It seems 10 years ago, we would start over again after 7 years invested in the company. What would you do if you were sexually assaulted by the branch manager? Once intentions were made apparent (i.e. showing no interest)the Good Girl, who is also the Saint and a light angel, who began as a recruiter and worked her way to the top, one behind the henchman, was crucified and ostracized by the entire REAL ESTATE community, crippled in an industry that is signed, sealed and delivered by the contacts you maintain. 7 days a week on human safari. A moral dilema yes, but not the Eternity.
How does one play the game and remain true to the name of their honor? Combating the industry with a virus of good sound advice could be a seed planted to heal. Disinfect the officers presently taking the 60/40 cut nevermind the 25% on all referrals. There's no overhead! What ken possibly be determined as just? What is plain excess?
The melting pot became the icy firing of Johhny Y, one of the shining stars in the sky covered in soot, who was called into the office like a solemn schoolboy, due to a clash in personalities. Determining market trends as a potential agitator, strictly for the people you see, it seems the Heavy came down in the form of an employee who complained to the powers that be, who then set up a meeting for the axe to fall, later that afternoon.
Hard labor for a slum land-lord. There is a level of manipulation. One must take advantage of the system. Fast money corrupts a consequence so what is your price? When purchasing property, shouldn't you be a pain?
You have to combine a person and their skills. Meet and greet. Illustrate as a glamour girl on the Price Is Right. Lay the groundwork with little reason but brightly colored lights like at a fast food resturant. Have realistic expectations and find the likes and dislikes.
"I'm totally screwing him."
Land something that may be called property. Be care and concern. 85% of the general public is ignorant. The animal preys on these missing elements in the shadows, averting their faces, which is always changing. Talk about trips to Africa to shoot big game, playboy on the town, puppy at home! This offer is good until...
Over an hour later Johnny Y sent a message via Pirate Radio to an x-employee no longer with the company. J.Y. was subsequently fired. Funny how word travels. Ground Control has intercepted the message in circulation and Johnny was informed via the HR director.
"Your services will no longer be needed."
A consumer being consumed. A young punk evolving into an asshole with no compassion for the weak. Lend, loan and buy, Shelter 1-2-3, you've seen the papers and our mugs on T.V. Ship all your information overnight. I depend on slothfulness and your inattention.
Then there's the messages' sudden disappearance from the company's main hard-drive...
"I don't know what the sleuth-hound has been feeding you, but none of that shit is even remotely true! A man named ___ steals money and sexually assualts his prey at will."
Meanwhile in the same office earlier that day.
"Johnny Y...your not a team player."
2 days later she files a sexual harrassment suit while on a leave of absence. All this will be decided by Thanksgiving and they are gonna grill Johnny Y with diabolical depositions with a grueling pace set just to trip him up! But the truth doesn't change now does it!
Every appointment had been difficult, up to this point so why should this be any different? Tragedy at every stop. Continuous junction, misdirections upon every point. I was prescribed anti depressants and couldn't even get an appointment for months and talked to like, 15 different doctors. Whatta monkey wrench in my social life! 8 different affidavids were filed. Like I was gonna cause any havoc to the company and become a liability? I didn't have the time! This has been going on beyond years and has been like an anchor around my neck if you need to know the truth. Think of the weight lifted with our cessation. One person is dead...think of that one elderly lady, frail and thin, weathered by time with snow white hair and spectacles; meek, but not scared, her entire savings in the hands of Christopher Sly!
Comepletely liquidated by those Option thugs! She was a kind old woman but scared, and with good reason it seems! Last thing she wanted to do was go through the mortage process and potentially part with her life savings, which is, by now, in a remote country searching for the White Elephant. This started in March and they promised to be done in a timely fashion.
Right in time with the season to break. Closing costs were down.
"I would't have to deplete everything...will I?"
She had since moved out of her condo and waited over 3 months only to find out the house just wasn't ready. What's the use? First, who has any options? She had moved in with her ill-accomodating family to stay in an cramped inlaw's apartment, only to pay for storage and perish shortly thereafter and I don't want that to be me.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
One son...Two son...Three!
An air of nostalgia, sentiment and hopeful anticipation hung over and around these hallowed halls of Fenway Park Thursday, August 6th, 2009. Thankfully, for all you diehards, the infield remained intact and was properly roped off, with the stage tucked into the triangle in deep center, facing out into the infield. There were approximately 2,500 seats fanning out from leftfield through center. If such an animal had existed, the mosh pit most certainly would have been in deep left, extending to the edge of the bullpen.
All ya need is love and it was The Patriarch, who had not been to a Beatles show back in the HEY! (though most certainly a fan!) calling the shots.
We arrived at Yawkey Way, only to wait at the gate. Seems it wasn't quite 5 o'clock...so we took a trip instead, one block over, to view the Green Monster, passing hordes of people in Beatle's regalia in the process,(Give Peace a Chance, a bright red, yellow and blue Abbey Road shirt, and one Yellow Submarine.) finally to arrive outside, vents and pipes visible, craning our necks looking on up at the looming faded green architecture...no-one in our traveling party seeming the slightest bit impressed.
I had to admit...there were certain crucial elements missing in the equation:
"Papi does it again! This time the other way over the Coke bottles onto the Mass Pike!"
We were back in the flow of traffic before I knew what had happened.
So much for the air of nostalgia! Music and people seemed to escape from every alleyway and crevice. The evening had the hurried air of a ballgame, with vendors barking orders to schoolboys setting up shop in bright yellow golf shirts.
You may say its just evolution but there was a hearty buzz spreading over a four block radius held under the pungent shroud of grilled sausages and peppers and onions.
"Cokes here!"
"Crackerjacks!"
All those lucky to attend shared the same knowing smile in passing, making sure appointed ones, while on watch, were well within reach, pointing out the Ted Williams statue and the newly renovated, House of Blues.
We passed the Cask and Flagon; the baah where Robin Williams' character in the film, Good Will Hunting, passes on tickets to see about a girl, who turns out to be the love of his life.
"...who knew Fisk was gonna hit that homerun...?"
Memories, pounding this very same pavement seemingly spring up like passing dust clouds...from the evening in the alley with a small sea urchin, which turned out to be an oversized water rat hissing bloody murder as I turned the corner completely unawares, to Gameday, early in the fall, ticket in hand, walking just 2 blocks, free of hassle or parking charges, only to leave sorely disappointed in need of a fix, the Sox being held to just one hit!
Life lessons, if applied accordingly, may teach success through acceptance and constant adaptation, but this evening's crew at Paul McCartney was on a quest. Follow me til we see a #9 hat for the old man; who had made several attempts to no avail to retain and yet, this deal was, by no means, dead.
We were to settle into a pleasant August evening, but not before the aformentioned was secured properly on his head.
No more monkey business, let's get down to brass tact's...one of the best hitter's in the game....some would say THEE best...(though in baseball terms, hitting 1 outta 3 stores aint bad at all...'less you happen to be inside and you're counting on the scenery, which turns out to be sorely lacking!)
From one bookend to the other, tonight of all nights, respect was due: it's true, my Dad, King Roddy Dod, had pulled out the Blue and Red LP's as the start of a healthy musical education: I dig a poooooony! The Beatles; who don't know 'em? The four lads from Liverpool, who were actually 5 or six, if you count Billy Preston in the mix and the oft-underappreciated, Pete Best.
Now, this is only a test...you have the biggest thing since "the biggest thing", you...
a. Exit?
b. Remain?
Just to explain and offer: there may be a wrong answer here people if you're opposed to secluded mansions on the English countryside and working with two, nay, THREE, of the best songwriters eva!
Needless to say, respect was paid to one of the greatest hitters in the game, Teddy Ballgame, pre-game, as we found the hat, secured and settled in on a new task: what and where to eat? Peppers and onions? Inside the park or out? Does pizza work? How 'bout a Fenway Frank?
We settled on a stand up bid in a boatload of chicken fingers and orange fries complete with watered down 5 dollar cokes all across the board'zept for Junior who fancies H2O.
Could this transaction have been a potential hoax?
The Patriarch, who had, beside a love and appreciation for fine music, bestowed many a witty saying, "I have no gas and less money, Don't go to Detroit",and the grandpappy of them all..."ask your mother", appeared bemused,as he stepped outside the velvet ropes of the snack stand, pocketing a small amount of change, shaking his head.
(and of course, the Red Sox gene in a brilliant biological process, which may be both a blessing and a curse)
Th King always escorts The Matriarch, 'less he wants ta make trouble...and tonight was no exception....calm and peaceful...yet beating with boundless energy.
Though not a screaming beehive, the Mrs, adoring all the same with miles of smiles, a fan of the mush and stuff and charm, and of course the happy ending, was certainly not to be disappointed (She had been annointed Ground Control early in our Existence, maintaining strict control in the ranks and an elephant never forgets!).
A Day In The Life...which seems like...Yesterday.
Got To Get You Into My Life. Jet. The Long and Winding Road. Let It Be.
Fully satiated and inflated, we pushed aside the plastic cartons of chicken remains and looked out over the flowing mass of people passing...
Where was the vendor with that special souvenir: a photo to bestow upon a cheap frame, thus preserving the evening's trifecta: one son...two son...three!
We nabbed a signed 5x7 in a hot alcove complete with frosty beverages and made our way inside; ticket to ride secure for any wiseguys. My baby don't care...witness one Seymour Grime, a musical understudy his ownself, sitting back with the Matriarch to the left and King Roddy Dod to his right, Junior clinging tight on his first night inside Fenway inquiring at one point,
"Is that the Sox dugout Daddy?"
That's my boy! Indeed it was and all for the Paul McCartney show more than a few rows behind the 3'rd base dugout.
"This i'd be perfect tickets to a game Dad..."
...and even better just to be in the proximity of a legend. It's coming up...on the hour! A potential A number One on the long list of brilliant songwriters....Lennon, Dylan, Joni. Neil Young.
Ever the artist with playful jests, still zesty at 67, and witty beyond belief, Paul McCartney picked up 5 separate instruments during the course of the evening like normal people brew tea, yet with more care and concern, forging a sincere connection before offering to the Fenway Faithful,
"Babe Ruth never had it so good."
Paulie, you had us at hello. Diehards on the lookout for Beatles tunes and beyond were not disappointed. Drive My Car. Helter Skelter. I'm Down. Hey Jude. Day-tripper. My Love. Lady Madonna. I Saw Her Standing There. Let Me Roll It. Yesterday. Get Back.
He even pulled out the ukulele for a tribute to the late George Harrison with a rendition of the sweet soul serenade, "Something".
Sir Paul was all charm and wit. In fact, he just wouldn't quit, jousting and making sport of a perfect August evening, with a cool breeze wavering, walking the runway like a supermodel in jest at one point. He owned the joint! Of course they threw in a ripping, Live and Let Die, which made Junior jump with sudden explosions and bright fireworks bursting at the base of the stage.
The band, consisting of guitarist, Rusty Anderson, guitarist/bassist, Brian Ray, keyboardist, Paul Wickens, and drummer Abe Laboriel Jr. were beyond tight. It might not be right how tight, almost like Dylan's band in the 90's.
Store it away on a shelf.
File under the header, Rx, when seeking health and wealth of the soul and sound. There is a stealth bomber on patrol after all these years, who still runs an extremely tight ship. Closing my eyes...were we sure it wasn't 1964? Maybe I'm amazed? Though in all reality there were two towering screens projecting Sir Paul and his enthusiastic band laying down the gems of a 50 year career, one after the other. Popping 'em out like they were kids. It may have been better than Shea 1965 with most of the screams drown in a powerful surge of hallmark renditions to the delight of a packed house.
Live and Let Die. Hey Bulldog!
All ya need is love and it was The Patriarch, who had not been to a Beatles show back in the HEY! (though most certainly a fan!) calling the shots.
We arrived at Yawkey Way, only to wait at the gate. Seems it wasn't quite 5 o'clock...so we took a trip instead, one block over, to view the Green Monster, passing hordes of people in Beatle's regalia in the process,(Give Peace a Chance, a bright red, yellow and blue Abbey Road shirt, and one Yellow Submarine.) finally to arrive outside, vents and pipes visible, craning our necks looking on up at the looming faded green architecture...no-one in our traveling party seeming the slightest bit impressed.
I had to admit...there were certain crucial elements missing in the equation:
"Papi does it again! This time the other way over the Coke bottles onto the Mass Pike!"
We were back in the flow of traffic before I knew what had happened.
So much for the air of nostalgia! Music and people seemed to escape from every alleyway and crevice. The evening had the hurried air of a ballgame, with vendors barking orders to schoolboys setting up shop in bright yellow golf shirts.
You may say its just evolution but there was a hearty buzz spreading over a four block radius held under the pungent shroud of grilled sausages and peppers and onions.
"Cokes here!"
"Crackerjacks!"
All those lucky to attend shared the same knowing smile in passing, making sure appointed ones, while on watch, were well within reach, pointing out the Ted Williams statue and the newly renovated, House of Blues.
We passed the Cask and Flagon; the baah where Robin Williams' character in the film, Good Will Hunting, passes on tickets to see about a girl, who turns out to be the love of his life.
"...who knew Fisk was gonna hit that homerun...?"
Memories, pounding this very same pavement seemingly spring up like passing dust clouds...from the evening in the alley with a small sea urchin, which turned out to be an oversized water rat hissing bloody murder as I turned the corner completely unawares, to Gameday, early in the fall, ticket in hand, walking just 2 blocks, free of hassle or parking charges, only to leave sorely disappointed in need of a fix, the Sox being held to just one hit!
Life lessons, if applied accordingly, may teach success through acceptance and constant adaptation, but this evening's crew at Paul McCartney was on a quest. Follow me til we see a #9 hat for the old man; who had made several attempts to no avail to retain and yet, this deal was, by no means, dead.
We were to settle into a pleasant August evening, but not before the aformentioned was secured properly on his head.
No more monkey business, let's get down to brass tact's...one of the best hitter's in the game....some would say THEE best...(though in baseball terms, hitting 1 outta 3 stores aint bad at all...'less you happen to be inside and you're counting on the scenery, which turns out to be sorely lacking!)
From one bookend to the other, tonight of all nights, respect was due: it's true, my Dad, King Roddy Dod, had pulled out the Blue and Red LP's as the start of a healthy musical education: I dig a poooooony! The Beatles; who don't know 'em? The four lads from Liverpool, who were actually 5 or six, if you count Billy Preston in the mix and the oft-underappreciated, Pete Best.
Now, this is only a test...you have the biggest thing since "the biggest thing", you...
a. Exit?
b. Remain?
Just to explain and offer: there may be a wrong answer here people if you're opposed to secluded mansions on the English countryside and working with two, nay, THREE, of the best songwriters eva!
Needless to say, respect was paid to one of the greatest hitters in the game, Teddy Ballgame, pre-game, as we found the hat, secured and settled in on a new task: what and where to eat? Peppers and onions? Inside the park or out? Does pizza work? How 'bout a Fenway Frank?
We settled on a stand up bid in a boatload of chicken fingers and orange fries complete with watered down 5 dollar cokes all across the board'zept for Junior who fancies H2O.
Could this transaction have been a potential hoax?
The Patriarch, who had, beside a love and appreciation for fine music, bestowed many a witty saying, "I have no gas and less money, Don't go to Detroit",and the grandpappy of them all..."ask your mother", appeared bemused,as he stepped outside the velvet ropes of the snack stand, pocketing a small amount of change, shaking his head.
(and of course, the Red Sox gene in a brilliant biological process, which may be both a blessing and a curse)
Th King always escorts The Matriarch, 'less he wants ta make trouble...and tonight was no exception....calm and peaceful...yet beating with boundless energy.
Though not a screaming beehive, the Mrs, adoring all the same with miles of smiles, a fan of the mush and stuff and charm, and of course the happy ending, was certainly not to be disappointed (She had been annointed Ground Control early in our Existence, maintaining strict control in the ranks and an elephant never forgets!).
A Day In The Life...which seems like...Yesterday.
Got To Get You Into My Life. Jet. The Long and Winding Road. Let It Be.
Fully satiated and inflated, we pushed aside the plastic cartons of chicken remains and looked out over the flowing mass of people passing...
Where was the vendor with that special souvenir: a photo to bestow upon a cheap frame, thus preserving the evening's trifecta: one son...two son...three!
We nabbed a signed 5x7 in a hot alcove complete with frosty beverages and made our way inside; ticket to ride secure for any wiseguys. My baby don't care...witness one Seymour Grime, a musical understudy his ownself, sitting back with the Matriarch to the left and King Roddy Dod to his right, Junior clinging tight on his first night inside Fenway inquiring at one point,
"Is that the Sox dugout Daddy?"
That's my boy! Indeed it was and all for the Paul McCartney show more than a few rows behind the 3'rd base dugout.
"This i'd be perfect tickets to a game Dad..."
...and even better just to be in the proximity of a legend. It's coming up...on the hour! A potential A number One on the long list of brilliant songwriters....Lennon, Dylan, Joni. Neil Young.
Ever the artist with playful jests, still zesty at 67, and witty beyond belief, Paul McCartney picked up 5 separate instruments during the course of the evening like normal people brew tea, yet with more care and concern, forging a sincere connection before offering to the Fenway Faithful,
"Babe Ruth never had it so good."
Paulie, you had us at hello. Diehards on the lookout for Beatles tunes and beyond were not disappointed. Drive My Car. Helter Skelter. I'm Down. Hey Jude. Day-tripper. My Love. Lady Madonna. I Saw Her Standing There. Let Me Roll It. Yesterday. Get Back.
He even pulled out the ukulele for a tribute to the late George Harrison with a rendition of the sweet soul serenade, "Something".
Sir Paul was all charm and wit. In fact, he just wouldn't quit, jousting and making sport of a perfect August evening, with a cool breeze wavering, walking the runway like a supermodel in jest at one point. He owned the joint! Of course they threw in a ripping, Live and Let Die, which made Junior jump with sudden explosions and bright fireworks bursting at the base of the stage.
The band, consisting of guitarist, Rusty Anderson, guitarist/bassist, Brian Ray, keyboardist, Paul Wickens, and drummer Abe Laboriel Jr. were beyond tight. It might not be right how tight, almost like Dylan's band in the 90's.
Store it away on a shelf.
File under the header, Rx, when seeking health and wealth of the soul and sound. There is a stealth bomber on patrol after all these years, who still runs an extremely tight ship. Closing my eyes...were we sure it wasn't 1964? Maybe I'm amazed? Though in all reality there were two towering screens projecting Sir Paul and his enthusiastic band laying down the gems of a 50 year career, one after the other. Popping 'em out like they were kids. It may have been better than Shea 1965 with most of the screams drown in a powerful surge of hallmark renditions to the delight of a packed house.
Live and Let Die. Hey Bulldog!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
