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Thursday, Aug. 22, 2002 / 11:41 a.m. ~Group Photo and a Mutilated Snake~ I�m taking a break from the free weekly and Classical on Public Radio. 10:47 a.m., cubicle time, as I begin this. I just read an essay by one of the regular columnists, someone I�ve been reading for at least 15 years � he�s decided to write, memoir fashion, of the perverts and freaks he�s known in his life, and this latest essay was disturbing to say the least. He writes of living next door to a prostitute years ago, her abusive pimp, taking care of her pet boa constrictor while she was away, and in the end the pimp comes to beat the woman up one last time. The writer finds her kneeling beside the empty swimming pool, her snake dead and be-headed in the snowdrift there. �I ran in the blinding snow and found Cassandra kneeling by the empty pool, crying, her face beaten. There, thrown in a snowdrift in the pool, was Jimmy�s beheaded form, bloody, his yellow-brown body twisted unnaturally.� It was her pimp who�d done it, and he sat in his cop car nearby smiling, watching, then drove away. Yes, her pimp was a cop. I got so lost in this story, listening to music, lost in these words, I almost started to cry. I hate stories, true or otherwise, wherein animals are killed, or tortured or maimed. It hurts to read it. As I say, true or not. I remember a passage in Stephen King�s The Dead Zone in which someone kicks a dog, I think to its death. I don�t remember specifics, and I don�t think it appeared in the film (thank god), but I can�t forget that concept. Kicking a dog, fictional or otherwise, to its death. And even the idea of a beheaded snake thrown in a snowdrift in an empty pool makes me hurt inside, especially knowing it really happened. So how do I justify eating cows? Pigs? Chickens? What about their deaths so I might eat their flesh? I grapple, believe me. Moving on. I have been whining about my clothes not smelling �clean� after I wash them, quite disturbed actually, so last night I decided to use a smelly dryer sheet instead of my usual Bounce unscented. Normally it�s Cheer smelly, Bounce unsmelly, but I had this old box of Arm and Hammer SMELLY sheets so I threw one in for good measure, or not so good measure, and now, the shirt and pants I am wearing today� this calls for one of these: OMIGOD! Horrible. It�s making my throat feel dry and scratchy. The smell is horrendous. I�m going to throw the box away for good. I�ll never want to use them again, not even in some imagined laundry emergency. I have realized, and is this some sort of sign of aging?, that I am EXTREMELY sensitive to smells. Odors. Aromas. Scents. HORRIBLY, EXTREMELY, UNUSUALLY. And when I see, yes �see�, the air outside I smell it, it�s thick, it�s filled with toxins and odors, the chicken shit from the abattoir, I smell it on the highway on my way here, then it�s here, just outside. Then inside it�s toner, it�s paper dust, it�s myriad colognes, perfumes, deodorant/antiperspirants, air fresheners, shit in the bathrooms, used maxipads, makeup, clothes freshly washed in too much detergent or too much smelly stuff. And now it�s on ME. I�m stuck with it just under my nose. I can see me like Michael Jackson, walking around with one of those face masks on. Why does he no longer do that? Or does he? First thing this morning, first thing, I�m only out of bed for an hour and fifteen, Lulu is talking about some religious program on TV, some show with some man who was saved, and she is so fucking loud, can be no other way, and she is saying, �Since he was saved��, blah, blah, blah, and then, �Isn�t it amazing what God can make you feel�, or blah, blah, blah, and she is loud, did I mention that?, LOUD, all about God, etc., no consideration at all for anyone who might not believe in GOD, but actually, well, okay, sure, I�m the only one here who doesn�t. Except the Indian chick and the Pakistani guy in the Computer dept, but they don�t count right now. So, how did I, the only agnostic for miles, handle the situation?? IGGY POP! Oh yeah! �Lust For Life�, crankin� in the headphones. Loud. It�s a good album, mostly. Amazing how much Iggy sounds like Bowie, don�t ya know? Shortly after that episode we all head out for a site-wide group photo. We�ve never done that before, not ever, and I�ve been here 4 � years only (ONLY?!), but I hear they�ve never done it in the whole time they�ve been here, the whole site, some 7 or so years. Outside, 9:20 a.m., the sun in our faces, feeling the burn from lack of ozone, inhaling the heaviness of the toxic air, the humid and hot early morning air, everyone complaining about the heat, the Site Manager up on a little step ladder, then the Payroll Manager, barefoot for some reason, up on same ladder, using digital camera. Lulu ducking down behind someone else. Me wanting to hide, but deciding to give a big grin and squint from the sun instead. Back inside I make fun of Lulu�s aversion to the sun, saying it gave her �the vapors�. �Mah, oh, mah, Ah jus cain�t handle the sun on my complexion, Ah gets the vapuhs!� Etc. Never heard so much fucking whining in my whole life. So many women standing in the grass in their stupid heels, all going on about the heat, all in their bright freshly applied lipstick, and the others just complaining, some standing proud and tall, quite literally, in the back. Where is this photo going to end up, I wonder? Egad. My own stinky clothes smell is beginning to dissipate. I have one whole document to process. And the free weekly is open beside me. I think I�ve written out the horror I felt after reading about that poor innocent snake killed by the pimp/cop. The day is long, but it goes on. Cost of the War in Iraq
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