Let’s get one presumptuous idea outta your head right now.

     Trust me?

     My resume looks less like a resume, and more like the Fortune 500.  I’ve been running a company, in whatever capacity, for 22 years.  I can do your job.  His job.  Her job.  And if I don’t have the capacity for certain knowledge, I can learn it fast.
     I can walk into any company, tell them anything, and I can keep that job until I decide to move on.  Haphazard?  No … Hardcore.  That’s just the way it goes.

     The reason?

     Attention to detail, instead of saying, “Good enough.”  Asking questions, instead of seeing problems as weaknesses.  Re-writing business policies, because they’re not performing a required function.  Tactfully kicking a customer in the ass when they’re not delivering on “their” promises.  Figuring out problems, and fixing them, instead of regurgitating answers.
     I can hire … I can fire … and I always manage to keep things in line.

     I can do that with any work I’m not emotionally invested in.  Ownership, Relationships, just screw things up for me.
     Emotionally invested = My Own Company, My Own Money, My Business.
     But being that way also keeps me from banging every hot Admin Assistant (Secretary, right?  WTF?) that comes along.  Especially that hot, tiny Latina over at … Nevermind.

     But damn well, I can do your job.  And in a couple of months, I can do it better than you’re doing already.

     Know why?

     I work.  I learn.  I look beyond my own expectations.  I build processes, and accomplish beyond corporate goals.  In 40 hours or less.

     But most of all … I accept that other people are learning, too.

     Maybe that sounds arrogant … but I really don’t care.  I can do it.  Been doing it for a long time … And I’ve proven those points more than once everywhere I’ve ever been.

     Relationships … well … There’s always Life 101.

     Inspiration:  I talked to a friend earlier.  Burned out on work, having my life turned upside down by loving someone I probably shouldn’t.  Like a lot of my close friends, he’s in his late 60’s.  And a Minister.

     I just said, “Look, I fucked up.  I’m sorry.  I feel horrible.”
     He said, “Look, we all go through it.  I can’t answer anything for ya.”
     “That’s what I keep telling people…”
     He looked at me, dead in the eyes, and said, “Yeah, that’s why we’ve always been able to hang out.  You get it.”

     Look, here it is, all laid out and simple.

     I’ll probably miss a few subjects … But it’s pretty much the same.

     Abuse:  Deal with it, or don’t.  Nobody else will.

     Anger:  Deal with it, or don’t.  Nobody else will.

     Hate:  Deal with it, or don’t.  Nobody else will.

     Stress:  Deal with it, or don’t.  Nobody else will.

     Empathy:  Deal with it, or don’t.  Nobody else will.

     Oh, I don’t mean to sound cold … but really …  

     Being an empath sucks.  I can put up with a lot of shit, take on other people’s stress, and pretty much ruin myself trying to help ‘em out … but most of all, I can listen.  I can offer a few words here and there, but as a general rule, I don’t bother.

     My difference is, from other people, is that I don’t give advice.  I ask questions. 
     “Is that what you want?”
     “Are you happy with that?”
     “So that’s your decision?”
     “Are you being true to yourself?”
     They’re not hard questions, really.

     But when you’re an empath, and you’re trying — sometimes, trying your damndest — to care, you can only do so much for a person as they’ll let you.  Sometimes, they’re not honest about their problems, telling you one thing, and feeling something totally different.
     Other times … it’s time to either let go, or don’t.  

     The end.

     Thinking about that, in my way, makes me realize …

     Me, I haven’t been very “faithful” to several people who are integral in my life.  I’ve kept a lot of things to my self.  I’ve said, “Hey, I’ll handle it,” when I very obviously needed counsel.  I needed a pep talk, and never asked for one.
     To those people … Those friends … Family … Mentors … and other people who rely on me … 
     I’ve been a shit.  And I sincerely apologize.
     And when I haven’t told you anything … you’re still right here?
     That’s some pretty damn serious devotion.

     Sometimes, I just need certain those around me to know that I’m right here.  I get it, or will, and … *shrug*  Sometimes, I need someone to listen to me, too.

     Once you surround yourself with those people — those people that you care about, and they care about you — everything falls into place.

     You can’t love without trust.

     And vice versa.

     It does take a leap of faith.

     Some people get that … and some people don’t.

[ Blogged in realtime, Wednesday, 20-Jun-2007, kinda like that stupid TV show 24, but without that asshat kid of Donald Sutherland's... ]

Here we are folks.  It’s a wonderfully balmy Wednesday night at CatScratch Jane’s.  I’m sitting with a bird’s eye view of all the going’s on.  Karaoke is getting ready to kick off and it looks as if all the regular crowd (good and bad) has started peppering in.

The Twin Blow Out is starting here tomorrow, but the biker boys on their motor-scooters are plentiful.  The patio’s a-buzzing, the inside is buzzing.  We’re looking forward to an eventful night.  Bring on the singers.

A real blow-out, right?  Uh. No.  It’s another train-wreck.  That’s what I get for being all amp’d up for a party!  Thus far we have heard a not-so-right-on rendition of “Live and Let Die” (help me!).  Now we are on to the worst drunken interpretation of “You Look So Good In Love” that I’ve ever heard… whining included.

The place is packed.  Folks are piled up everywhere, inside and out.  I’m dying for a beer.  But dammit, it’s busy.  I’m going to wither up and fall in the floor from lack of alcohol.  But as I sit here, waiting for Cutie Pie (our beer wench) to surface, I think to myself “Damn, girl!  You’re hair looks gooood!”

Finally!  A hot guy is getting up to sing.  I missed his name, but he’s wearing a polo shirt and baseball cap.  He’s singing Toby!  You go, boy!  Mercy me, yes.  He sure should have been a cowboy.

I’m still waiting on my beer.  It’s nearly 10pm.  Through the open windows I hear the clank of the triangle being busted by a gaggle of pool shooting biker boys.  Now and then a loud, orgasmic burst of noise comes when one of the bikes fire up.  

Ya know, Christmas is coming up.  Harley.  Under the tree.  Big red bow.  Thanks in advance to whomever decides to make this purchase for me.  I’m obliged.

Finally, at 9:55pm, Mark drags his ass in.  ”Log the time, Scotty!”  He has mercy and goes to hunt Cutie Pie for my beer.  Bless you, hon.  I was withering.

By 10 I’m thinking, “I thought this was going to be the kick off to a bad ass biker weekend party… it’s more like B-97.5 night in the local geriatric ward.”  Never has an hour seemed more like ten.  Never have I wanted someone to shoot me in the ears worse than I do right this very minute.  “Log the time, Scotty!”

10:01.  Scotty is so excited to be here that he’s taken to watching the drag queens on the t.v. above the bar.  *snicker*  You dirty boy, you.  But wait:  Here comes Nike!  He’s belting out some bad ass Lionel Ritchie love song,  The boy possesses the ability to wake up a bored and otherwise depressed drinking crowd.

Oh my, what’s this?  The heavens have opened up and some good singers with some happy ditties are now on a roll.  Joe hops up and belts out a soulful blues number (he really rocks the hell out of the blues).  Now if we can talk him into losing his “Bat Outta Hell” CD… *wink wink*  You know I love ya, Joe.

I belted out some goodies too, if I do say so myself.  I dueted with Cowboy Billy-Joe-Tom-Bob and sang “Dontcha.”  He kicks ass on the rap part.  Freestyle baby!

I then attempted to do the night justice, with Nike’s help, by belting out “At Last” … the Etta James classic.  Choice.  Very choice.

My news reporter skills are being diminished by the amount of cold beer and Jack Daniels I have consumed.  At this time, all I can really say is that everytime I get up from my corner booth, I end up grabbing this poor girls ass.  So, I end up making light of it, in my regular Diva style.  I own up to it.  I look her in the eye and tell her, “I’m sorry for grabbing your ass everytime I get walk by!”

“Log the time, Scotty!”  It’s 11:14, and I’m drunk. Food ordered. Yah!  I comment to Scotty that we are evil.  He says “No, we’re just honest.”  Good one.

Finally.  Something note-worthy.  A drunken skank finally falls out of her chair into the floor.  NEXT!  Scotty dies laughing, and notes the time is 11:23.

Food on tap.  CatScratch has the best food around.  Especially if too much alcohol has been consumed.  Cue the onion rings.

And the french fries.

Scotty is in the loo, so I’m logging the time as 11:34. 

So, if tonight was any forecast of the drunken festivities that are to go on for the next several days at CatScratch… all I can say is WOW!  Good luck with that!

I maintain here and now, I’m Diva enough to stay on the porch, because I certainly can’t keep up with the big dogs.  *rolls eyes*

Woof!  Out.

Just imagine.  Diva is sitting in a quiet, corner booth at Catscratch Jane’s.  It’s 9:30pm on a Wednesday night.  Diva is occupying this booth solo.   This is surreal, and I started thinking, which is usually not a good thing when beer is involved.

My 1st thought is this:  I am sitting here, alone.  Am I bummed that my friends aren’t here?  Am I feeling as if my friends have deserted me for bigger and better things?  Do I feel like I am being neglected?  Am I getting bitter?  No. No. No. No. And no.

I am actually quite content with my life and the way it’s turning out. I’m glad to see all of my friends are happy, content and satisfied in where the last year has taken them.  I am totally capable of amuzing myself and having fun in the situation I find myself in.

My second thought:  Yes, I miss my friends.  But, we have a lifetime of memories made in the short span of approximately one year.  It’s not often that a group of mis-matched people come together like we did.  Every single one of us had some sort of need that this rowdy, loud bunch was filling.  Why, it was only a year ago that we all magically morphed to Catscratch Jane’s.  And dear Lord, the place wouldn’t be the same for several months.

Then something happened.  We all started to settle down.  Some of us fell in love.  Some of us found satisfaction in our careers… Regardless of what it was, we all started to find what we were looking for in life.

All of this brings me to a minor crash in self-analyzation.  I’m 100% secure to know that, although I’m sitting quietly in a corner watching the goings on around me, we all meant and still mean alot to each other.  In some cases, we’re far apart in our physical being. In some cases, we’re just right down the road.  Regardless, we are still together in soul.  Pirates deep down?  Maybe just a little… that Pirate dwells in each one of us forever.

We are really fortunate to have had the opportunity to build bonds that keep us close enough to have a quick lunch, early dinner, a cold beer, or even just a comment on MySpace.  God bless technology.

I really do love where my life is now.  But I still thank God every day that I’ve been blessed with a bounty of friends ~ near and far~ ~old and new~

Sappy, yes.  But, sometimes even Pirates can be sentimental.

     Because it was exactly three months ago …

     And everyone who knew her will know exactly who this is …

     ( I close my eyes, remember her, and die laughing — that’s the way it should be *grin* )

     Cheers, babe.  Miss ya.

     Ever wonder what you’d look like if you were a character on Southpark?

     Yeah, me, either…

     But that is certainly me. ;-)  Click it make your own — you know you wanna!

Tip: Tish at The Kat House

Girl, I think we are all so numb right now that this really happened. Your smile, you laugh, your 24 bar breaks, your 1/2 sweet 1/2 unsweet tea, your friendship…

You know though, I wouldn’t have taken one cent for the year I have been able to say that you are my friend. Every smile, every hug, every time I ran from your camera. Girl we all made some awesome memories together. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. We all found each other when we all needed something. God gave us each other and though you’re gone, you’re really still here with each one of us.

I LOVE YOU, SUSAN.

Susan Alice Shelley - 12/2/1964 - 2/21/2007

People living deeply have no fear of death.
— Anais Nin

     Just forty-eight hours ago, I was sitting down to write about what great friends I have.  Mere moments after writing, “Pirates never die,” I received a phone call which showed that the world had decided to see just how much I really believed that.

     She was there one minute, laughing with us like no tomorrow.

     And then she wasn’t.

     We’d met before, briefly, some fifteen years ago.  We knew the same towns, some of the same people.  And when she showed up again last year, it was all so familiar … hard and fast friends, an instant sister, that crazy gypsy, that Wicked Wench.
     It was only natural that I wrote her a testimonial a few months ago:

She’s an incredibly talented artist with a death-lock stranglehold on the eclectic. She’s all fun, all the time, complete with an infectious laugh that can change the mood of an entire bar!

     For those of us who’ve been around her, all we have to do is remember how she she lived: Like there’s no tomorrow.  Nothing left unsaid.  Nothing left undone.  No regrets.

     Laughing at every damn thing — like a bunch of kids with attention deficit disorder — certainly has its benefits.  I remember taking her out for her birthday that night with Niki, going to Market Square…

     Oooh, Kitty!

     (Maybe it’s Susan *grin* Besides, it’s only a 24-Bar Break)

     Pirates never die.

     I’ll write more on this later.

—–

     [5:34PM]

     Reason I waited?

     A pirate died.

     At 12:22 or so.

—–

     [11:34PM]

     Back on the track.

—–

     [2:21AM]

     We’re always there for each other.

     You can drink at every place in Knoxville.

     But no matter where I’ve been — what country, even — there’s not a single person who can say, “Hey, that guy only had four drinks, and he is smashed!”

     It’s not an alcohol tolerance thing, mind you, but a great human truth: some people can drink, and some people cannot.  I don’t have a spelling or grammer checker on this blog, for instance, and I screp up a lot.

     *snicker*

     (If you saw that, good on ya, mate!)

     My reasoning is, every time bartender hands me a drink, I pull a coin outta my left pocket.  I know damn well I need to watch how many, and I’m not stupid.  I’d like to get home — without killing anyone.

     Tonight’s poison: One Milk Stout (which was blah) and three Bombay Sapphire and Tonics.  I like those.  Knoxville didn’t even have Bombay Sapphire before I came back home.  I’m a damn trend-starter.

     It all comes down to this …

     I’m ready to go home.  I don’t want any more.  I’ve had 3.3333333(inf) drinks.  Yes, Two Bombay & Tonics and one Milk Stout (of a brand I’m not sure of, because it was suggested).  Cool.

     It was Happy Hour, meaning $1 off Mixed and Beer before I got there.  I drank a gin & tonic and a Milk Stout before happy hour, and a couple of Bombay & tonics after.
     However …
     I dropped my drink beside someone I trust, and walked to seat next to her, and started talking to some guy … Next thing I know, my drink is gone (that’s where the two-thirds of a drink came in).

     I told the bartender, “Dude, my drink’s gone.”
     “How much did you have?”
     “Like, two thirds … I wasn’t finished, but I need to go, anyway.”

     He walks away.  Starts talking to another bartender.

     She asks, “How much was in there?”
     “About two thirds, but I need to leave anyway.”

     She pours the glass damn near full of Bombay Sapphire, and tops it off with tonic.  I don’t want that.  I just wanna go home.
     And she brings me a $30 check.

     “Hey… this isn’t right… and I don’t want this…”
     “Why not?”
     “I only had four drinks, and the last one got taken.”
     He quickly disappears, talks to the female bartender again, and I get a check for $24.  And a new drink.

     Next thing I know, I’m into an argument with a regular/employee, who’s the reason we went to the damn place anyway….

     “I didn’t ask for another drink,” I said.
     “Yes, you did!  I work here —– You’re being a dickhead!” he says.

     Sorry, but no.

     I can be called an asshole all day.

     But the first time a bar employee/bouncer/karaoke DJ calls me “dickhead” when I’ve done nothing to instigate it, it’s time to find another bar.

     I was being nice.

     And … Hey … Turns out …

     The guy calling me a dickhead?  Never told anyone he works there.  He’s said he does Karaoke a couple nights a week.  But, hey … this was a Wednesday night.  So it’s economic thing, is it?

     Thanks, asshole.

     (Oh, and Bartender who had his power usurped?  Got a $5 tip.  Wasn’t his fault.  A mistake he could handle, and didn’t have a problem with me.)

     Pirate Word For Healing —-

     NEXT!