data. Cold... sure. But I'll have a day of relief from my ass spreading across my chair.

P.S. Got a hot date tonight so perhaps I'll be getting more physical activity in the near future than running around a landfill in the snow tomorrow. Think dirty thoughts for me.

January 20, 2007

The Empress of the Blues

When I was growing up we didn't have a television. Dad thought they were lame. We'd spend our Saturday nights playing cards and listening to blues music shows on the radio. So from a tender period in my development, songs about liquor, cigarettes and sin were constant background music in my house. The blues taught me about falling in love and getting your heart kicked around and picking up the pieces in the aftermath. It's a hard world out there. Perhaps my perspective would be prettier if I'd spent the 80's learning life's lessons from Family Ties and Beverly Hills 90210. Perhaps not. But in the end, I can't resist a song that talks about a man fixing up my rusty bedsprings.

Empty Bed Blues

Bessie Smith sang songs that were gritty and provocative. She could pump out some seriously saucy metaphores. If you like this, you should check out Gimme a Pigfoot.

Empty Bed Blues
by Bessie Smith

I woke up this morning
With awful aching head
My new man had left me
Just a room and an empty bed
Bought me a coffee grinder,
Got the best one I could find
So he could grind my coffee
Cause he had a brand new grind
He's a deep-sea diver,
With a stroke that can't go wrong
He can touch the bottom,
And his wind holds out so long
He knows how to thrill me
And he thrills me night and day
He's got a new way of loving,
Almost takes my breath away
Oh, he's got that sweet something
And I told my girlfriend Lou
But the way she's ravin'
She must have gone and tried it too
When my bed get empty
Make me feel awful mean and blue
My springs are getting rusty
Sleepin' single like I do
Bought him a blanket
Pillow for his head at night
And I bought him a mattress
So he could lay just right
He came home one evening
With his spirit way up high
What he had to give me
Made me ring my hands and cry
He give me a lesson
That I never had before
When he got through teachin' me
From my elbow down was sore
He boiled my first cabbage
And he made it awful hot
When he put in the bacon
It overflowed the pot
When you get good lovin'
Never go and spread the news
I'll build up to cross you
And leave you with them empty bed blues

January 19, 2007

Holy Hangover Batman!!

So when I got in at freaking 2 AM, I did the logical thing and took out my contacts and got distracted reading email on my way to bed. About 10 minutes later I said to myself... I've got to take off my contacts and get to bed... and I must really be drunk because I can't seem to get anything in focus across the room! Then I went into the bathroom and started taking out my contacts... again... except you see, there weren't any contacts in my eyes. I realized this when I put a phantom contact into the contact case that was full of solution and I thought... Hey... Wait a minute, I've already done this. Yep, I'm a champion.

Work is going to be a breeze today!

January 16, 2007

Lust Lost

I ran into the subject of this post and this post tonight. What can I say? The man is no good. He's nothing but trouble. But he makes my teeth sweat like they've been running a marathon.

Must PMS always be such a rollercoaster?

January 13, 2007

Life in a Prostitution-Friendly State

There are several counties in the Great Silver State of Nevada where prostitution is legal. I used to live in one of them. It's hard to be in Nevada without being overcome with whorehouse fascination. On the north-south highway that crosses the state and extends from the Reno area to Las Vegas there are a plethora of denizens of sin.

In Tonopah, a town with an optimistic 3,500 person population and the nearest movie theatre, or even the nearest Kmart for that matter, being a 120 mile drive (past two whorehouses, mind you) away, it's pretty common to make the jaunt to Las Vegas for giggles and groceries.

There are four whorehouses between Tonopah and Las Vegas: The Cottontail Ranch, The Shady Lady, Angel's Ladies, and The Cherry Patch Ranch II. Each has souvenirs and whatnot you can purchase and some of the T-shirts are priceless. (Think of the mudflap girl silhouette wearing a cowboy hat on leaning on a post and the slogan, "Support Your Local Cathouse".) The shirts from The Cottontail Ranch were the nicest, that is, they actually had a pretty design. Unlike the ... ummm ... ladies who worked there. The above link is not a good characterization of the caliber and the aesthetic of the ladies who you meet at a whorehouse in Nevada. It really isn't like you see in the movies at all.

Every Tuesday the girls were shuttled into Tonopah for their weekly pelvic exam at the Nye County Regional Medical Center. Can you imagine how sadly depressing it must be to be the doctor or nurse practitioner who services the sex service industry?

The other girl geologist at the mine where I worked and I decided that the greatest Christmas gift for many of our loved ones would be T-shirts from the Cottontail Ranch. We motored down the highway and sweet talked our way in because they didn't have any guests at the time. They generally don't let civilian ladies cross the threshold.

As cliche as it sounds, red lights mark the entry way that can be seen from 20 miles away. Most of the houses are large temporary buildings, mobile homes or compounds of mobile homes and trailers. The Cotton Tail Ranch is a large double wide mobile home with a bunch of trailers adjacent to it. Inside, there is a bar-room with a juke-box and really hideous wood panelling on the walls that you almost can't see because it is covered over with trucker caps that have been stapled to the walls. Perhaps it's a trucker/whore equivalent of a notch in the bedpost. People are funny.

This is when I got up close and personal with a real live lady of ill repute. One of the girls came into the room wearing a really low-rent white teddy with her booty cheeks hanging out the back of it. She had a matching low-rent bleach job on her hair with 2 inch-long dark roots and haphazardly applied makeup. She said, "Hi." We weren't sure whether we should divert our eyes and try not to make her or us uncomfortable or try to engage her in conversation. It's hard not to imagine what her life is, how she got there and what array of fat, sweaty, disgusting truckers she has had to endure grunting on top of her or whispering foul nothings as she sucked them off. We settled on saying hi back and got the hell out of there before the eventual thoughts about whether we could actually earn a living that way started to flood our minds. But the funny thing is that sort of experience stays fresh in the memory and those thoughts creep up anyway and surprise the hell out of you. For instance, the very next time I was in a compromising position getting all biblical with a fella.

______________________________
An addenda to the story:

The geotech (Ginger) at the mine was married to a son-of-a-whore. That is, his mother was the madam at the Chicken Ranch in Pahrump, Nevada. Ginger said that his mama came to their wedding and got drunk and caused all sorts of havoc with his family. Anyhow, Ginger and Robbie lived in a single wide trailer, but not the whorehouse variety, more the family variety. They had a truck that was so high off the ground, you almost couldn't get into it without help or a ladder. Every year, Ginger won the girls mucking* contest at the mining festival because that girl could shovel some muck like nobody's business!

Upon moving to Tonopah, Ginger asked me, "Ok, who is your racer and which is your team?" I learned that she was asking about my Nascar racer (hers was Jeff Gordon) and my favorite football team. Apparently these are big things in small-town western towns in about a hundred miles from nowhere. I had nothing. I couldn't really give a shit about Nascar or Football. So I told her that I liked any racer that she liked and my team is the Lakers, having been born bleeding Laker purple at Queen of Angles Hospital in Los Angeles. Somehow, Basketball doesn't resonate with that crowd.



*In this context, "muck" is the verb meaning: shovelling muck, ore, waste or rock in general. Can also be a noun in that context. Not to be confused with a commenter's use of muck as in a colloquial for "spunk, jiz, cum, wad or ejaculate".

Random Flotsam and Jetsam

My big idea today was to get cracking on writing the long ago promised tale of killing my mother. As the fates have it, I did get a bite into it but not as far as I'd like to so you (my only reader) will have to just keep coming on back to see if that black cloud has slid across the screen at Fresh Hell Central.

I had a little revelation about a comment I made about randy married men hitting on me and trying to convince me that their wives are dried up and supremely lacking in sex drive. Usually these guys have wives that are pretty close to me in age. I'll tell you what... About every single woman I know who is in my age group, married or not is endlessly griping about how their fellas don't put out anywhere near enough to keep them satisfied. So I'm thinking that either these men are full of shit and just want some fresh tuna, or all the ladies I know are total freaking nymphomaniacs, myself included. So yeah, I'm throwing the gauntlet out there to all you men in your 30's and 40's. Go dig something out of your wives or lady friends if you aren't a matrimony sort! I dare you! I double dog dare you!! Hell, it's the dead of winter so we should all be getting busy like teenagers!

And for your viewing pleasure, here is a picture I took on a particularly long walk today:

To take this picture, I had to lie down in the dirt. I didn't realize how wet it was until I got up and had that moist clingy feeling on the backside of my trousers. And then the wind picked up which would help to alleviate that moist posterior situation, except that it was about 40 degrees F, so I just got a frigid ass and a groovy twilight picture out of the deal. Note to self: Walk earlier and stay out of the mud.

I decided to take pictures on my walks to record the world around me, entertain y'all, and see if I actually have an eye for pictures. That, and I just got a new camera with a 1Gig memory card. Also, every once in a while, I get inspired to take lotsa pictures. Last night I saw Born into Brothels about the children of sex workers in the red light districts of Calcutta, India. Some documentarian moved in and gave a whole mess of kids cameras and taught them about photography and some of the pictures they took were amazing. So of course, being slightly narcissistic, I've convinced myself that my pictures would be just as good as pre-adolescent Indian children of questionable lineage. Deluded?... You betcha!

January 11, 2007

Christmas at Fresh Hell Palace










I loathe Christmas. And most things it stands for. Especially in this modern age. However, I currently reside proximal to my sister and more importantly, to my sweet little innocent 6 year old niece. As a result, Chris Mother-frickin' Kringle had his way with me. Here are the fruits of both our labors. Note that a full half of my male demons are anatomically correct. Yeah... "Blaspheme I know thy name and thy name is FRESH HELL!!!"




Holidays are over. All that crap (except of course for the devils) are sweetly tucked in storage until I'm inspired once again by the holidays... that is... my niece.

January 9, 2007

Bang Bang BANG!!!

Truth be told, I'm glad my name isn't Annie, she isn't so well representd here. In the end, I can kind of relate to this little video. The guy part, that is. You see, I'm (sadly) more of a man than most men when it comes to romance and whatnot.

There is a guy who I used to date and everything fizzled out and I didn't hear a peep from him for months. Out of the blue, he starts calling and sending me messages and whatnot. There were no hard feelings on my part because we just dated for a short while and things never got serious. Well... when we started talking again, I wanted to know what happened and why he just dissappeared. Well, guess what the big issue was? He said he was falling for me and he got scared so he tucked tail and ran. Now he wants to beg forgiveness and make it up to me so that he can win me back. How's that for throwing down with an impressive blowjob! Ha! I've still got it.

I've got comittment issues and damned good lips. Basque in my glory, y'all!

January 6, 2007

Where do I go from here?

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a geologist. When I was young and doe-eyed and looking for the right fit academically everyone went on with the old cliche that if you do what you love, the money will follow. I'm here to call bullshit on that old myth. At least in the case of geology. Which brings me to my dilemma today: What the fuck should I do about my career?

When I first started college, (at Santa Barbara City College because when I was in high school, there was no glimmer of a chance that I would be hauling my party-girl ass out of bed at 7 am on a Saturday to take the freaking SATs, so 4 year institution from the get-go was O-U-T out!) I had no idea what academic path I would pursue, but I knew it would be something in the sciences.

In high school, biology and marine biology really spoke to me so I expected I'd go down that road on some level. On the good advice of my dear friend Lulu (rip sista) I took an introductory geology class. Within two weeks, my major was declared. I must give credit to the professor (Karl Hallbach) who romanced me into a life of dirt and rocks. He was an inspiring teacher who opened my eyes to a discipline that incorporated everything that the world is made of and the way all aspects of the physical and life sciences work in concert in this fascinating world.

Half way through the semester, we had our first field trip to Death Valley and however much I'd become enamored with geology was exponentially increased. Perhaps it was the desert sunsets and breezes, perhaps it was sitting around a fire drinking liquor and telling lies. It certainly wasn't the nimrod fuck hole playing Tangerine and various freaking Eagles "hits" (yeah, hits like vicious blows to the gut) on guitar and stinky stoned white-girls with dreadlocks singing along. But I was over the desert moon drunk on cheap liquor and geology.

An aside... Have I mentioned my misanthropic tendencies? This might be why life sciences of the biology type was patently out of the question on my academic path. Hence my mantra: If it lives or ever lived, I don't really care that much.

Anyhow, I wasn't one of the folks whose parent's teats were flowing freely. Dad had died already and Mom was not a woman of great means, though very proud and supportive of me. The means to the end of my education fell down upon my own cunning to finance. So I worked and it took for-freaking-ever to finally get my bachelors degree. Which, for the record, came to pass at the tender age of 30. In the meantime, ironically, I had a career for seven years in the mental health profession (see previous paragraph).

After college, I had the incredible opportunity to work in mining, which is the holy grail for any geologist who isn't an eco-Nazi, which I am not at all one small bit. And on top of it all, mining is lucrative, fun and exciting with really bitchen heavy equipment. You can't imagine how cool it is to climb a 12 foot ladder to get into the cab of a 250 ton dump truck. As things tend to go in the mining industry, the mine closed and I was laid off. So in a desperate fit to get a job in Santa Barbara where my mother was living and dying at the time, I took a job in environmental consulting after swearing that I would never get stained green and ruin what was shaping up to be a lovely career in resource exploitation. Dammit dammit dammit!!!

Fast forwarding past a whole litany of stories from the past 5 1/2 years that are fodder for future blog submittals...

I abandoned the west coast a year and a half ago for fear that my soul wouldn't survive one more minute of California life, and transferred to an office here in beautiful Boston.

Now, professionally, I'm not so sure that I am in the right position and I have been questioning my career path for about as long as I've been in environmental consulting. And for the past year, I've felt at a crossroads. You see, as much as I still love geology, environmental consulting has little to nothing to do with pure geology and it's not even a fraction of as interesting as geology is. I'm in the unfortunate position of having to continue to pay for my education, but I've got some big harebrained ideas about what step to take next. There are a few paths that I can pursue and I can't seem to get my head around which is the right one to take.

- I can embrace the profession that I've fallen into and go to graduate school and be all I can be in environmental consulting.
- I can chuck it and go to nursing school and reduce my stress load exponentially and not have that pesky working 7 days a week situation, yet make a pretty similar salary
- I can pursue a super-fantastic business idea I've come up with and risk failing miserably and going ever deeper in debt.
- I can stay the course and tread water at my current station in life.

After this exercise of putting these thoughts out for all the world to see, I'm no closer to resolved than I was when I started writing this. But on the other hand, I'm inspired to write more entries for this fresh hell. Stay tuned kitty cats. I'll let you know what comes to pass.

Receding into Obscurity

It has been a rigorous and trying week. I've been working my posterior off and not seeming to get any progress made. I'll be heading to the office shortly to carry on with it. Yeah, go ahead, look at the date. It's Saturday. There will be more of the same tomorrow.

So, dear reader, my apologies for not providing more interesting content. I still plan to rivet you with tall tales that will strike you with awe. In the meantime, I'll continue spending unimaginable amounts of hours on my arse driving a freaking computer and writing some truly uninspired words about contaminated soils, groundwater and whatnot. Once that submittal is off my desk, friends, the good times will roll.

January 2, 2007

Moments of Weakness

It was a particularly rough day at the office. I spent most of it scrambling to get things done and wishing I was being manhandled in the fun way. Distraction doesn't make for an efficient girl in the corporate world. Anyhow... I'm going to move forward with a little bit of quality time petting my cat... Clyde... fuzzy... gray stripes... whiskers... claws... paws... squeeky mewing... she's a cat you filthy bastards!! Now petting the kitty... that's a horse of another color all together my friends.