Chocha Pelon: "Don't cry for me Hialeah"

Ok.

1. Death
2. Blood, Broken Glass, Police, and Stupid Gift Games
3. Leases, Deposits, and Other Next-to-Impossible Challenges (for the half-feral)

Not the best week. I didn't drink, I didn't get high, I just slept and worked.

I have no money, I have no clean laundry (because 4. the Washing Machine Broke), I don't really have anything to eat, and I'm tired of being nice. I'm trying to convince the people I work with that I was born without a sense of Guilt. Like I just don't have one. It's a total lie, but in trying to prove it I've been able to be a total dickhead and smile and they're amused when I remind them that I am actually right and that I was born without a sense of guilt. I'm not sure it's a winning game but it's been fun today.

I was also told by the person that I asked if they were in a better mood that I was the one with an attitude problem not them. And that she'd heard it from more than one person that day. I was like, "Oh yeah, right, whatever."

Anyway, Chocha Pelon died last week. She lives on in Spanish vulgarities. Every time you call someone panocha, chocha, maricon, co~no or whatever, she lives.

Also, bunnies have a funny way of dying. Witchery?

Tom Waits makes me feel like a strung out Psychopomp

It's 7:30 am.  I found out last night how my dear waiter colleague Chocha Pelon had an accident and is in the hospital.  He had brain surgery.  I was just tweaking his nipple the day before yesterday.  The Haitian food runner accused me of being gay.  He's a small man.  I've seen him eyeing up the coconuts in the trees at work.  Literally.  There is no figurative language here, he was actually staring at the coconuts with longing.

I took a train last night to West Palm Beach.  I shared a few things about what happened to me in the past year.  Someone thanked me for it.  I was grateful to be able to share it.

I fell asleep last night after two, yet woke up at 6:50 this morning.  I woke up because I had a working dream where I had two restaurant checks in my hands.  I was all disorganized about my tables and who had what.  It had started raining.  A man came up all angry demanding his check.  I said, "Well, what did you have to eat sir?" which is strange because I normally would ask him where his table was or who his server was.  He refused to tell me.  I suspected that his check was one of the two that were in my hands.  Neither were for much money.  It's not unusual that some bastard orders an english muffin and a glass of water and then acts like he's been drinking Dom all day.

I was smoking a cigarette, also strange, then had to ditch it so I could run into the restaurant to find his server / a manager.  There was a waiter taking a crap with the bathroom door open so I threw my cigarette between his legs.  He was like, "YO!" Heh.  That shit's funny. 

I went back out to the man and asked him to wait a minute.  He walked out of the restaurant.  I ran up and had an impulse to kick him in the back of the head.  But I didn't.  I said, "Sir, you're going to have to pay your check."  He ignored me.  I ran inside and found Vittorio and he lumbered down the steps and around the restaurant.  As I was coming round to the imaginary parking lot I saw taxis and a feeling of dread that this bastard escaped came over me.  I looked in a frenzy at all the people standing around and none had his stupid moustache.  I looked again at my two checks, still in hand, and woke up.

So tell me, Doc... what the hell does it mean?

Bless you, Chocha Pelon.  We're all singing "Don't cry for me, Hialeah".