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Go On Take the Money & Run

It’s funny how certain songs take you certain places. In the same way that AC/DC’s Problem Child always reminds me of Bradley Hogan, Sheryl Crowe’s All I Wanna Do takes me to Uncle Terry’s club. Reminds me of Darren mostly. Darren and Uncle Terry and me, the Barnettville Mafia πŸ™‚ armed and dangerous, ready to knock off liquor stores and kidnap blonde cashiers. Too funny.

Like Steve Miller. Steve Miller takes me to the PowerTrack every time. And there’s no logical reason for it really. I mean I was listening to Steve Miller LONG before the PowerTrack. I was the one who bought the CD of greatest hits for the jukebox, because it was one I liked, it was good. And now everytime I hear any of those songs, instead of going back to Toronto or even further, I find myself in the PowerTrack hosting a pool tournament. It’s a little bizarre.

Been thinking a lot about the PowerTrack today anyway, and how it changed me, changed my perception of people in general. This because I watched Crash last night. I watched Crash and I was disturbed. I was upset. People don’t treat each other this way, I thought. I wanted to believe it too. But people do, people treat each other so terribly. People treat each other so carelessly, so reckless.

I have only to think back and remember the PowerTrack. The stuff I saw. The way the husband would brush against me, make a point to touch my hand when paying for drinks, wink at me knowingly, with the wife sitting three feet away . . . and those were the polite ones . . . there were the others who just took what they wanted, thought it was their entitlement, heard I was giving stuff away and why couldn’t they get their share.

The way I was treated. Like an object. Like food. Every man, woman and child wanted a piece of me. It was always about sex or money, and it must’ve been mostly money. Because I still don’t get it. It’s not like I’m Halle Berry. Is every bartender in every club putting up with everyone’s sexual advances? What is it about the bartender that everyone thinks they should fuck them? Anyway, every time I thought I found a true friend, someone who honestly cared what happened to me, it always came back to money or sex or both. And as soon as they realised they weren’t getting any, they left. But they didn’t leave quietly. They made up stories, made a big deal, made other people think getting sex or money or both from me was an easy venture. Is it any wonder I became so cynical about people? That I dropped out for a few years? I mean I can count the people who weren’t looking to fuck around with me on one hand, maybe less than three fingers . . . and I KNEW everyone. It’s truly sad. This is the general public. This is your father, your mother, your uncle, your aunt, your brother, your sister, your boyfriend, your girlfriend, your husband, your wife, your best friend . . . And for the most part, they cannot be trusted . . . well, if they’re hanging out at places like the PowerTrack, they can’t be trusted.

I’m gradually gaining some faith back in the human race as a whole, encountering more people who seem more sincere . . . or am I becoming more naive again as I put considerable distance between me and that place, I don’t know, I don’t even care really. I want to believe that people are generally good. If I can get back there, that’s where I’m going.

It’s also true that I missed a couple of real opportunities with sincere people while I was involved in the club scene. Like that one boy, so much younger than me . . . I didn’t take him seriously. But he was one of the good ones . . . he didn’t know how to be anything but serious, god love him, what was he, maybe 20 years old? And sober, drug-free, employed, with that car . . . was it a mustang? Classic something or other. He had the world by the tail, he did. And shy. When I think what it must’ve taken for him to approach me that night, in front of everyone, in front of Darren, and ask me to go with him . . . good grief! And I totally didn’t get it, blew him off so casually, so quickly, without a thought . . . ahh, but Darren knew cuz he pulled one of his little ballistic jealous hissy fits and I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. I can be so dense sometimes. I honestly thought he was just being a nice guy, just asking me if I needed a ride home. Ha! As if ANYONE ever just offered me a ride home to be nice.

Later me and Mom are having one of those conversations about all the shit I’ve screwed up in my life (but not in a mean kind of way) and she’s frustrated I haven’t married, haven’t brought forth grandchildren (this pressure let up once my sisters came through, now she’s just thankful I’m not a lesbian . . . tho not entirely certain that I’m not, but hopeful . . . I like to tell her about my girl crushes just to keep her on her toes πŸ˜‰ and she says if she could’ve picked one guy for me it would’ve been him, this young guy from the club with the blonde hair and the blue eyes and quiet manner who wasn’t a drunk and into drugs and actually worked . . . and it was only when she said this that I fully realised I missed an opportunity, there was more on the table that night than I thought at the time.

But everything always works out for the best anyway. He’s married now, has kids, a good life. And I’m right where I’ve always wanted to be and becoming less cynical about the human race every day . . . which I happen to think is a good thing. It helps that I no longer have access to much money and I’m no longer slinging drinks for a living or hanging out at the bar everynight. I’m meeting new people all the time, some bad, but mostly good, overwhelmingly good and kind, and this is helping to restore my faith in people in general.

Mood: better with sinus meds
Drinking: Banrock
Listening To: U2, With or Without You (Radio Skipper, Italy)
Hair: smelling lovely

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Categories: Uncategorized

2 replies »

  1. Random blogging today, just came across your site by accident. Pushing the next blog button appeals to the risk taker in me, you never know what you might find.

    So nice to run across somebody who can actually write in the blogging world, a true rarity. Some sections of your posts look like pieces of memoir.

    Your style is pretty slick and polished, If I may be critical for a moment, some passages are so slick they take on an air of unbelievability. In other words, your life read like a novel.

    Actually I wish my life read like that, but it’s just never been that tidy.

    Editor I see. Somehow I get the impression you’ve spent some time trimming the fat, so to speak.

    Like

  2. Thanks! This is nice to hear, especially since I NEVER spend any time trimming the fat. This is the most untidy writing I do. I don’t even type a draft into Word or anything, just right into the blog as it comes to me, from the tips of my fingers to the screen. I do include some blog fiction though, it’s not all memoir. The blog has become a sort of testing ground for me, where I’m pretty much trying out everything and anything, no holds barred. It’s good to hear people are reading and appreciating what I’m doing.

    Like

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