"I don't want you to change, all I want is for you to be normal".
It was nearly a year ago to the day, the third Friday in May that I met my ex girlfriend who at first sight I figured would be the last bitch I'd ever be trying to shove my dick inside.
With age and experience comes the ability to tell the difference between a cool ass chick and the bitch you trust enough to trap with a ring and a baby. Unfortunately she turned out to be a little more of the first one.
None the less I remember that weekend and the ensuing weeks and months of that relationship like the back of my honkey hands. Chick was supportive of my geekiness and from what I could tell, recognized it as a positive that she would not find elsewhere.
Thing is though, a person doesn't necassarily become like me overnight. There are alot of highs and lows along the way that causes a person to embrace and seek out alternative forms of entertainment and that is something I don't think she understood or related too.
The quarterback of a high school football team for example doesn't wake up one morning and discover that he is a fan of comic books and David Cronenberg films, because in all likelyhood he has so many yes men and popularity surrounding him already that he doesn't have the time or interest in doing anything besides whatever is currently cool.
On the flipside, even as a good ass basketball player I was never able to gain access to that lifestyle. There were alot of Saturday mornings watching anime and kung fu flicks, Saturday afternoons spent renting old videos and evenings dateless inside of dollar cinemas.
At twelve years old I remember my personal heros at the time being Dennis Rodman and Quentin Tarantino because they were both the "anti" of everything that was traditionally cool. I was a social outcast and for the most part I embraced that as best I could, realizing at an early age that no matter how cool by societal standards everybody else thought they were, it was not worth losing who I was as a individual to be apart of that.
Which brings me to this. After twenty-six years(at the time)of enduring bullying, hazing, taunting and teasing for being a tall, skinny, acne riddled asshole who kept it real no matter the cost.
No bitch.
And I mean no bitch.
I dont care if she did have beautiful skin, tattoos, a fat booty and nice wigs, is going to convence me that the time is ripe for changing who I am as a person to be "normal" just because I have gained access to roam freely through her vaginal walls.
Homegirl was cool, no doubt. And I've spent the last twelve months and some change wondering about the what-ifs and what-have-you's of what-could-have-been. Especially when I take into consideration that part of my attraction to her was that she was a fan of Coffy and the irony that almost a year to the day later I'd be by myself on a bus surrounded by drug addicts, drifters and crazies on my way to meet Pam Grier herself was not lost on me.
The world comes full circle and it spins mighty fast to get there. The third weekend in May of 2010 was a memorable one to say the least and my only real goal for the third weekend in May of 2011 was to top that by any means necassary.
Armed with a bottle of Hennessy Black and a pocket full of cash, with a few detours through Orlando, Daytona and St. Augustine it was only a matter of time until I got my chance.
Showing posts with label greyhound bus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label greyhound bus. Show all posts
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Jacksonville Summit Part 2: The Professional
Ofcourse, as luck would have it, the Shrek looking soul-brother I had just pissed off turned out to be none other then the bus driver. Which seems kind of crazy to me that not only would the lady at the counter be completely useless and void of any sort of customer service skills, but the bus driver, the guy I was depending upon to deliver me safely to Jacksonville, was also a miserable cocksucker that strutted around as though he were only making $4 an hour. Great.
Scared out of my mind at this point, hating myself over the possibility that I had made some idiotic mistake or misread the instructions on the original Greyhound paperwork, I shuttered to think how I was going to explain this one to my family. Especially my sister.
How would I sound on the phone trying to explain that a trip I had been planning for months on end was killed off pre-maturely with money flushed down some figurative tubes before it had even had a chance to get started. With several years of bad luck and poor decisions behind me, this moment seemed in my head as though it would be the one that would finally change things, cause people to look at me differently, etc. etc.
Luckily for me it was the exact opposite, by the time I had reached Clearwater my sister had called to check up on me and eagerly rushed to my defense against the evil Greyhound empire.
She made several phone calls, getting answers and pressing the issue so hard that by the time I did get to Tampa the manager in the corporate office was there waiting to shake my hand, offer an appology and lend me his personal assistance in resolving the matter.
Pretty impressive stuff, I mean, my sister is smart, super smart. She's like the Derrick Rose of brainiacs. Listening to her on the otherend of a three way call was like hearing, well, I dont know quite what to compare it to but it was pretty damn awesome. She had these nitwits tounge tied and flustered, they didn't know what to do and I could tell they were scared.
What I should have done before leaving the St. Pete station was say to the woman (if you want to call her that) at the counter, "bitch, aiight, you wanna get nuts? I'm calling in the big guns, yeah, I'm gonna call my sister! My sister is so bad, that by Monday morning she will have you selling Greyhound tickets to escimo's in Alaska, so dress warm".
At the ticket counter in the Tampa station the woman helping me on the computer had told me that the issue with my ticket wasn't that it was printed. It was that a schedule change had been made in the bus route and the computer system did not recognize it.
Whatever.
By this point I was ready to just file the damn complaint and move on with my trip to Jacksonville. The woman at the counter, who happened to be black of all things, seemed disinterested with my attempts to impress her with the information that I was traveling to meet none other then Pam Grier, Foxy Brown herself.
On the otherhand the the raggedy old white chain smoker I was trying to weisel a hand job out of turned out to be a big Pam Grier fan and recognized her instantly on the poster I was carrying around.
Now securely seated on this gigantic tin can of a cargo ship designed to transport poor people I was finally on my way to Jacksonville, eager to rendezvous with fellow fans and mingle with my hero's.
Scared out of my mind at this point, hating myself over the possibility that I had made some idiotic mistake or misread the instructions on the original Greyhound paperwork, I shuttered to think how I was going to explain this one to my family. Especially my sister.
How would I sound on the phone trying to explain that a trip I had been planning for months on end was killed off pre-maturely with money flushed down some figurative tubes before it had even had a chance to get started. With several years of bad luck and poor decisions behind me, this moment seemed in my head as though it would be the one that would finally change things, cause people to look at me differently, etc. etc.
Luckily for me it was the exact opposite, by the time I had reached Clearwater my sister had called to check up on me and eagerly rushed to my defense against the evil Greyhound empire.
She made several phone calls, getting answers and pressing the issue so hard that by the time I did get to Tampa the manager in the corporate office was there waiting to shake my hand, offer an appology and lend me his personal assistance in resolving the matter.
Pretty impressive stuff, I mean, my sister is smart, super smart. She's like the Derrick Rose of brainiacs. Listening to her on the otherend of a three way call was like hearing, well, I dont know quite what to compare it to but it was pretty damn awesome. She had these nitwits tounge tied and flustered, they didn't know what to do and I could tell they were scared.
What I should have done before leaving the St. Pete station was say to the woman (if you want to call her that) at the counter, "bitch, aiight, you wanna get nuts? I'm calling in the big guns, yeah, I'm gonna call my sister! My sister is so bad, that by Monday morning she will have you selling Greyhound tickets to escimo's in Alaska, so dress warm".
At the ticket counter in the Tampa station the woman helping me on the computer had told me that the issue with my ticket wasn't that it was printed. It was that a schedule change had been made in the bus route and the computer system did not recognize it.
Whatever.
By this point I was ready to just file the damn complaint and move on with my trip to Jacksonville. The woman at the counter, who happened to be black of all things, seemed disinterested with my attempts to impress her with the information that I was traveling to meet none other then Pam Grier, Foxy Brown herself.
On the otherhand the the raggedy old white chain smoker I was trying to weisel a hand job out of turned out to be a big Pam Grier fan and recognized her instantly on the poster I was carrying around.
Now securely seated on this gigantic tin can of a cargo ship designed to transport poor people I was finally on my way to Jacksonville, eager to rendezvous with fellow fans and mingle with my hero's.
The Jacksonville Summit Part 1: Da Funk Bus
Anticipation was high as I casually strode through the early morning streets of Downtown St. Petersburg, pre-dawn before the hordes of rotting vagrant flesh could awaken from their inebriated slumbers to grub some pocket change out of me.
The streets at this time of morning are so robust with the odor of the damned that city workers are assigned to come downtown and spray City Hall with a deoderizing foam to mask the stench.
A stench I bullied my way through to arrive an hour early for a 7:20 am meeting with the Greyhound Bus that was scheduled to pick me up and haul all 180lbs of magnificence known as John Miller up to the city of Jacksonville in north Florida where I would converge with other die-hard fans of cult / horror / grindhouse / drive-in / exploitation cinema for the first (and maybe last?)end all, be all of conventions for weirdos such as myself known as Cult-Fiction.
Arriving before the doors opened allowed me time to be talked at by a brother / sister combo that wreaked of unwashed clothing and beer cans after they have been mildewing in the summer heat for a few days. Apparently the pair were catching the bus for a trip up north to Daytona where they would give a final good bye to an old friend on her death bed due to cancer. Not that I particularly cared for their stories, a part of me was selfishly thinking to myself that if I sat next to this haggard old bag of wrinkly dried out skin that I may be able to negotiate a hand job or something out of her on the bus.
Unfortunately no such luck, before I knew it the doors had opened and the brother was requesting to the lady at the counter that he be seated next to his dear ol sister. He would be my first of several encounters with a cock blocker this trip.
Carrying a Tampa Bay Rays duffle bag around my neck, resting it along my chest and a black Jordan backpack on my back, while still carrying around two cardboard poster containers I made my way up to the front counter beaming with excitement over the possibilities that were to come over the next several days. "Here to pick up my ticket", I said with a rare smile.
As I leaned forward resting my elbows on the counter anxiously awaiting my tickets to print I noticed the biggest, ugliest, blackest son of a bitch I have ever laid eyes upon. The best description I can give is that he looked like the lost siamese twin of Charles S. Dutton, the guy who played Roc and the annoying preacher in Alien 3.
The woman working the counter that morning looked up at me with a straight face and said, "your ticket has already been printed". Taking this as some sort of correctable mistake I calmly asked this diarrhea faced whore for a quick resolution to arguably the stupidest fucking crisis I have ever been mixed up in. Especially after I flashed her my million dollar smile and said, "well, you see that is impossible, I don't even have a printer at home". Her response, "doesn't matter, your ticket has already been printed and I cannot give you another one".
After several exchanges of trying to understand the situation I realized that talking to this braindead twit was an excercise in futility of biblical proportions. I could barely barely get a blink out of this comatosed bitch let alone a straight answer. With the bus's departure minutes away I somehow managed to argue a 1-800 number out of the Terry Schiavo of customer service reps, which ofcourse only worked on CENTRAL TIME!.
When I heatedly asked the woman to speak to her superior she blinked at me one last time before I nervously shouted, "miss, what the fuck is it that you do around here? You have absolutely no answers to any of my questions, you refuse to be helpful in any way besides occassionally blinking to show me that you are atleast a notch above comatosed, I need to get on this damned bus, can you please print me another ticket or something! Anything?!?!"
She blinked at me again and before I knew it Charles S. Duttons ugly siamese twin decided to chime in with his two cents by telling me very boldly, "man, you need to chill the fuck out!".
I'm sorry, but the last thing I am wanting to hear minutes before a $80 round trip bus ticket slips through my fingers and causes me to miss out on the hotel I spent roughly $250 for the weekend to stay in, is the guy from Alien 3's brother boldly telling me I need to, "chill the fuck out".
That's right about the time I completely flipped a gasket to the point that I was ready to just say fuck it and spend my weekend in the 49th Street County Jail.
Without thinking I turned to Charles S. Duttons siamese twin and said, "excuse me motherfucker? How much did you spend this weekend on a hotel room in Jacksonville and a bus ticket to get there?" He calmly continued eating his scrambler bowl (a combination of grits and other assorted breakfast foods)as I ended with, "exactly, now shut the fuck up please unless you have a solution to offer".
Finally, from out of nowhere at the very last possible second the incredible blinking woman opened her mouth and recommended that I just get on the bus outside and go to the corporate office over in Tampa where they would find a way to resolve my issue. Which, logically, a somewhat coherent person would have offered that suggestion from the start instead of walking around for twenty minutes blinking and occassionally muttering on about how she could not give me any assistance. Dumb ass heffer.
The streets at this time of morning are so robust with the odor of the damned that city workers are assigned to come downtown and spray City Hall with a deoderizing foam to mask the stench.
A stench I bullied my way through to arrive an hour early for a 7:20 am meeting with the Greyhound Bus that was scheduled to pick me up and haul all 180lbs of magnificence known as John Miller up to the city of Jacksonville in north Florida where I would converge with other die-hard fans of cult / horror / grindhouse / drive-in / exploitation cinema for the first (and maybe last?)end all, be all of conventions for weirdos such as myself known as Cult-Fiction.
Arriving before the doors opened allowed me time to be talked at by a brother / sister combo that wreaked of unwashed clothing and beer cans after they have been mildewing in the summer heat for a few days. Apparently the pair were catching the bus for a trip up north to Daytona where they would give a final good bye to an old friend on her death bed due to cancer. Not that I particularly cared for their stories, a part of me was selfishly thinking to myself that if I sat next to this haggard old bag of wrinkly dried out skin that I may be able to negotiate a hand job or something out of her on the bus.
Unfortunately no such luck, before I knew it the doors had opened and the brother was requesting to the lady at the counter that he be seated next to his dear ol sister. He would be my first of several encounters with a cock blocker this trip.
Carrying a Tampa Bay Rays duffle bag around my neck, resting it along my chest and a black Jordan backpack on my back, while still carrying around two cardboard poster containers I made my way up to the front counter beaming with excitement over the possibilities that were to come over the next several days. "Here to pick up my ticket", I said with a rare smile.
As I leaned forward resting my elbows on the counter anxiously awaiting my tickets to print I noticed the biggest, ugliest, blackest son of a bitch I have ever laid eyes upon. The best description I can give is that he looked like the lost siamese twin of Charles S. Dutton, the guy who played Roc and the annoying preacher in Alien 3.
The woman working the counter that morning looked up at me with a straight face and said, "your ticket has already been printed". Taking this as some sort of correctable mistake I calmly asked this diarrhea faced whore for a quick resolution to arguably the stupidest fucking crisis I have ever been mixed up in. Especially after I flashed her my million dollar smile and said, "well, you see that is impossible, I don't even have a printer at home". Her response, "doesn't matter, your ticket has already been printed and I cannot give you another one".
After several exchanges of trying to understand the situation I realized that talking to this braindead twit was an excercise in futility of biblical proportions. I could barely barely get a blink out of this comatosed bitch let alone a straight answer. With the bus's departure minutes away I somehow managed to argue a 1-800 number out of the Terry Schiavo of customer service reps, which ofcourse only worked on CENTRAL TIME!.
When I heatedly asked the woman to speak to her superior she blinked at me one last time before I nervously shouted, "miss, what the fuck is it that you do around here? You have absolutely no answers to any of my questions, you refuse to be helpful in any way besides occassionally blinking to show me that you are atleast a notch above comatosed, I need to get on this damned bus, can you please print me another ticket or something! Anything?!?!"
She blinked at me again and before I knew it Charles S. Duttons ugly siamese twin decided to chime in with his two cents by telling me very boldly, "man, you need to chill the fuck out!".
I'm sorry, but the last thing I am wanting to hear minutes before a $80 round trip bus ticket slips through my fingers and causes me to miss out on the hotel I spent roughly $250 for the weekend to stay in, is the guy from Alien 3's brother boldly telling me I need to, "chill the fuck out".
That's right about the time I completely flipped a gasket to the point that I was ready to just say fuck it and spend my weekend in the 49th Street County Jail.
Without thinking I turned to Charles S. Duttons siamese twin and said, "excuse me motherfucker? How much did you spend this weekend on a hotel room in Jacksonville and a bus ticket to get there?" He calmly continued eating his scrambler bowl (a combination of grits and other assorted breakfast foods)as I ended with, "exactly, now shut the fuck up please unless you have a solution to offer".
Finally, from out of nowhere at the very last possible second the incredible blinking woman opened her mouth and recommended that I just get on the bus outside and go to the corporate office over in Tampa where they would find a way to resolve my issue. Which, logically, a somewhat coherent person would have offered that suggestion from the start instead of walking around for twenty minutes blinking and occassionally muttering on about how she could not give me any assistance. Dumb ass heffer.
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