Trailer blogs

I posted to host a blog carnival just as I’m making moves to skedaddle out the trailer park and relocate into downtown, which wouldn’t be so bad if the carnival wasn’t about alternative living. I can just pretend I’m cooped in here still and who would know, right? But I be trippin’ because, first off, I have no money and, secondly, I have no job, comprende? Well, I have a little business but my tax statements are unlikely to impress any landlords enough for them to give me anything but some loose change. Roommates are still out because not only does Thelonius refuse to die but he won’t even age in any discernible way. There must be an decrepit photo of him hidden away somewhere, or else the little killer’s been sucking my blood in the night. I suppose that would make me some kind of felis-desmodus-sapien mutation, and upon quick reflection I have no real problem with that.

I went to Blog Carnival dot com and filled out the hosting form a few fields short of capacity but enough to defeat the pop-up protester from reemerging on screen. I have no idea if anyone will post. You sort of have to go looking on the carnival site to find something so you have to be a little desperate and attention starved in the first place. When I was directed by our professor to submit to a carnival earlier in the semester I couldn’t find anything to do with urban living, never mind trailers. That reminds me; maybe I should go back and add urban living to the tags. That might be too broad a category and could offend park residents in leafier sections of the lithosphere. I’m already have my eye on a couple of interesting ladies like Trailer Park Girl, out of Austin, and Trailer Park Feminist, and will probably invite others especially if nobody submits. Got to get some Brazilian dancers festooned in feathers involved somehow too. But no drunken frat-boys puking on the streets of my trailer park are welcome and, believe me, we got ways of dealing with those fellas in these parts, I can assure you. It’s called prayer. And cursing.

This post is being preempted by an important announcement: I have tried to make this blog one of general interest to trailer enthusiasts, and such, who are drawn in droves to the site for the lowdown on park living and updates on the neighbors. I promise to bring it back up to established levels of depth and insight as soon as the semester ends and I won’t be forced write more than I actually have to say. You see, there are certain exigencies that may surpass the casual reader’s grasp, notably the pursuit of the grade I am trying to get in order to graduate from the Broadcasting and Electronic Communications Department (BECA) at San Francisco State University.
Anyhoo, got to write 750, make that seven-hundred and fifty, words in this post so be patient while I come up with something to say…

Lots to do in school as the semester winds down in a few weeks and my ass will be graduated and once more underemployed, this time with debt I might actually be able to pay off – eventually, and down the line, real slow like. BART all but promised to hire me as a train operator, in fact they offered me the job in the middle of last semester but I was too deep into my classes to accept the position back then. I brought a big box of Krispy-Kremes to the human resources department a couple of months back and, while making friends and acquaintances, I was told the new hiring period was tentatively scheduled for June. The fetching Asian woman who came out of back to talk to me said I would definitely be “in the pool”. This could mean a hiring pool like a hat it might be pure chance I get picked out of. Or it could mean they definitely want me and there is some mandatory safety exercise in which you have to swim for it if the train ever conks out under the bay and the tunnel starts to get soggier and soggier still, likely due to some seismic utterance from Kisin, Mayan earthquake god, ruler of the underworld, and deity of death. (Maybe that’s where they came up with the “kiss of death” thing.)

The trailer park is close to where I would start work in the morning but the proximity of Wendy’s and Walgreens, and all the cultural stature that implies has become a wear on my wheels. The thing is, I have to go all the way into the Mission District to find a suitable café from which to do my work. I can’t take my motorcycle because I’m can’t afford to have a spill while carrying my new laptop and my truck is a pain to park and expensive to run. I’m looking for an apartment within walking distance of a BART station and some kind of urban throng. This will cost me, but I can sell the truck and trailer and maybe have a life. Plus, I took on this stage managing position for a friend’s play, mainly to force me to leave the house once school is over. The theater is downtown and so is a Krav-Maga place I want to re-attend. Downtown is getting more interesting and the crowd in the Mission keeps getting younger and whiter, so there’s that. And there's this:

Mario Del Monaco kills it on Nessun Dorma, the great tenor aria from Puccini's Turandot. The man is hoping to wed a princess who would prefer to chop off his head. I can relate.