with that outward bound feeling

it's been three weeks on the summer gig without getting paid. today, i emailed townhall and said i was going up there. when i got there, they were closed, despite it being 3:30. when i got home, my supervisor called, saying we should be getting our money next week. the thing is, this is a 6 week gig. we are half way through, without a buck. in fact, i have lost money, on stray vending machine and lunch purchases that i wouldn't have made if i were home. i'll give them next week, based on this semi promise from the boss man. what a deal. 5 hours a day with people who bite themselves, piss on themselves, stand around naked after swimming, and endlessly repeat themselves. and they're the best part of the job.

on the bright side, the weather has been cloudy, and strangely cool. perhaps this is not a good thing, but it does feel nice.

manny ramirez is back from his suspension, and is actually doing better than he did before. recently, he was hit on the hand by a pitch, and taken out of the game. the next day he wasn't in the lineup. no matter. with the game tied at 2 in the sixth inning, manager joe torre summoned manny to pinch hit. without having taken batting practice, he faced a 96 mph fastball from a pitcher he had never faced before. he drove that first pitch for a grand slam, the 21st of his career, two behind the all time record of 23, set by lou gehrig, who, honestly, was not the luckiest man on the face of the earth. manny, at 37, is still doing his thing. he is simply the best right handed hitter i have ever seen, and, in my opinion, with bonds, one of the two greatest hitters since 1970. let the racists and egghead experts try to bring them down. i'll trust my eyes, thank you.

oh yeah, some dick head i work with had on a shirt saying "manny being fired" followed by "fuck manny" but with a shamrock in place of the "u." i have been working with this shit brained nimrod for years, but never in such close proximity. manny, of course, was a fine fellow when he helped the sox to two rings. but, he left us, so he must be an evil man. for, he makes too much money, unlike jd drew, that upstanding cracker in right field, in the middle of a 5 year, 70 million dollar deal that the townies never seem to mention. today, we spoke of the old yankee teams of a decade ago. he mentioned several fine players, all pale. finally, for my own sanity, i said "jeter." "yeah," he said, "jeter." he stopped the name game after that. i had broken the unspoken agreement, that only caucasians merit conversation. what a traitor i turned out to be.

the dude next door is playing some mean soprano, which is weirdly going well with some out jazz i'm playing. usually this guy bugs me, as he often just runs scales. then again, he is practicing. what was i looking for, soul station, note for note? and if he did do that, i would nail him for being unoriginal. neighbor, you can't win.

couple a days ago, my boss asked me what music i liked. i hesitated, for i hate this question. "jazz" i muttered. he was driving at the time, taking us on a field trip half way across the state, despite the best trips being 10 minute t rides from brookline high. whatever. in any case, he paused for a second, and serenely, pretending profound understanding, simply said "miles davis." a david brent moment. i said, simply, "yeah." then he dropped a few more names. brubeck, of course, came next. i just nodded, not sure if my support of brubeck warranted a vocalization. sorry dave. i do dig desmond, but, what of it. he ripped off a few more...gerry mulligan, pat metheny, keith jarrett. i noticed that other than davis, a name automatically dropped, all the cats he mentioned were crackers. later, the same dude asked me if i had problems with gangs growing up in dorchester (note to self; stop telling charlie that i grew up in dorchester) and went on to say how bad it is in east somerville (note to self, 2; stop telling whitey that i moved to east somerville after leaving dorchester.) at this point, i thought he might throw me out the van for fear of what my white trash ass may do to him. we passed a trailer park, and i half expected him to ask me if i ever spent time in one. the ignorance of whitey, even "liberal," whitey, is often quite shocking to those who are attempting to think in anti-racist ways. but they are just making conversation. they assume i am in the club. if only i weren't. but, it seems that no matter how hard i try to get myself thrown of the cracker crew, my membership gets renewed, and i once again attain the privilege of hearing ignorant musings from my pale peers. and i repeat, these are the "liberal" ones, whatever that means.

hope is the thing with feathers.

if only i could fly away.