Category Archives: Philosophy

Midwest, Ho!

All Packed! ETA 4AM CST

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Where I’m headed, the Shady Brady is necessary… ;)

Wherever I May Roam

 

 

Yes folks, this is happening. I’m hittin’ the road starting this week!

Where to Von? I honestly don’t know. I’ve got gas, I’ve got maps, I’ve got information and communication technologies, and I have a badge-wearing wingman to help drive and navigate.

Why are you doing this Von? Life-wise, I need some sparkly fresh brand new so I can feel the wow again. Creatively speaking, my writing is uninspired largely because I’ve deprived myself of Befindlichkeit, which is a big pretty German word for self-discovery. Discovery is tangible – what you experience with your senses within current time/space – but self-discovery requires a more metaphysical…event, let’s put it. I’m gonna position myself in physical places I’ve never been before, connect cosmically with what or whoever has a cosmic charge, and throw myself into uncertainty, allowing reactions to happen in whichever plane of existence that happens.

And no, I am not using any drug, natural or manufactured, in order to encourage these events forward. Clean and sober and open-minded. That’s how this is going down!

I will regularly post to this blog, at least to let you know I haven’t been slaughtered. Since I’ll be working off of WordPress for Android, my posts might be more Instagrammy than verbose; I’m sure you’ll understand. :)

I will tell you I’m not doing the Atlantic seaboard or New England; I’ve done that drive four times in the past ten years. Something fresh and new means in the guts of Merica! Maybe even up to oohhhhh Caaaannaaaddaaaahhhhhhh

This is Von Simeon, signing off, and leaving you with a sweet song to remember me by…

 

Smile Today

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Pt. 3 of 3: The Wingman Draft

vegaandmia

Part 1: The Wingman Preliminary

Part 2: The Wingman Combine

“You know what my dad calls this place?”

I look above and around the chinch hanging on the walls and between tables, leveling my eyes at the sight of wooden peg games on each table top. A myriad of names pop in my mind.

She laughs as she says it, “Honkey Bucket.”

I’m careful not to laugh too loud. “I will never UNknow that! Let your dad know I’m gonna use it.”

“Alright.”

We’re both being sensible; eating as much meat product as possible. While she does the ham-bacon-sausage trifecta, I go for grilled catfish ‘n’ eggs. We discuss the benefits of packing food vs. stopping to eat where we go. “My plan is to save every dollar towards gas.” “Me too.” I tell her about hurricane sandwiches, where you take the whole loaf of bread out of the bag, dress with nonperishable, processed foods, then return all of it back into the bag, the idea being, you can survive a hurricane landfall with this bag ‘o’ food. Yes, the butts are their own sandwich, or you can give them to the dog.

I reach for my phone. “Let’s talk route.” As Google Maps activates, I watch her watch our server pour water into her glass. Just as I think, ‘ooh, there’s a side spigot on that pitcher,” she says, “Umm. That was Sprite.” I want to laugh, but the server’s expression indicates she’s kicking herself internally. “It’s okay,” we both say, and the server explains, “I just got here. Haven’t had my coffee. I’ll get you another cup.” She says, “I totally understand,” as the server whisks off.

I felt compelled to admit I’ve never been a server. Either I was the manager or I was in the kitchen. “Hard to hit the floor when you’re not ready,” I assume. She’s the opposite; she prefers service positions. “Yeah, but sometimes once you’re talking to people it wakes you up.” I nod. That’s why I was never on the floor. I hated dealing with people, but I loved telling them to go fuck themselves. That’s when I realize, this person is good for me. I need someone who is naturally friendly and compassionate who I have no sexual attraction to. We can compliment each other without complicating each other.

I swipe the screen to enter an address somewhere in the American Midwest. The blue ball indicating our current location shrinks as the image expands upward, displaying the green penis of Florida and the expanse of North America above it.

In an act of complete abandon, a huge leap of faith on my protective part, I position the screen towards her. “Pick our route.”

She tightens her face to scrutinize the options. “We’re taking our time?”

“Yeah.”

I’m amused as she rubs her chin, clearly putting much study to the North America map.

“Either 20 or 40 but west for sure.” I have done the Florida to New York drive too many times, sorry Atlantic seaboard. I want to see some new shit. I hope she wants to see the Grand Canyon.

She points to Louisiana, a certain city I’ve never hung out in, just driven through. “I can talk to her about staying the night.”

“That’s cool. Definitely save on getting a hotel. But we need that confirmed before we leave.”

She nods assuredly, “Oh that’s fine.”

“She needs to be cool with us showing up at 3 in the morning with a dog.”

“Oh that’s fine.”

The paranoid part of me is screaming, but I let her rock out. I have to do this; I have to resolve my crisis of faith, and it starts with trusting this person.

Neither one of us has the will to clean our plates. Maybe if we had smoked prior to brunch, but, oh well.

I lift our ticket from the center of the table. “Honkey Bucket’s on me.”

 

 

Pt. 2 of 3: The Wingman Combine

Part 1: The Wingman Preliminary

There should be more people out here than there is.

No matter, as the rental chariot of the day, one Ford Fiesta, slides into a parking space in front of Paradise Grill. Immediately the smell of salt rushes up my nose and through my skull, making the center of my scalp tingle.

Bob unloads, overexcited to be out of the house and in a public place. His black nose busies nudging bush branches as I and my proven co-captain journey towards the deck.

Bummer. The grill is closed.

We find my favorite two Adirondack chairs vacant over to the right. She pulls out her pack of smokes while I wrangle my dog to at least try to stay in the vicinity. I let go of his lead and let him visit with the people making the short climb up the side wall to reach the deck we’re on. Cloudy night makes the full moon a full smear up and to the left of us. The Gulf of Mexico lap lap laps in quick tempo as the tide shifts out. The water is a soft grey, perfectly reflecting the clouds above it, creating a silvery soft vortex opened only to us three, a portal of infinite possibility.

I sigh. “I wanted to do something to commemorate this day, but the grill is closed.” I smack my own forehead. “We drove right past that Circle K. I coulda stopped and picked up some beers before we made it down!” I stay looking at her. In her amiable style, she says, “No worries,” and I assume it’s because we still have a whole ‘nother cigarette to burn. I shimmy forward on my long seat and straighten up to announce, “Come on. Before we get comfortable. Everyone back to the car.”

The Circle K has a long faced woman working the counter tonight. This is such an important day, a successful day; today I got rid of that last bit of trash. Consciously amending my sobriety clause, I wind past the salty snacks and to the double door coolers.

We’re doing it. We’re gonna have an alcoholic beverage, because that’s what you do when you succeed; you raise a glass and you let yourself be giddy. My eyes scan the options and I frown. No Dos Equis.

There it is.

Sam Adams.

Boston Lager.

“If you’re gonna fall off the wagon, do it with Sam,” I proclaim as I lift the sixer off its shelf. That’s when I notice the wine case. Shoot! I saunter over and see it’s the bring-a-bottle-to-a-dinner-party variety. I figure one cannot go wrong with a Chateau St Michelle Riesling if it’s already chilled in the case. She grabs the bottle while I return the stock. “I think it’s a cork. Yeah, it’s a cork,” she says fiddling with the top. “We’re gonna need a bottle opener.”

“No we’re not, we still have the tool bag.” The tool bag. One of the things I told her to keep up with when we loaded the car. ‘Be familiar with this bag; it’s going on our trip.’ She pointed out I was missing needle-nosed pliers. Add to travel list.

“We have a flat head screwdriver and a hammer.” Over the top of the bottle she’s holding, I mimic the screwdriver in my left, the hammer in my right, and one focused hit to the head. “Bottle opener.”

Although we should probably add a corkscrew bottle opener to the tool bag. Add to travel list.

The twenty dollar bill in my wallet turned out to be a ten dollar bill, so back to the original plan. We head back to the beach; this time, over to the long bench overlooking the south part of the deck. The tide had carried out some more. I use my key chain opener to serve our beers. We toast to our great day, clink necks, and enjoy the deep amber…

 

Up To Something Good

ditavonteese

If it seems I’ve been neglecting this blog, I assure you it’s for a great reason! I gave myself until the 14th of this month to make necessary shit happen.  Still in the throes of it, and am eager to share what I’ve been up to once we achieve success. So if you have a tendency to think negative thoughts about me, I ask you, kindly, just for this week, to put out a bit of positive energy into the Universe for me. Trust, if all goes my way, you shall be thoroughly entertained!!

Wish me glück/chance/suerte/luck…

Have a Safe, Fun, and Memorable 4th of July Weekend!

wonderwomanamerica1

Courtesy: Pinterest

Computer Blue

breakup

My e-boyfriend dumped me.

Gist of the situation is, he can certainly dish it out, but can’t take it. I see it as his Hero Complex mixed with his personal insecurities being projected in our time-delayed interaction. While I’m e-sad about it, I shall e-get over it.

I’m e-single again, and e-looking.  ;)

Are online relationships real? Yes! It’s in the word…you are relating with someone on a level other than material. Digital relationships can be just as disruptive as physical relationships, just as ephemeral, just as challenging.

e-sigh.

He was cool though. I did enjoy the short time we spent together. Hopefully he gets over being butthurt and we can reconnect as e-friends. Hey, I let all of you know up front – I am a mad woman. Don’t act shocked when you experience it.

I dedicate this to you, ex-e-bf. Til I find that righteous one…

 

 

Ayudame, Maria!

Laughter keeps the murder away.

Laughter keeps the murder away.

I’m so mad right now. Not angry with a someone, I’m angry with an institution, an administration. I’m mad because I followed the bazillion rules they have in order to qualify my disability, and then they turn around and COMPLETELY disregard what they were supposed to honor.

You should know better you silly bitch! No one is looking out for you!

Oh I get it now. The abject discrimination is too much. Lemme have my half my face blown off, okay, we get it, pass on through. But have a debilitating disorder that takes over even the simplest aspects of your life? You need to fill out three hours’ worth of forms, and oh, by the way, we’re gonna go ahead and revoke your benefits before you sign the final page.

No review board. No honoring of appeals. Just….doors slammed shut. Phone calls not returned. Our official decision is…we don’t acknowledge you.

I can’t deal with this. A raw nerve I am, every little nip, quip, snip sets me off. I’m not experiencing despair, just raw, unfiltered…RAGE. I want to talk to someone about it, it’d be REALLY nice if I had a reliable go-to, but instead I have the holier-than-thou people, the ones who tell me they get what I’m going through but have never actually experienced what I’m going through, then follow with a condescending, “you need to get it together. Don’t take things so seriously.” Yeah, you know all about that.

Before I tear open the Feeling Homicidal Emergency Phone Directory, I’m gonna re-watch Maria Bamford’s latest stand up on Netflix, The Special Special Special! because she does deliver an EXCELLENT presentation on the rampant hypocrisy towards the mentally disabled.

If, after watching this, I can’t fight off the rage, I’ll initiate the phone chain.

Help me out, Maria…

 

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