Belated

The following were written on tiny slips of paper. Life was exceptionally rough at the time and I've been carting around these tiny chunks of mental vomit since. I have decided the time has come to dispose of the tiny blurbs. But first I thought I'd record them here.

There are times
There are times,
too numerous to count,
when I think to myself...
"I don't know how much more of this I can take."
Then a clear alto voice rings in.
It registers softly yet firmly,
somewhere between the past and the present.
"You'll take as much as it gives." It says.
"and you'll say thank you when it's finished."
And though I hate this.
Though each time I marvel at the pain,
the fatigue,
at the surreality of each instance,
I know she's right.
And each time I say thank you.
Even if it may sound more like fuck you.

Gone Wanting
I recently welcomed my dear friend into, what has become known as,"The year from hell."
We're going on our fifth year now, it's truly quite remarkable.
When the latest event added itself to the menagerie of catastrophes, I thought to myself, "again?"
So another home flooded.
Another period of wandering from place to place wishing that home felt like home.
The part that frightens me is the absence. It's like traveling. It's almost fun for a few days, sitting on floors, dressing from knapsacks, walking blocks to bathe, but then you reach a point when you think "hey, I want to go home now."
But home has become a myth. A concept glorious in its foundation, but transparent in its reality. Home is the place you go when you want to feel safe. But now, be it my ark, my friends apartment, or my childhood residence, home is a vacant edifice.
I have hands reaching out from far and wide. Offering whatever they can, and yet I feel more alone. As though no matter where I go, I'll still have an absence waiting.
Home has changed from a place to a feeling. It's an idea of security, not physical, but emotional, and there are few, if any (at the present) who represent it.
Family helps but hurts, friends know but don't quite understand, and the rest feed the dryness that stings your soul, reminding you that absence is a reality.
Inherent in existence.
Innate in its function.
Painful and painless.
A missing.
An abstract void.
A home gone wanting.

The Wombat Cricket Club Debacle

That's right folks, J-J-Jimbo Ninny is back. Wipe your eyes, unclasp your hands, and save the hallelujahs, I know my return was long awaited, but the speaking in tongues should really be reserved for holy occasions....on second thought... theoje jksoekcj djkliehk iahelvjahcikeok ahwoeijckwol ! aoiejr !!joiajw eoivjwoeifjo.

Praise Ninny. Holy holy. etc. etc.

So Ninny is back. But where has he been you ask? Well, usually I'd reserve answers to such questions for the Ninny Spot's sister blog, Ask Ninny, however, since you were so polite in your query, and since Ask Ninny refers one to this page for referencing the cause of his prolonged absence, I shall share with you the tale.

You see, I, J-J-Jimbo Ninny, have been on sabbatical. For those of you wondering what exactly a sabbatical is, please ask on Ask Ninny. Yes, Ninny has been abroad (no no, not a broad, abroad, Ninny does not do drag, though he does greatly appreciate the artistry of it). Ninny was sent away on a mission of diplomacy to help negotiate a bit of a feud amongst the Wombat Cricket Club of South Central Buttpumpusville.

This was supposed to be a short yet fruitful mission where our Ninny would strengthen his skills as a mediator while building new connections and friends amongst the Wombat community. Unfortunately, the conflict amongst the cricket aficionados in Buttpumpusville was thick with hostility and complication, and it required a full six months before either side was willing to consider compromising towards an agreement. You see the Wombat Cricket Club is comprised of two main factions and three hundred and twenty seven and a half smaller factions. Because of the rather small size of the club, the three hundred and twenty seven and a half smaller factions actually make up the majority of the club, each faction is an individual, the half being a conjoined twin that, though fully independent of his once attached sibling, never grew to full stature and is thusly considered a half of a person. Oddly, he truly is only half of a person and consequently has difficulty with depth perception, performing any dance that isn't the pogo, and clapping. I digress, the point is, the two main factions only consist of two people each, or in this case, two wombats, and two sentient enchiladas both named Alfred. Apparently the Wombats and the Alfred Enchiladas had already reached an agreement upon my arrival in Buttpumpusville, and were ready to set the season calendar so they could start planning their Tupperware parties.
The three hundred and twenty seven and a half other factions, however, were on the verge of all out war. Each of the smaller factions had a different issue they felt was of the utmost importance in settling before setting dates for the season and moving on with their lives. The actual Wombats and the Enchiladas' differences had revolved around the eating of cheese in the club, conveniently the Wombats are both allergic to cheese, and the Enchiladas being made of Cheese, had no desire to be eaten. As a result these two parties settled on not allowing the consumption of cheese quite quickly, and left the club to sell seal tight lidded plastic ware to housewives and domestically enabled, yet socially inept gay men. The remaining factions argued this point for quite a while. One of the factions, named Pierre, whom had recently moved to Buttpumpusville from Arles, and whom had been eying the Alfreds with a slight hint of drool, felt that banning the consumption of cheese was blasphemous, and touted it as being blatant prejudice against him for being of French descent. His voice, however, was quickly silenced, quite literally, by a freak accident involving a salad shooter and a drunken hedgehog from Auckland which I shall refrain from explaining at the moment, let's just let be said that neither Pierre nor the Hedgehog shall be returning to the Wombat Cricket Club anytime soon.

The remaining three hundred twenty five and a half factions each assaulted Ninny with a number of complaints ranging from whether it was proper to wear a hat tilted forty five degrees to the left on a Sunday, to the prohibition of two legged dancing and clapping on the field. In the end Ninny prevailed, setting inline a number of compromises such as the infamous one handed clapping agreement of April, and the grueling yet successful agreement to the wearing of hats at any angle regardless of the day, as long as said hat was not adorned with pink ribbon or a large fluffy bunny (the exception being the fourth Thursday of each month, whereupon the adorning of a hat with pink ribbon and a fluffy bunny is requisite to playing with the club).

Having settled all of these conflicts Ninny has returned to his new home with Frankus and Charley in Hollywood where he is happily settling back into the life of a Ninny. He shall be venturing forth for San Francisco on Friday for some gay frolicking, so please look for him there. Otherwise, might I suggest a trip to Buttpumpusville to watch some Wombats, enchiladas, and others play cricket? The season oficially begins on Sunday, at 3:31 and 30 seconds. All hats without pink bows and fluffy bunnies are welcome.

moving on

So the count down has begun. Mr. Ninny has reached the point in the school year where, aside from completing grades and cleaning up the room, his main objective is to keep the kids from killing themselves and count down days. As of now there are 6 (count them 6!) work days left in the school year. I can hardly wait. I believe baited breath is an appropriate term to go here.

Also, Ninny just received word that he will be working somewhere else quite soon. He will not need return to the hell he has endured for the past six months. That is something that truly calls for celebration. Some will occur this weekend, but a great deal more the following (that would be the weekend of the June 22nd for those of you checking calendars). Look for Ninny in San Francisco that weekend. He'll consider a new Ninny shirt to make him more identifiable, the old Ask Ninny shirt is starting to look a little worse for wear.

Hoy

Hoy es viernes. Estoy enfermo y poco cansado. Mi compañero de cuarto y yo somos vivir en nos apartamento de nuevo. Hay nos cosas en nos cuartos, y nosotros compramos camas nuevas.
Hey that's not bad for having barely completed Spanish one a couple of weeks ago. As near as I can tell, I believe that says: Today is Friday. I am sick and a little tired. My room mate and I are to live in our apartment again. Our things are in our rooms and we buy new beds. Which is all true. Last Wednesday we met with the property management lady (who was friendly and professional with a no-bullshit manner about her that I appreciate) and the manager of the carpet cleaning company (who was receptive to my concerns about the behavior of his employees). I also had the pleasure of dealing with my ill vehicle that day. The problem turned out to be the same she had recently endured meaning there was no charge for the repairs. Unfortunately, as Ninny's dear sister was driving poor fancy home, she discovered a new concern and notified me immediately. It seems that when driving Fancy one noticed that the alignment was off by a fair amount, there was a strange new grinding noise eminating from the rear left wheel, and when you went over small bumps the back end of the vehicle bobbed and swayed in a manner reminiscent of Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. One that made the driver suspect that the cars hind quarters were about to snap off and land in the street next to the wheels. It's a very disconcerting sensation to say the least. So little Fancy was taken to the doctor again. There she was inspected by the kind gentlemen who have taken such good care of her over the years. They informed Ninny that the problem lay in these little bars near the wheels called the Lateral Links. It seems there are control arms in there (two of them per wheel in fact) and they had been bent. There are two ways in which this can happen, one: wreck the car (Seeing as Ninny has not wrecked Fancy, that option was out) and two: someone strapped her down wrong (sadly, the kind man who towed little Fancy all the way to Long Beach from LA, who was friendly and patient with crappy traffic and whatnot, apparently strapped her down using these little rods). So now Ninny gets to work out the cost of these repairs (something he can't afford since he had to purchase a new bed from the flooding of his apartment without compensation from the management company)with the tow company, as it is their fault entirely that this damage to his little Fancy occurred. On Thursday, after picking up his new bed, Ninny awoke ill. An edgy and creeping illness swept through my body over Wednesday night, apparently egged on by my weakened immune system (that's referring the amount of stress I've been enduring, not any disease that would cause such). So Thursday was a no work day for Ninny. Then again, today, Ninny awoke in the middle of the night sweating with a split-head and a rasping cough (one that differs from the smoker's hack he usually endures) and the poor students of Ninny's class are out one teacher for yet another day.

On the brighter side of things. The mountain in the topics is now more of a mound in the living room. The heat and humidity of the apartment have all but disappeared, and most of our belongings are finding their ways back to their respective homes in our rooms. New beds have been purchased and soon, life in the lounge will return to its appropriate status. Ninny will have his vehicle back sooner or later, and there are only two work weeks left now until Ninny is permanently freed of the horror that has been his work. All-in-all things are looking a bit more positive.

And then...

My Fancy has betrayed me. She is infirmed. Resting outside of Danger(space)Kitty's residence awaiting the vehicle paramedics to whisk her down to the Doctor in Ye Olde Long Beach. Another exciting time for Mr. Ninny, you know, it's Sunday, and all I want to do is sleep more.

The sea and the means

My dearest friend wore me recently and, in light of recent trials in our lives, mentioned a desire to buy a boat and go out to sea, never to return.

I've been wishing to flee myself of late. I know this utter pull of escape. As though simply uprooting oneself and disappearing into the horizon could erase the pain. Unfortunately I see the past wherever I go. The future may be what pulls one forward, but the past is what ties one to the present. Knowing what's been makes what is more real. So in response to my friend's message I sent this.

"The sea is a barren desert of rocking and nausea. Sure it's filled with fertile and lush life but that's all beneath the surface; and though sparcity can be nice, it's also quite draining. Besides, the beauty of the world is in fact everywhere. If it wasn't, I'd be gone by now. The only thing that keeps me facing each day is the knowledge that there's something else out there that I'd like to see, witness, or do. I'd like to buy a motorcycle and drive it to the beach. I'd travel up the coast stopping at sea bluffs and forests. I'd visit all the cities and stroll up broad boulevards with tall buildings and masses of people living their lives. I'd tip-toe through tulips and sit beneath cedars. I'd smell salt, grass, and manure. I'd look to the sea and know that it's out there, but know that it stops at another land far away with different people and plants and bluffs and broad boulevards. Then I'd come back on my motorcycle and share my adventures with you, then hand you the keys and a camera and send you off on your own. I'd tell you to kiss Arcata for me."

And she would.

A mountain of crap in the tropics

The joyous adventure that is Ninny's existence continues with more excitement these days. Following a relative calm period where the only trials of life faced involved the constant barrage of insults, challenges, and spiteful remarks that Ninny's daytime alter-ego endures, came a new (yet sadly familiar) tribulation. As Ninny was flexing his culinary muscles last Wednesday evening, making a Spanish Tortilla to take to the final night of his Spanish class (that is: está haciendo una tortilla española para la clase ultima de español)a strange and eerie sound commenced in the apartment. Ninny, thinking firstly of his beloved tortilla, carefully pulled it from the stove and stashed it on the counter where it sat beautifully, waiting to be eaten. A quick inspection of the apartment located the source of this high pitched unearthly noise. The industrial fire system in the building had been activated. Tiny strobe lights flickered in the little boxes mounted in the ceiling to alert residents to the possible danger of being barbecued at home. A second inspection informed Ninny that his apartment was not on fire, in fact, the only unusual smell was the scrumptious odor of potatoes and onions cooked delectably amidst egg and garlic in the form of tortilla española. However, the sound and flickering continued, and then a new tone joined the me lee. A second and discordant sound had begun to sing with the original shrill howl. Ninny began to think perhaps he should do something quickly. No sooner had this thought dawned on Ninny when a pattering noise joined the cacophony of fire music. "Oh dear" thinks Ninny, "this really can't be good." A third rapid inspection tells Ninny that water has begun to fall from the ceiling. Now, Ninny is not a dim bulb, he knows (lots of things in fact, as represented on Ask Ninny) that ceilings do not produce rain. The water was, in fact, dripping from the fire sprinklers. It is important to note these sprinklers were not activated, no, the water was seeping from above the sprinklers. Ninny dashed and dotted, dodged and grabbed, placing pots, bowls, and whatever else he might find under these miniature waterfalls birthing in his residence. It was this moment when a knock on the door drew Ninny to the entry. A kind yet worried face greeted him as he opened the door. "Umm...it kind of smells like smoke and greese, and the fire department says we need to evacuate the building." Ninny thanked the nice girl for her warning and, taking a final look at his apartment, grabbing sunglasses, cigarettes, and coffee, evacuated his space, his tortilla still sitting on the counter.
An hour later, after four fire trucks and two cigarettes had come and gone, Ninny, now accompanied by his dear friend Dare, re-entered his apartment. Luckily, during the evacuation, the fire department and building managers had warned Ninny as to what to expect when he returned. It seems that Ninny's dwelling was directly below the source of the alarm. Which meant that all of the water produced in dealing with the concerning smoke and greese had meandered through the ceiling into his home. Ninny's living room and kitchen were mostly intact. A kind mustachioed fireman led him on a quick tour. The kitchen had puddles but the tortilla was fine. It was the hallway and bedrooms that had endured the worst. Ninny carefully trod his way down the marshy hall to his room mates quarters. A large garbage can had been placed in the middle of the room to try to catch water before it reached the floor, the carpets color changed from deep brown to beige about halfway into the room signifying what looked like the place where the water subsided. Turning to his right and entering his own room Ninny quivered. There, in his beloved sanctum, lay a new bog. The items that, in his haste to carry on with life, Ninny had left on the floor, were now dense with water, the floor pooled around him as he stepped, and on his bed sat another large garbage can (in actuality it was a laundry hamper with a garbage bag in it, those fireman are crafty folk)it was nearing half full of brown murky liquid. The bed itself was soaked. In the end, the back half of Ninny's apartment was emptied of all it's content (emptied into the front half)and a small army of Hispanic carpet steamers (who muttered judgments to of Ninny and his room mates sexual preferences to each other in Spanish as they worked, and no that is not a terracotta butt-plug, it's a Scandinavian garden gnome you sick fuck)peeled and pulled at the floor with tools, hands, and shop-vacs. The following two days left a hum of industrial fans and de-humidifiers whirring in the space.
Now it is Saturday. Ninny and his roommate remain homeless. The building managers decided to have a nice weekend in their safe dry homes without deigning to contact poor Ninny and room mate, or arrange for their accommodations. All of Ninny and his room mates belongings remain in a large pile in the center of their apartment, making movement within the dwelling near impossible. The fans and dehumidifiers are gone leaving a hot moist climate where an apartment should be. The new home of Ninny and Frankus is now a mere mountain of crap in the tropics.