Friends

“…will they stand their ground, will they let you down again?”

The Chauffeur

“…and the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…”

Duran Duran, “The Chauffeur”

Except for the brief mention on the The Foundation Page, I do not believe I have spoken much about the other members of the prestigious Rothechilde Foundation. They are a wonderful group of people, without whom, the Foundation would not be the monster of charity that it has become. In addition, they are my “family,” in far more ways than one. They have all been selected by me to hold close and dear. That does sound a bit narcissistic, even by my standards; yet, we all have family that we have selected. Most of us choose not to say such things for fear of retribution from “true family.” I, however, am not bound by such limitations.

Strangely, the person involved with the Foundation that I probably depend on the most is my personal secretary. My secretary whom has informed me that her title is Executive Assistant. When I pointed out the irony of her taking such a corporate identity in the workplace, she replied that it was more to distinguish her from the Board Secretary, and to get her position printed as a proper noun. Besides, she said: “You would think you would be more concerned with the pay increase that comes with the title. Oh yeah, you wouldn’t. You have no idea how payroll works.” That is my girl. Snarkier than Dennis Miller mocking Bill Maher. But…

…without her, I would admittedly be a complete and utter confused mess. For example, she is the one who suggested that I try matching my Derringers to my ties or cufflinks, instead of my shirts (for some reason, I have been adding color to my wardrobe. I am terrified and elated.). That way, I could pick a metallic color from a paisley or something to highlight the color or the “pearl” handles. I remember a while back, I was obsessing and stressing over some legal issues regarding elephants and alleged amok-running. I had not come to Samurai City for weeks; choosing to stay at the Orchard and Estates and never leave my bedroom. I think I lost count of how much absinthe I drank that couple of weeks and I had a crazy beard. CRAZY BEARD!!! I had no idea that I was getting that much gray hair. I seriously considered getting some of that stuff the jocks advertise for “weird beards” and “trashed staches.” I have since abandoned that cray-cray and opted for a clean shaven look.

Whoa! That is getting way off track. As I was writing, No wash, crazy beard, drunk as can be thanks to Alandia. There, no we are caught up. Anyway, my secr..er…Executive Assistant (I personally think she likes this to fuck with my OCD and make me type more) shows up:

E.S: “Hey! Get up. Get clean. Get dressed. We need to head down to Samurai City. You have an important meeting tomorrow. Press conferences, insurance claims, all that shit is not going away because you want to stay home and hide.”

Me: “No, thank you. I think I will enjoy a few more days solace. The Vice President can handle these things. Is it really six in the morning?”

E.S: “Yes, it is. And no, I got here last night. I do have keys. You probably were passed out or just couldn’t hear me over that movie of you and Charlotte that you were watching. You’ve got issues, serious issues, dude. Speaking of which, she could always come and get you, she says. She’d be sooo pleased to have to show up and deal with you acting like a baby”

Me: “No, that will not be needed. Fine! I will go. But I am going like this…”

E.S: “Naked..?”

Me: “Grrr! No, I will go in my silk jammies and this robe. I even think I still have a pair of slippers to wear.”

E.S: “Oooh cute! You’ll look like the bastard child of Howard Hughes and ‘going-to-the-courthouse-Michael Jackson’!”

Me: “Ugh You. Suck. I will be ready in a few minutes.”

E.S: “And that is why you love me.”

No, that is not why. At least not the only reason why. I do not think that I can put all of those reasons down without turning this blog into some kind of sissy sap-fest, and I have to keep a certain level of testosterone about, you know? But I will say this, this something that may be better left unsaid. I am not sure why I love my Executive Assistant, there are far to many ideas that come to mind, and my OCD picks out the same one, and the ADHD chases it away; distracted by the Vulcan-looking woman discussing sociopaths in the background. One thing I am certain of is that I possibly love her too much. The kind of too much that is disturbing because it may both please and frighten tremendously at the same time. Scary, huh?

It could be scary if I were simply your run-of-the-mill-type person. I am pretty different. I have a hard time relating to most people on any level but the most superficial. The level of relation that is left to public speaking, or mingling, or demanding the highest quality apples and cherries from one’s orchards while keeping your overhead low. With my Executive Assistant, the relationship is most different; I can talk to her, and she always knows how to motivate me when I would rather spend the day with my head in her lap ranting about not knowing whether to cry or head out to the range and shoot every round that I have stored on the property. She deals with my alleged quirks, and stands beside me when I clearly may not be acting as my best self (a rare treat!). And she will not leave! Either she is the most loyal person in the world, or she is a stubborn criminal who has something important to extort me with; I have fired her many times and she always replies with “Yeah, yeah…” or “whatever,” or “No, I’m not. I’m sure you meant to tell me that I am getting a raise and more vacation time.” It is a good thing that she never takes me seriously with those shenanigans, or I would never be able to leave my closets due to not being able to decide what to wear (which is a total nightmare now that my clothes are more than black and white). Hell, I would be really screwed seeing that I do not know how to buy clothes and rely on her to keep me looking spectacular.

And those are just the things that she does for me, personally. Apparently, she is the one who communicates with payroll, purchasing, and all of those departments that make up the Foundation. She says all we board people do is squawk in the Boardroom, demand checks, and make public appearances to take credit for the Earth rotating while she does all of the work. I always counter that she is not paid enough, and we should vote on giving her a raise. Her reply: “You have no idea how payroll works…”

Which is true, I do not. Thank the goddess I have someone who does.

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The Answer: “Not a Damn Thing”

The Question: What’s wrong with Xavier? I have been hearing that a lot the last few days. And my answer to that question seemed to be a perfect way to title this post.

I guess my actions of late have upset some. Apparently, I have been acting out of character. Funny. I hear those words, but my brain translates that into “Why aren’t you letting me walk all over you anymore?” Language is a funny thing. Words have meanings in themselves, but when arranged to form a sentence or thought, it is up to the listener to determine understanding of those words; lately the understanding people have been trying to convey to me is not the understanding that I myself have be getting.

For years, I have been a “go to” person. Always there to help, listen, shoot you in the face, etc. For years, I have walked the borderline between good and evil; those on my good side have always been honored and loved. Those on my bad side, or of whom I have no opinion have been subjected to what had to happen at the time. Within that matrix have been friends who turned out not to be such, and I still kept my loyalty.

Until recently. Recently, I just decided that I needed to start cutting loose the deadweight. I have begun saying: “You know what? I am done accommodating and feeling cheated like some cheap whore in an hourly rented hotel room. I am sick of placing people on pedestals and treating those I call friends as the highest on my list only to be forgotten, left behind…neglected.

I decided it was time to go back to my roots and stop being jaded into believing that my actions would be returned in kind. This has been a long time coming; my sense of altruism slowly being replaced by wanting something in return. Now it is blossomed into a wondrous sense of not giving a fuck, and trying to carve out a sense of peace for myself.

I have learned that I am totally responsible for my own happiness and that waiting for the Karma bus is a long, cold wait. My optimism may finally have been turned to a seething cynicism that tells me the truth, burning away the mote from mine eyes and revealing a knowledge that I had denied, had never wanted to accept. I am no better or different than anyone, why should I be treated so?

With that thought, I arrive at the answer for those who claim I am not myself, for those who wonder wrong with me. The answer: nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have become just like you.

Friday Night with Charlotte

Last week was quite a week. It started with scandal and ended with an ugly attempt to discredit The Foundation. The scandal was a bit of ugliness involving The Foundation’s war elephants. While it seems that the issue should have been over quickly and with a few payouts here and there, that was not to be. Fortunately, I had a fun night out with Charlotte the Friday before the treacherous attempt to ruin your beloved charitable organization.

I could go on and detail the incidents that led to the horrors of the weekend, but instead, I have decided to go the honest route and provide the transcript of a local news programs morning interview of yours truly.

Bert Berterson: “Good morning. I’m Bert Berterson appearing on this special edition of ‘Samurai City Saturday Morning’ with local mogul, Xavier Rothe…”

Me: “Mogul?! What the fuck did you call me? I am not a snowy lump on a ski slope! Nor am I some brandy sipping curmudgeon sitting by some fireplace in some cavernous, drafty, Victorian mansion. I am a humble orchard operator and general all around nice guy. I am really tired of your slander and libel. You really need to get over that camera incident with Manthony.”

B.B: “No, that is not the issue. True, there have been ‘incidents,” but they aren’t what this interview is about. We are here to discuss the elephant rampage that you and your associates with The Rothechilde Foundation are responsible for causing, avoiding, and admitting no responsibility.

Me: “Berty darling, that is exactly what I am talking about! Okay, so unfortunate things may have happened. People may or may not have been allegedly had the misfortune of standing where an elephant may have been walking. Whatever the case, there is no need to start throwing around faulty, unproven allegations that could result in a hefty lawsuit or potential burying in a shallow grave in Nevada or somewhere.”

B.B: “Did, did you just threaten to kill me and bury me in Nevada?”

Me: “I have done no such thing! I was merely stating things that could happen to a person. I have never gone to Nevada. The sand would destroy my wardrode, I believe. Speaking of which, I have been experimenting with adding color to my wardrobe…”

B.B: “Let’s not get off topic, Mr. Rothechilde, Xavier, may I call you Xavier?

Me: “I would not if I did not want to get ‘punished’ severely.”

B.B.  “Ahem. Before we begin, let’s refresh your memory. Ronald, roll the footage please.”

At this moment, a clip was played that showed a large group of people hanging about Downtown Samurai City. In the background, the Foundation Thunderdome stood majestically in the background. In the foreground, more people. Then the clip cut over to the ass-biscuit that I was currently being tormented by in this interview. Mr. Berterson was interviewing people who were “Occupying Samurai City.” Yes, the wave of civil unrest and general unhappiness of the populist poor had spread to Samurai City and the occupiers were occupying various areas of the city. This was exactly why we at the Foundation came up with the idea to have the war elephants. The occupiers had not come as far as the Thunderdome, but a group of counter-occupiers had begun to head in our direction. These counter occupiers were those who supported the one percent or something like that. Berterson interviewed a few of them as well. Approximately two minutes into the clip, a wave of people could be seen coming toward the camera. In the background, the image and sounds of a herd of elephants rapidly approached the news crew. Fleeing to a safe area (who knew there was a safe place from a herd of stampeding elephants?), the camera still recorded, Berty-baby’s panicked reporting in the background:

Bert: “This is Bert Berterson! A herd of elephants is now rampaging in downtown Samurai City! People are running everywhere as complete and total pandemonium has erupted! Oh my God! An elephant just tossed a police car into the side of the bank! This, this is terrible! Absolutely terrible! Hey! Someone grab that little girl! What the hell are you talking about? You do it! I’m Bert Berterson! I’m not getting stepped on by a freaking elephant! What the hell?! Is that elephant wearing a monocle and a tophat? My God the police have shot the elephant in the tophat! Tophat elephant is down! Holy shit! That elephant has that old lady by the neck! Wait, wait…the elephant has gently set her down. People we have a miracle, the elephant just set her…Shit! He kicked her! The elephant kicked her! Oh my…oh my…she’s, she’s barely moving. Paramedics are trying to help her. Okay, she’s giving the thumbs up. What? Headed where? Oh shit! Run! Ruuunnn!!!

And the clip ended there. To be honest, I was very upset by that footage. There was not one mention or shot of Sister Constance and the nun-wranglers coming in, taking down the rest of the pachyderms with tranquilizers and getting them safely back to the Thunderdome. Two elephants were slaughtered by the man on that tragic day. The monocle and top hat have been turned into monuments in the arboretum.

B.B: “Now, Mr. Rothechilde, clearly you could see what a tragic series of…hey! Are you texting?”

Me: “Yes, you were boring me with that biased video footage. There was no mention of the nuns and their success at bringing this unpleasantness to an end. Not to mention you subjected me to having to witness the brutal slaying of the vainglorious Lord Phant, a pachyderm of distinguished character and with obviously superior fashion sense. I was consulting our legal team to be sure that my comments will not be taken out of context and that the video delay is sufficient for Foundation security personnel to edit out any sensitive information before this hits the airwaves.”

B.B: “What?!”

Blue Boy?

Me: “You know, like they do on awards programs to filter out the potty mouths. Anyway, about fashion. As I believe we were discussing briefly earlier I have been experimenting with making changes to my wardrobe. I have been adding color. Unfortunately, I do not have a picture of me in the lavender and purple, or gold-brown-black, but I do have a picture of me in blue. Ronald, show the clip, please. As you can see, instead of my trademark black and white two-piece combination, I am sporting a stylish three-piece suit. I even have on a blue tie. Blue! And took a picture that I did not insist be made black and white or some sort of old-timey sepia look. Eventually, I will have some photos of me in the other color schemes soon, and I may come back to your program to discuss them again at that time. However, thank you for the interview, it has been a pleasant…”

B.B: “Excuse me, sir! I tell Ronald what to do around here, and we weren’t discussing fashion. We’re here to talk about your reckless unleashing of elephants on our fair city and what exactly you plan on doing about it! You have some things to answer for sir!”

Me: “I do no appreciate your tone, little man. Now see here, if it were not for those stupid one percenters parading about in their diamonds and smelly perfumes, the elephants would not have gotten upset and that misfortune would never have occurred. The elephants were simply a part of a parade that The Foundation was sponsoring in support of the “Occupy Samurai City if You Want, But Stay the Fuck Away from the Thunderdome” rally. As you can see the rally was a success, the Thunderdome is untouched and still stands as a glorious symbol of compassion and beauty. And we are not even going to sue the city over our beloved Lord Phant. Although it has caused Sister Constance a great deal of sorrow. We had to give her an extended vacation, pay raise, and purchase a new elephant, monocle, and top hat to alleviate her lust for revenge.”

B.B: “Are you saying that the life of that elephant is worth more than the hundreds of people that were injured in carnage laid out by your elephant horde? Are you seriously equating humanity with lower animals?!”

Me: “Well, hypothetically, my statement would appear to be putting elephants above the rest of humanity, but then who needs to be splitting hairs here? Besides, no people were killed, and only a few were maimed or otherwise seriously injured. Further, the occupation business was horribly bad for the already weakened economy. Those people should have been out working and those one percent counter-protesters should have been out subjugating masses or otherwise managing some means of economic oppression. The fact is, those protesters were in all likelihood unemployed; do we need to show the world on the national news that we are a nation of corpulent, unemployed people? No sir! No, I say! If our impoverished looked like those pot-bellied Ethiopians, then maybe we would have something to bitch about. However, we are a corpulent nation that sits on couches and and gets to watch seventy-seven different versions of ‘Law & Order.”

B.B: “Mr. Rothechilde! That is completely reprehensible! Do you even hear yourself? Listen, the Vice President of The Rothechilde Foundation has even come out and said that mistakes were made…”

Me: “Yes! Mistakes were made. Many mistakes! Chief among them was letting that bastard out of the dunge…er, basement during the protests. Had he remained sedated and properly confined, our efforts to fix this bit of unpleasantness could have come to an end much sooner, and I would already be enjoying the adulation of the citizenry of this fair city instead of sitting here and subjecting myself to this horrid interview from a man with the fashion sense of a Mogwai.”

B.B: “What are you talking about?!”

Me: “Your suit is terrible. I know a guy, let me help you, baby.”

B.B: “You’re obviously out of touch. With me and the citizens of Samurai City. They don’t love you, no one loves…”

You are very welcome

Me: “Oh my! I ought to shoot you right in your ugly face! You smug son of a…excuse, what is it? Yes, I understand. Excuse me, that gentleman was one of our attorneys, he suggested, and smartly I should add, that by ‘shoot you right in your ugly face’ that I actually meant “write you a sternly worded note of disapproval, perhaps an email cc’d to your station’s management. As for the love thing, surely you are mistaken For example, take a look at this lovely bit of art; Ronald, show the picture please.”

B.B: “Now see here! Ronald is not one of your lackeys…”

Me: “Obviously, the artist appreciates me and felt that I was worthy of being immortalized in one of her brilliant creations. And then there is Sister Constance. For a nun, she really does go out of her way to accommodate my eccentricities (I am ignoring your lackey comment, by the way. Manthony with surely discuss that with you.) Then, and not the least, there is my personal secretary, whom does me an innumerable amount of service in great variety, and makes sure that I can function on a daily basis. And Charlotte! Dear Charlotte! Why just last night, we went out to a local titty bar…”

B.B: “You can’t say that on public television and this has nothing to do with the elephant incident.”

Me: “I believe I did just say that, and this has everything to do with the elephants. There is nothing better to ease the pain of a deceased elephant friend and huge publicity hit like going out to see some boobs. And this was a great night. There was s lady there named Suzie Malone. She did some classy burlesque dance, magic tricks, and she swallowed a sword. Man, that gave me ideas, I tell you! She even danced around with fire. Fire! Strapped around her waist and in the shape of hand fans she danced with fire. I even had my picture taken with her. It is a topless picture. I am not topless, she is, or else I would have brought it to show. I am not opposed to showing the boobs on television; I just do not want to share them with you.”

B.B: “That is all well and good, sir. But what does any of this have to do with the damage you have brought and the poor people that are suffering because of your mistake?”

Me: “You just really want to beat a dead elephant. Man. Fine. While it is unfortunate that a few people may have received a bump or two because of a few rambunctious elephants, we are not a bank, mortgage company, or publicly traded corporation with stockholders to rape and pillage. The government will not bail us out like they did the people who the occupiers are bitching about (is that what they are bitching about? or is it Obamacare, Afghanistan, gay marriage, or Rick Santorum’s tranny porn stash?). No, as always in these trying time The Rothechilde Foundation will rebuild the damaged property. We have already purchased some of the more severely damaged property and found locations for business owners to rebuild and relocate. We have even offered to allow these business to use the Foundation’s contractors for repair and construction and infrastructure at prices that are much lower than the local business clowns. We are hiring many of the disgruntled occupiers for this Samurai City Reconstruction, and all of this will benefit the local economy. Lord Phant did not perish in vain.”

B.B: “It sounds like all you are doing is making a selfishly greedy cash grab and attempt to increase your personal stake and interest here!”

Me: “And is that not the American Way? Thank you, Samurai City and good day. This is Xavier A. S. Rothechilde, signing out.”

B.B: “Hey!”

And the screen goes black…

Note: Mr. Rothechilde has always reveled in, and proudly proclaimed his status as being a hack writer. If you disapprove of the ending, then you were not paying attention to the original disclaimer. No refunds or apologies should be expected and none will be made.

Sincerely,

Rothechilde Foundation and Trust Legal

Last Friday Night

Last week was a strange, hectic week. A good person passed from this world and last week was a time of preparing for and attending memorial services and a funeral. This week, last week is still showing its face, but all is settling a bit.

Last Friday night marked the end of the week and the folks around me involved finally got to “crash.” By crash I mean sit and rest and fall asleep. However, I could not last Friday. I had not planned on going out anywhere. I had planned to stay in for the evening, maybe watch wrestling (yes, I do follow the WWE a bit) or finally get back to trying to achieve one hundred percent completion of “L.A. Noire” after having a bit of a training session. While I was doing a bit of shadow boxing, I received a text on my iPhone that was really a message from Facebook telling me that a friend of mine was working at a local coffee shop and wanted people to visit, buy a coffee, and leave him a tip. Hmmm.., I thought, I could go out for a coffee after SmackDown, after I have completed my workout for the night.

So, SmackDown went off, and I got distracted for about an hour and by the time I decided to go and have a coffee, I discovered that I would not have time to change out of my workout pants and sleeveless, aeroline shirt. I was not dressed to go out for the evening. However, I was just going out for a coffee so I through on a hoodie and my running shoes and went out to the coffee house.

I went in and got a coffee and a brownie. Since the crowd inside the place was annoying this night, I decided to take the goodies back to my place, and enjoy them in peace. However, this coffee house is down the street from one of Manthony’s clubs and he was sitting outside of it and waved me over. I walked over and began to enjoy my treats as we stood outside and chatted.

He suggested that I come inside for a bit, they were having a Drag Show and I might enjoy it for a bit. I pointed out that I was looking rather sportish and not suitably attired for evening at the club. Yet, a friend of ours, who was outside smoking a clove since the state of Michigan stripped smoking from bars, suggested that I looked great and suggested that I come in for a drink. Since it was a good friend, and she looked absolutely delicious, I decided to go in and have one drink with her and take in a bit of the show.

I am happy that I went into the club! I was immediately greeted with the sound of a familiar voice: the emcee for this Drag Show was my favorite Drag Queen: Alexa. I had not seen her in about seven years. I ordered a Woodchuck Ale (I was not dressed for public absinthe consumption), and watched Alexa from a table near the entrance where Manthony was letting people in, or having them thrown out.

After watching the show for a few, I decided that I should venture homeward (is it weird that being around Drag Queens made me feel under dressed?), and I went outside to say my “see you laters” to Manthony, who was now sitting outside on the steps of the bar with a skinny blonde. Manthony was waiting for a limousine to arrive that was transporting a bachelor or bachelorette party or something of that nature. The skinny blonde was smoking a Marlboro Light.

Skinny Blonde was pretty tipsy and flirtatious. She was trying to remember Manthony’s name (he had already told her the name several times), and was wondering why he said that his name contained body parts. She was rather elated when he said there was a “toe” and a “knee” in his name, but the elation fell because neither of the names were of “naughty body parts.” That is when I told her that his last name was “Boobpenis.”

She then noticed that I was there and asked me what my name was:

Manthony: I told you that his name was Xavier.

Me: My name is Manthony.

Skinny Blonde: Another Boobpenis?! How many of you are there in this town?!

Me: No, my name is Xavier. I was just pulling on your leg.

Skinny Blonde: Be nice to me, I’m pretty drunk and not from around here. I’m here with her over there, she’s my friend.

SB was not from Samurai City and had come here to hang out with a girlfriend of hers. Apparently, she is in the midst of as divorce, and was not opposed to being friendly and flirtatious. Amusing as she was, I was on my way back to my place and said so to Manthony and SB.

Manthony: See you later. Here’s my limo, I need to let people in.

Me: See you later.

SB: Xavier, you should come in and dance with me.

Me: I would love to, but I have to leave. Besides, I am really not dressed for the bar.

SB: No, you don’t have to leave. You just don’t like me because I’m a skinny white girl with no ass. You look fine, I like the sport-look.

Me: You have been sitting the whole time, I have no idea of your ass or lack thereof. Actually, I find you rather interesting and would dance if I did not have to be on my way. The next time you are out, have Manthony ring me up and I shall come out and give you a dance.

SB: I can give you my cell phone number, you should call me. Just don’t call when my boyfriend is home!

Me: How in the Hell am I supposed to know that?

With that, Skinny Blonde gave me her digits and I walked her back inside the club to where her friend was standing. I advised her friend that SB probably did not need anymore drinks, and that it was nice to meet the two of them. Then I left and headed on my way back to my Samurai City digs.

And so ended another week in Samurai City.

 

New Toys and ADD

Instead of taking the time to sit and write nearly daily as I promised myself, I allowed my ADD to get the best of me and have been distracted by a shiny: a motorcycle. But before I go into the motorcycle, a little detour, backstory, is needed. Originally, this post was supposed to be two separate posts. It is not because I got distracted. Instead, this will be a rather lengthy update, which is of no consequence as I can be a bit prone to blathering when putting my thoughts to “paper.” As a result, I apologize in advance for any distortion in logical presentation, or random jumping about. OCD and ADD are a dangerous combination. Right now, my brain is a jumble of thoughts, feelings, and impressions; they are reflected in my presentation below.

About a month ago, Charlotte was oddly late for the Foundation Board meeting. This was odd, as Charlotte is well known for her obsessive attentiveness to punctuality, and we were about to decide which of us was going to drive to Charlotte’s home to check in (if you call her, she most likely will not answer her phone). Before we could come to a decision, Charlotte strolls in with a smile on her face. She was late, and now grinning a large grin; I wondered if I needed to contact our legal people… We were all looking and wondering exactly what was to come when she informed us that if we wanted to know why she was late, then we could take a look in the parking lot. We knew that we may not want to look, but knowing that we simply had to know what caused this shift in Charlotte’s behavior, we stood and made for the door.

Exiting the Board Room and then the out of the door to the parking lot, we saw what was making Charlotte so pleased with the universe: it was a green, nineteen seventy-six Cadillac Eldorado. With a convertible top. She told us that she got it for a steal. Granted, it needs a bit of bodywork (and believe it or not, Charlotte used the term “TLC”), but it sounds great, runs well, and is an overall pretty pimp ride. Even more impressive than the car, was that Charlotte fully intends to do the restorative work on the vehicle herself. She did purchase new tires, that seemed more economical to her than buying the materials needed to change tires in order to do it herself. She also got a repair manual, air filter and spark plugs. All-in-all, she was learning what she needed to do. Good for her!

After a week or so, I dropped in on Charlotte to see how things were going. She had changed the air filter, and was currently in the process of solving her ride’s overheating issue. She left out the spark plugs. Before I could say anything, she thanked me for asking, and told me that she appreciated how I was staying out of her face. Then she further explained. Apparently, many of the friends that she shared her new car goodness and plans with, were discouraging. They were constantly telling her how difficult what she was going to attempt was, that it would be better to just pay someone else to do this or that, and she mentioned that someone even began the process of changing her spark plugs when she let him see the engine. She was annoyed and wanted to know why everyone was peeing in her lemonade. I told her that I had faith in her ability and that I stayed out of the way, because I respect her space. Then we had some coffee, veggie sandwiches, and some sex.

(Please forgive what may appear as distortions with the past/present tense in the previous paragraph, written strictly past tense read weird to me.)

There. Backstory complete. This backstory is relevant because it leads directly to my own recently acquired toy, which coincidentally, has a motor, and was produced in nineteen seventy-six. Shades of Charlotte. More than you can expect.

Last week, I had the fortune to acquire a motorcycle. Mind you, I have never ridden a motorcycle, but I have struggled with resisting their appeal. Many of my associates ride bikes, so I am surrounded by them in some sense. I had been planning to get one for some time now, and had decided that I would buy one in February or March of next year; then I would have time to learn to ride, get proper endorsement, and have almost six months of riding time versus two or three. However, an opportunity arose and I just had to seize the moment.

A friend of a friend was selling an old motorcycle. Cosmetically, the motorcycle was decent and it did not run at the time. Yet, whatever was causing the bike to not function was allegedly an easy fix. The fellow selling the motorcycle was asking one hundred dollars for it, and I could not pass up the opportunity, which had now become and awesome dual-opportunity: not only could I get a bike, I could learn how to repair it, restore it, and then roll around Samurai City and the hills of Old Mission in the open air on a vintage motorcycle. I could be Charlotte’s two-wheeled counterpart, kicking old school nineteen seventy-six style around Michigan.

And so, I purchased the motorcycle. The next day. I purchased a battery and spark plugs. However, I had discovered that my adventure would be the same as Charlotte’s. Almost identical to hers. I did get to put one of the spark plugs in and the battery. However, the rest of the work was taken from me. Apparently, there are things involved in the process that are easy to mess up and instead of walking me through a hands-on experience, someone else did the work. I appreciated the help greatly, but the feeling of satisfaction from my own creation was being sapped.

The new battery and the spark plugs, combined with draining the old gas from the tank (another procedure I watched rather than did, more sap-age), and refilling with new (which I did) and the motorcycle not only started, but it sounded awesome. It has an oil leak and will require new gaskets possibly. I was told where to get the gaskets (instead of being able to take a look and find them on my own). I was allowed to remove the headlamp to begin the process of changing the front signal lights out, but I was stopped at one and the work done by another. The flasher was not working and something was crossed in the signal wiring, however, I was fortunate in having someone else to solve that problem for me. All the while, I was being reminded of the need to change out some screws to replace with bolts, the changing of the gaskets, and how difficult this will all be to do and that it should not be taken lightly. Pretty soon, all of the “I” in my project became “we.”

I realize that I may be starting to sound like an ungrateful prick. Apparently, the main goal should be for me to get the bike road-ready and get riding. However, I do not appear to be understanding that. My main goal is the satisfaction of saying: “I did that.” There is a satisfaction in accomplishing something for the first time, something that you have never done. The joy of hard work. I fully accept that I could make some foolish error and be forced to get the bike to a mechanic to undo my mistake (if possible). Yet, is that not my mistake to make? Is that not part of learning? Getting the motorcycle running today is not going to make much benefit to me, I still have to get the endorsement for it on my license and learn how to ride the damn thing. I still need a helmet. I have not bought one yet so I do not foolishly tempt myself to hop on and ride the bike before I should be.

I understand that my approach may take me the rest of the summer to get on this motorcycle, but in the end, I will be more satisfied with the outcome. The time taken is not a problem for me, it took me at least three, maybe four years to become shodan in jujitsu. If I could do that in three or four years, I can fix a motorcycle in a month or two. Some may agree with me, but then, they do not understand jujitsu; if they did, they would understand my mindset.

“Living well is the best revenge.”

Thank you, George Herbert; while I appreciate your statement, I cannot say that I agree. I first ran across that quote when I was in elementary school. You see, attending a school for nerds is a double-edged sword: on one edge, you are an easy target for bullies – they know where to find you. The other edge gives you tools: vocabulary, insight, literacy, etc. that give you a means to wittily assail those who resort to brute force to intimidate and belittle. However, that sword ends in a nasty deadly point: both sides combined provide the aggressor with a weapon of irony that cuts both the bully and the bullied, yet provides the bully with the handle and the deadly point directed squarely in the eye of the victim.

But, I digress.

A fellow nerd had just finished amusing a group of asses by being subjected to their various torments, and I asked him why, since he was taller than the other boys, did he not just punch one in the face? He may end up getting beat up by three, but at least he would have gotten one of them, and besides, that one punch may have been the one that shook the morale of the others in the troop, prompting them to desist with their shenanigans and leave him alone. Mind you, this was not an attempt to convey any bravery to a friend, I would have acted just as he did (and had done so in the past). My mind was geared toward survival: I believed that had he attacked, even if he got his ass kicked, it would have kept the fiends away from me another day. However, if he had been successful, and put the Fear in the bullies, then we nerds would have a champion and we could move about in peace. He would have to maintain his status at times, perhaps, but that was not an issue for me…

The first part of his response was that they were telling him to leave because he did not belong where he was, the second element of his response was to babble on size being irrelevant, the hydrogen atom and the energy created when split, and not making assumptions about the power of the assailants based on their apparent size. Big things, come in small packages, was basically what this fellow was telling me, and that I already knew; his words were not going to prevent any further attacks. He then added: “Living well is the best revenge.” To me, his future of living well for revenge was not changing the fact that while he was still where he was and had not left, it had changed the fact that he did not belong there. That he was not wanted there. And nothing would change that.

He had a plan, it turns out. He was going to use his superior intellect to get wealthy, the ignoramuses would be working for him and be subject to his whim. He figured that he would just bide his time. He suggested that I do the same. And so, that is what I did. I kept up my grades, got involved with the band and other band-things, and even enjoyed a moderate bit of popularity in High School. But the damage was done. I was tortured by the idea that I did not belong. That I was too different. That I was consigned to my own Private Idaho for the remainder of my life.

Still years later, I was using my superior intellect to lord over those who victimized me in the past. I have a wealth that I cannot calculate. Some of those that were my personal criminals have become public criminals and are living as residents of the penal system. Despite all of what may be consider wellness of living, I am not getting the best revenge. That is not to say that I have it bad. I live rather well, to be completely honest. My problem is that I am not completely sure that I am living well what I need to be living well.

To me, life has been a quest to understand and to be understood in kind. That may be a common theme to humanity, but I do not wish to make blanket statements. It has never been enough for me to simply look around me and be content. It has never been enough to live my own intellectual version of the “abominable fantasy,” to look at my former tormentors burning in their own private Hell has never been sufficient. I have always had a desire to be accepted, to be understood, to be validated. I wanted to be what I was and meet others like me and live a life with a collective of like-minded people who wrote together. Danced together. Ate, slept, fucked, ran together. I have always wanted to belong to something; I live the life of an outsider who wants to constantly peer inside.

But the Hell of my past tormentors keeps me from staring down and enjoying their suffering. The reason behind that is because I have not fully enjoyed my own personal Heavens: dangled before me like a grapes before Tantalus, they are stripped away just when I have grown to realize what I have. As a result, when I should be getting the best revenge, I find myself living of life of constant nostalgia for the images that were once present before my eyes. While I may see myself above them, they still have that one thing to hold over me, that one thing that was their weapon: I still do not fit in and still, I do not belong.

Hospice-atible

I have a friend who is dying from cancer. She is only thirty-six years old, and she is dying from an aggressive, rare form of cancer. So rare that even the old sawbones at the University of Michigan Medical Center are scratching their nerdy, Ann Arbor hippy scalps over it.

Okay, now I have gotten the facts out of the way. The general facts that is. Usually when I write, I tend to take the reader on a voyage and that part of the voyage above could have stretched on for quite some time. This time it could not. I needed to get that out of the way so you could understand quickly. I need that.

For you to understand quicky. This has to be a quick entry.

I went to visit Ellen at the hospice. I was amazed that there was a need to buzz into the hospice through a security door setup. That place is more secure than The Thunderdome. It is for security.

Apparently, there are sickos who cannot wait for those in the hospice to pass and they need protection.

Her mother was there, waiting. Ellen was asleep. I sat down, near Ellen in a chair. Then her mother moved and I sat in a triangle formed between Ellen, her mother and myself. Actually, it was more of a diagonal line. Forgive me if I exaggerate a bit, the whole deal seemed a bit exaggerated.

So, there I sat. Humming “The Lady’s Bransel” to myself. I sat there and looked over at her mother, an elderly woman watching her daughter…and waiting.

Did I mention that Ellen is only thirty-six?

I sat there and felt awkward. Should I say something? What do you say to a sleeping person? “WAKE UP!” is what you say. But what do you say to a sleeping person who is dying? Nothing. You sit there and you hum “The Lady’s Bransel.” Eventually, I had to go. I told Ellen that I loved her and that she was definitely a child of the Goddess. I did expect more of myself, being a priest and what have you, but that is what I had to give; the Crossroads is a tough place to be…

Her mother followed me out. She remembered me and gave me a hug. She told me that Ellen was sleeping the best she had been: that snore she had was her normal snore. I thought that was an odd thing to say, but I understood.

Then I left.

During my show last night, I opened with a song by The Damned: “The Portrait.” I got a complaint at the dedication to Ellen. I took no offense. How was that one supposed to know that that was the song playing as I drove away? I offered no explanation. Who needs to? I ended my broadcast with the song that was playing as I found my way to see Ellen. A song by Sting: “Fragile.”

“Lest we forget how Fragile we are…”

My Weekend in Review

Monday, 30 May 2011

1) A few moments ago, I completed a lengthy search on how to edit my font and style for this blog. I am incredibly frustrated. It seems ridiculous that a site desgined for bloggers makes it harder to have snazzy fonts, underlines, and what have you than creating a MySpace blog does. Many moons ago, when I began my blog escapades on MySpace, I could alter the color of my font, change the size, justify sections, etc. It was a writer’s paradise. Well, not really. It was MySpace, and I assume the advantages and freedoms of editing text contributed to the virus/bot mill that MySpace could be at times.

Now, I find myself ignorant and frustrated that my entries are relegated to this boring look. I envy the other bloggers who have these neat little formatting dealies going on in their blogs. I understand how the undereducated must feel; I can see what is before me, but it makes no sense. I am in the WordPress Dark Ages. Of course, I am certain that there is a way to format text, and it has to be rather simple (while it is eluding me…my ADD refuses to allow me continue the search as I keep getting distracted by other sites). I know this has to be the case because I copied a post that I wrote in Word or something and the formatting transferred to my post. Unfortunately, when I went to peek at the style using the HTML tab, the formatting stayed, and there was no code. C’est la vie.

Eventually, I will stop being lazy and figure this formatting out. Until then, my writing will have to stand on it’s own without the bells and whistles of colorful text and neat little formatting niceties.

2) Today, I cut down a large, dead tree. By large tree, I mean that the tree was tall. Since I was not very keen on using a chain saw, I tackled the task with a hand saw. I really do love my primitive technology (excepting my iPhone, Playstation 3, and Alpha Romeo)! Sawing through the dead maple mass was not as difficult as I expected, and instead of sawing through the whole tree, I stopped halfway through, secured a rope above the cut, and pulled the tree the rest of the way down. Now there is a tree stump that is about five feet tall that I have to remove. Actually, it could be cool to let some climbing vegetation have the stump as support. Maybe some beans or a decorative grape vine. Charlotte suggests that I carve it into a deranged squirrel.

3) Today, an intern called me up and said that no one was at the Thunderdome to let him inside for work. I reminded him that as today was a Federal holiday that was not either Christmas-y or Easter-y, then the Foundation’s offices were closed and employees could enjoy a day off. I commented that my ADD must have gotten the best of me while multi-tasking memos last Friday and I forgot to mention the day off for newcomers. He stated that he just observed that I never abbreviate anything, except for my ADD and OCD. I never noticed that before.

Sunday, 29 May 2011

1) My secretary went shopping, and bought clothing items for herself. This is odd to me because she tends to avoid crowds, people, and clothes buying in general, unless I force her out on some adventure so that I have a chaperone when needed. Well, she comes in and says to me: “Look, I got these boots!” I looked at the gotten boots and my jaw dropped. The boots were shiny, tight, black and went as far up her thigh as my cock travelled down mine in admiration of the new footwear. The boots have heels that add about two inches to her petite frame, but I have never been opposed to anyone being taller than me (a lot of people are taller than me, that is just how it is, follks).

After tantalizing me with these sexy boots, she left the room and returned wearing this tight top and short skirt that immediately made me want to jump her right there. However, there were people blocking my junk and alas, I was denied a joyful trist.

2) Sometimes, you just need to have Chinese food. There is a wonderful little place here in Samurai City that I like to stop in and enjoy when I am in town. What makes them the bomb-diggity is that they will take any dish and vegetarian it up for me. What makes them evil is that they have given me an addiction to Orange Tofu. So, I placed an order and went to get my delicious fix. When I got there, I was told that a friend of mine had come and gotten my order (which they thought was sesame chicken and orange chicken) and after a little clarification, it was determined that somehow my order had not gotten made and some mysterious “friend” had not come and gotten my food.

Since the chicks who work at this restaurant are super hot, I was not opposed to re-ordering and sitting to wait for my order to be ready. After I sat for about five minutes, this dude walks in and says that a part of his order was missing. Hot Chick Number Two asks what his order was and he rattles off the items that are in an order on the counter. Apparently, when he got home and checked his order, it was sesame chicken and orange chicken. Now, Hot Chick Number Two informs him that he took the wrong order entirely and that if he brings that one back in, he can get his order and be on his way. Well, this fellow believes that he is entitled to the order he took home, and his actual order for free since he had to make the trip out. Hot Chick Number One then asks him why he did not bring the incorrect order back so that he could have gotten his correct one? He said that the mistake was theirs and that was how he saw it; it should cost them, not him. The Hot Chicks held their ground and the fellow left to go and get the other food to bring back so he could get his now cold, but proper, order. After he left, Hot Chick Number One looked at me and said: “If he would have brought the first order back and was not so greedy, I would have let him have both orders.”

3) Also, on her shopping excursion, my secretary bought me a few shirts. You see, I like sleeveless shirts (not wife beaters) and will wear a sleeveless shirt when working out, under my gi, or if I feel like showing off the wonderful tattoo art on my biceps. Normally, I prefer shirts that fit me pretty loosely, however, I bought one of those “Under Armor” shirts and fell in love with it. Feeding my love for this shirt, my wonderful, sexretary bought me two more of the sleeveless ones (another black one and a white one) and one that is a long-sleeved, crew neck shirt. She says that the longsleeve shirt will be good for me on cooler days. She takes good care of me. I would be lost without her. It is strange to make this statement based on something as innocuous as a shirt, but it is in these smallest of gestures that she shows just how much I mean to her. My affections are returned a million-fold.

Saturday, 28 May 2011

1) For some reason, I do not remember much of Saturday at all. I remember going for a run, but not really much beyond that. I did my show and played a bit more psychobilly music than I usually play and had pizza for dinner. Oh! I did go to a store at the Mall here and get a cool skull. The skull is red and lights up, switching colors from red to blue to purple to greenish to whitish. My secretary bought some henna and has been experimenting with it on everyone that comes in her direction. She did a neat piece down the center of my back, but I messed it up by moving around and lifting weights. Apparently, I was not supposed to be moving about.

2) Upon further consideration, I do remember one thing. I caved in and got a yahoo messenger account and now have added that info here. Not here, in this post, but here on WordPress somewhere. I am not sure where. If this makes no sense to you, see item number one from Monday, 30 May 2011, and add it to my learning WordPress woes.

Sunday, 27 May 2011

Sometimes, I have to get out and about. I enjoy a cruel irony that dictates that I go out and be around people from time to time although I tend to hate being around them. Not only am I a compulsive people watcher, I do have friends, and recently, many of them have begun to pass off from this world. I now feel the necessity to go out and see them because I fear that each time I have seen them will be the last time that I see them. Many of these friends helped me through some difficult times; I almost stopped existing when the Evenstar fell from the sky, but a few souls keep me grounded and about. Without them, this Xavier would not be. The Rothechilde Foundation would be in the hands of some law firm dedicated to ensuring its survival on the interest that the Rothechilde Trust generates.

While the need to explore is great, the compulsion to stay inside and behind doors is so great that often an excuse has to come about for me to go out. It is during these moments that I play opportunist and tend to an excuse and see those of those whom I have not seen in ages. This particular excuse was a gathering of disgruntled Samurai City Consolidated Schools employees who were laid off due to state-wide buget cuts. I understand they are upset and worried about their future, but they have to remember that an uneducated populace makes for more docile labor. Once the people get educated, they start to get concerned with equality in wages, occuaptionaly safety, and health benefits. Keep them near stupid, and they are happy to recieve a shiny new quarter and the machine can grow bigger and crush more of the opposition to the American Way.

But this is not about politics, this is about the generous hand of the Rothechilde Foundation being sent out through the representation of its Chief Executive Officer and President, Xavier A. S. Rothechilde, to buy drinks for these disgruntled soon to be unemployed and offer them an opportunity for employment through the Foundation. While the pay would be less, the benefits would be great. We at the Thunderdome believe that keeping the rabble healthy keeps them at work and we pay less for unproductive sick days (that are not rolled over annually…).

I met the crew in a parking lot located across the street from one of Manthony’s joints. When he saw us walking up, he seemed a bit annoyed to learn that we were not stoppin in but rather going to a local bar that caters to a crowd that likes music from the Eighties. As an old school goth, I love some Eighties music. However, this was music representing all that was wrong with the Eighties: hair bands, cock rock, and Journey (which is a guilty pleasure of mine – I used to sing Journey covers in a band a while back). I told Manthony that we would stop back through for a bit and headed to the Gay-ties bar. I had a Captain and Coke, and enjoyed some pleasant conversation with the crew. There was no music from The Cure or anything that was remotely of interest to me. So, I contented myself with hanging with the employees as the crew dwindled from six to three (counting myself). One of these three had these massive boobs. I mean, tremendous. But, not obscenely so. The shirt that contained these tits created a cleavage that demaned that I stick a finger in, but I did not since I was unsure of how the cleavage owner would have liked that; Charlotte suggested that I stick my face in the cleavage and motorboat the Hell out of that Shit no matter the consequences (you know, “in for a penny, in for a pound…”).

After about an hour, we travelled down to Manthony’s and sat in a booth on the karoake side of the bar rather than sit in my Very Important Xavier room where I could observe the crowd and watch the company. We sat, had a couple drinks, and generally a decent time was had by all. I was even well-behaved and did not show off my collection of iPhone pornography that I tend to show friends at Manthony’s as a conversation/threesome/foursome/orgy starter. Finally, I had definitely been out for long enough and headed on my way.

Here and Now

Currently, I am sitting here and watching the Law and Order Marathon on TNT. In the next few minutes, I will be changing the channel to watch Monday Night Raw. Yes, you read that correctly. And it is on that unclimatic, unexciting note that I shall end this lengthy post. If you happen to feel pity for me and decide to send me a bit of info on how to code my blog for cool formatting and shizzle. feel free. I would be most appreciative.

Welcome to the Sanitarium?

This is a short post designed as a Public Service Announcement from the Executive Board of Directors of the Rothechilde Foundation from the Desk of Xavier A. S. Rothechilde, President of the Rothechilde Foundation.

What in the Hell was that all about. Really. This is the last time that I trust an intern to open a blog entry for me. “Make it a short salutation,” I said. “Keep it neat and clean,” I said. And instead, I get that horrible introductory yibber-yabber dog nuts that is outrageously pretension, even for myself.

But I have gone way beyond the intention of brevity for this posting. Basically, I wanted to make you aware of a new addition to my blog. Sister Constance, or Arabella, or whomever she claims she may be will appear from time to time to add her two cents to the world.

Treat her kindly, she is a vicious and vengeful Gemini.

Feeling Quote-y

“…For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks…”

— William Shakespeare, Henry V, Act 4 scene 3