Shit Creek

Stay Cool on 102 degrees days by wearing airtight hazmat suit. (Mattress is drying out after a mishap with ice chest)

It's a clusterfuck at the trailer park.
"I've seen shit fights at the monkey cage more organized than this," said the scooter man who got fired last week for reasons I can't go into.
An absolute clusterfuck with Oggy in the mess. I'm almost to the point where I'm saving money but I also have a dentist appointment coming up so that should eat up any profit from the last month. When it costs $2000 to make $2000 then you can do the math on how much money I've saved so far.

But I'm trying to stay positive. The park tried to fire me but the housekeeper had a fit and threatened to quit. I don't know why. She trusts me, I guess. But she's trapped because she lives there and the managers don't know what they are doing. I don't know what I expected. People like Colin Powell and Bill Gates don't flock to trailer parks to become managers. Basically, if you aren't a thief and can make decisions eventually then you can manage a trailer park. Or I should say, you can mismanage a trailer park.

Revisiting 1982

I have not been meeting my reflections on 1982 quota lately and I'm running out of time. This song by Fleetwood Mac remains embedded in my storyboard of 1982 along with a few other choice tunes.

 It was the year I paid attention to music. Thriller, by Michael Jackson was released. A new wave of British Rock arrived with The Cure and Flock of Seagulls and Duran Duran. The River by Bruce Springsteen, a double album that I wouldn't fully appreciate for 20 more years was released in 1981. American and British rock was mostly dance music, fun and upbeat. Disco was no longer a white kid's music as Donna Summer kept the flame burning. The closest I got to Motown was Def Jam records' Run DMC.

1982 is a landmark year in popular music as MTV gained full power of music videos. I'd watched music videos on Channel 56 out of Boston but MTV had a format that was more pleasing and budgets such as Thriller mini-movie started demanding more and more respect. But I like to put things in perspective and if I had been forced to listen to Rosemary Clooney when I was 11 years old it would be absolutely no different than letting an 11 year old listen to Jack & Diane by John Cougar Mellencamp today. I basically did not listen to music from 1952 when the year was 1982. 1952 was such a dusty concept that it was outside of my realm. Even 1962 was pre-Beatles. 1952 was 30 years before 1982 and 1982 is 30 years ago now. This sort of blows my mind. But now I love music from 1952 and consider pre-rock and roll to be the most pleasing ever recorded. Pink Floyd is still my favorite but only because it appeals to my philosophy of anti-corporate activism and philosophical contemplation through minor pentatonic scales. But give me Patti Page and I drift into an ideal sleep. Percy Faith is Xanax for my brain.

Mall Cop

I'm naked and listening to Tusk by Fleetwood Mac, like any sophisticated person would do on a Friday Evening.
Suddenly there is a banging on the barn doors of my van. WTF?
"COULD YOU COME OUTSIDE, SIR!"
"Hold on, hold on," I say with annoyance and grief in my tone. I slowly get dressed, slowly put my Batman underoos on and my shorts. I figure that's dressed so I sit by the window (the curtains are all covering the windows) until the guy bangs on the side of the van again.
"SIR! CAN I HAVE A WORD WITH YOU."
"Just a minute!"
At this point I should've gotten the camera out because what followed was a classic encounter with the Target Mall Cops. I'm stalling to make sure he regrets every minute he wasted before he dropped out of Community College.

Heat Index

If you're wondering what people leave behind in storage lockers, take a good look. Fringe Jersey shirt by WINGS of Los Angeles circa 1991. I really thought about selling it on Ebay but delivered it along with the spiders to Goodwill.

How Oggy Survives

A reader asks, "How do you stay clean cut and presentable for your job at the trailer park?"

 This is a good question. Normally, I let nature take its course and pay no attention to facial hair or body odor. Metrosexuality is one thing I am opposed to like Chick Fil A is opposed to gays. God may hate fags but Oggy hates body image manipulation and metrosexuality, or the grooming of oneself to meet standards created by board room crack junkies who suck lipstick manufacturer's cocks and get fucked by shampoo CEOs, is abhorrent.