Strange Days in Jesusland with the IRS

I spent three long days in Poplar Bluff, Missouri starting on Monday and going through Thursday. I had no choice in the matter. They wanted the best and the brightest of the local IRS (Italian Retail Service) chapter to head down there to clean up one of those big box home improvement warehouses. The Don couldn't make the journey though, due to another Don coming into town to look into the local boys' retail servicing skills.

The drive there was long; a third of it spent on a single lane highway. We even passed through Zion, Missouri. Zion is the New Jerusalem according to the Church of Latter Day Saints. I saw no such thing. We must still be years away. Someone should tell all of the flea market owners there to clear out if that's the case.

It does make sense that Zion was along the way though. Poplar Bluff itself seemed to be the capital of Jesusland. After work, we drove the streets of this odd town, because there was nothing else to do, except admire the new coat of paint on the Kmart or the recent expansion of the KFC. During our drives, I spotted a church on about every 3 blocks. There were quite a few Baptist, but also Protestant and Jehovah's Witness places of worship to boot. I really wonder what the ratio of people to each church is.

He certainly does. That's how we ended up in this mess.

There weren't any Catholic churches in sight, not to say that there aren't any at all, but it is still worth noting. At least I didn't have to fear an abundance of nuns and priests to go along with the abundance of churches.

I can't say the townsfolk necessarily seemed religious. The few I encountered weren't the kindest though. They were a bit more relaxed. As we worked at the retail establishment, workers would take turns napping on their breaks on the patio furniture we assembled not too long ago.

At the store, my brethren of the Filipino Mafia and I encountered oodles of colonies of mice, which seems to be a theme in my life. They were attracted to the mounds of grass and bird seed we were re-arranging. As we moved each pallet of seed, we would reveal a layer of seed, which was sprinkled with mouse excrement and the smell of their urine.

Grass seed nest of mice

One by one, live adult mice and their babies, even the pinkies, would crawl out. It startled our Gonzo foreman so much that he stomped a few.

An artist's rendition of our foreman

(actually a swell painting of Hunter S. Thompson by Prince of Space)

"My god, there gonna eat us alive", he told us.

They did outnumber us, but as friend to the mice from my escapades, I tried to take the friendlier route. When Gonzo looked away, I nudged dozens of fetal mice to safety, where most likely they would die without the assistance of the adults, but I felt better at least. I felt like anOscar Schindler to my rodent friends. That isn't to say we were out to kill them, but we had to disrupt their nests for our job, and as they scurried about, there were unwanted casualties.

Fetal mice fleeing the nest.

The stench was horrible. The ammonia in their urine was unavoidable. One of the Pinoys fell over wretching from the scents entering the feelers in his nose. He became angry and began kicking in the air, such as he does when he has a nightmare (I was his roommate). We all became angry...you can't help it once you've seen a mad Filipino. There was grass and bird seed scattered everywhere and it was littered with the waste of what seemed to be at least 100 mice. Witnessing this made me feel better about my apartment, which has only seen 11 die in about two months.

It took us an entire day to clean the area of the mess, which boiled down to 13 plus hours of work. The mice helped the store lose more money by destroying its seed than the stores in the city here lose to theft. The four of us needed more than showers. We needed someone to hose us down--prison style.

Since there were no prisons in sight, we simply showered and looked for a nightcap. Just on the outskirts of town was a new joint called Shenanigans. A cowboy, with that generic Jeff Foxworthy look, carded us after we entered. We sat down to a table and a waitress carded us. I had a feeling this place must've been caught serving to 12 year olds before. That's forgiveable when you're that close to Arkansas though.

There was an odd mood to the place. It looked normal enough, with the dark lighting and neon signs. The music seemed to be coming from a nice-sized boombox though and they only played cover songs. I had no idea there was a punk version of Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire", but I guess you can make anything into a punk song. My favorite is a take on John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet Plane".

The menu we received reminded me of a high school test. It was simply printouts of black type on white paper, which were stapled together. The appetizers were all $4.95, and were the usual bar fare, except for the bowl of barbequed smokies, which Big Boy Pinoy ordered. There was also Cap'N Crunch coated chicken strips for $6.95, which were tempting, but you can't pay that much for something that you don't know much about in a place smack dab in the middle of Jesusland.

Since the day was so crappy, you can't really expect the night to be much better. Big Boy felt ripped off by the Deppression era portion of smokies. Baby Face Pinoy got potato skins, with cheese that wasn't even melted. Only my meal, which consisted of mighty fine spicy hot wings, was satisfying.

The entertainment consisted on vintage athletic competitions on TV, such as the baton throwing and weightlifting championships, which were interesting, but not enough to lift our mood. We considered dining and dashing, but I reminded the boys of the fate of the men in Deliverance, so we paid, but snubbed on the tip.

Wednesday went a lot smoother, but still almost as long. The mice frolicked around us, almost taunting us, but we didn't uncover any nests. We just wanted to leave that place. We finished what we could, which didn't fit our required amount, but what can you do when you're fending off rodents left and right. It was by far our worst experience in our field, and we are the best in our field. We won the goddamned Retail Servicing Cup.

As we left Poplar Bluff, I got a stomach ache. It was from a nasty Chinese buffet we had earlier, but I think it was also from everything else we endured. I looked around at my co-workers as my belly churned. I knew we would never be the same after our experiences in this odd place. What we shared couldn't possibly be conveyed to others, but hopefully you can understand a bit.

In Response to the Mice Lovers...

I got a decent response from my posting about the mice.

Jeremy Stamp, whose site I referred to for its chronicles of his mouse problems, sarcastically thanked me for the extra hits it got him. He also suggested that I bag the dead mice for the land people. Believe it or not, we are thinking on the same wavelength. I have bagged 4 out of the 11 mice. At one point, the landlady knocked on the door saying, "I see you have been bagging and labeling mice." It was priceless.

We were still told that we must maintain a cleaner place, which was BS, considering the collective OCD between my fiance and myself. I think it has more to do with people avoiding admission of the faults of themselves and their facilities.

As for those that responded by stating that I should use more humane ways of catching mice, I understand your concern, but it is not always realistic. Because I caught a squealing mouse in a glue trap and eased its suffering with a dose of insulin shouldn't garner someone calling me an "ass" and wishing that I never get laid. I am engaged, so the latter is hardly possible. As for catching and releasing, this isn't fishing. We had 9 mice caught in a 48 hour period. Those Victor snap traps worked well for that barrage of rodents. I think I would get more of a bad response from people if I caught 9 live mice in my apartment and then went to my local park to set them free. We don't want the kids in the community playing on a swingset and having to deal with diseased mice.

And as an update to this mess, since number 11 was caught a week ago, things have calmed down. We heard a lot of activity in the day that followed, even in our bedroom, which is creepy and affects how you sleep...trust me. I did pick up some of those Black and Decker plug in pest repellers that emit ultrasonic sound waves that mess with the nervous system of rodents and bugs, therefore driving them out of your roost. It surprisingly has seemed to work. We haven't heard a peep or a chew. I was actually expecting all of them to climb out from the ceiling and walls screeching because I was ruining their insides with this device, but sadly enough they just shut up.

If they do return, I have two glue traps left. I plan on using everything I paid for, especially since they have worked. The four catch and release traps I bought haven't worked at all. I will say that if any portion of my deposit is withheld, that I have bags of mice that can persuade otherwise along with the Filipino Mafia that has been known to have a similar effect, not to mention quite a few receipts for these killing devices. I can't let the critters or the Land People get the best of me. Never!

We Make Your Clothes Smell Ganja Fresh!

The above is a sign that I spotted in the window of a dry cleaning business in Ballwin, MO. I wonder if the Tuesday Special involves free Cheetos.

Give Me Mice or Give Me Mice Testicles!

The mouse situation has calmed down a bit at my apartment. Since my Feb. 21 blog telling of number 9 (number 9, number 9), we have only captured two more. Number 10 was a milestone, but otherwise uneventful. Number 11, however, is another story.

Mouse #10

I heard mouse chirps faintly coming from drawers where we keep our towels. I called my fiance over to listen. The rhythm of the sound reminded us both of a pornographic mouse, not that we know what that necessarily sounds like, but imagine Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally" except played by a live mouse. I emptied out the drawers carefully, expecting to find copulating mice. I found nothing. Then I remembered a glue trap we set underneath the chest of drawers. Sure enough, there was the victim in obvious pain. I had to relieve it, so I gave it a fatal dose of my insulin. It wasn't fatal enough apparently, so we gave it one more. I can hear "Taps" playing as we speak (or I type...or you read).

Mouse #11, Death by Insulin?

After a MySpace friend saw the photo that accompanied DiabetoBlog #100, he messaged me back with a page from his site which chronicles his problems with mice and the photos of the dead. The rest of his site is fun too.

Also in the world of mice, an AP report from today reports that their testicles may be the key to ending the stem cell debate. German scientists have discovered that the testicular cells in mice behave like embryonic stem cells in humans. Silly Germans. Apparently they will try getting the same type of cells from human testicles to see if they have the same effects. Any volunteers?

The article on MSNBC.com attributes the following to Dr. Hassenfuss, who is leading the research:

If such cells are found in men, "then we have resolved the ethical problem with human embryonic stem cells," he said in a telephone interview.

That would also open the door to removing testicular cells from a male patient, growing some tissue the patient needs, and transplanting that tissue into the same man without fear of biological rejection, he noted.

The mouse cells were found to give rise to a variety of specialized cells in the lab, including heart
cells that contracted and nerve cells that produced dopamine, the chemical messenger that Parkinson's patients lack, he said.

Cells typical of the liver, skin, pancreas and blood vessels were produced as well, he said.

I suppose I should be nicer to my rodents if I ever want my Diabetes cured. But then again, the War on Mice is about the bigger picture, not my selfish reasons. It is about freedom and liberty.

I Was An Adolescent Transvestite

I was at my parents' place the other day. My mother had found a few photos of me that she was proudly displaying on a china cabinet. The photos just happened to be of me in drag. I'd estimate my age to be around 10. It is amazing that my parents allowed me to do such things at such a ripe age, especially my father. One can only wonder what he thought of me, or what they think of me now. Anyway, here they are...

I can safely say I was a piece of ass. My future wife should be proud. And hopefully my parents can find more of this gold in their archives, like that picture of Richard Simmons holding me as a baby at a book signing in a Venture store.

Make the Music With Your Pump

Apparently diabetic art is catching on.

In November of last year, I posted about my video piece entitled "Diseased Sensations" making it to Post-VideoArt.com. During some bored browsing on Myspace.com, I found this musician, Vijith Assar. His featured song is entitled, "Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Bleeding Fingertips". In his blog, he describes it as follows:

The complete title for this is "Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Bleeding Fingertips." I wrote it for a computer music class I took in college. It's a concept piece dealing with diabetes, made entirely from sounds produced by my fingertip lancing device, blood glucose meter, and insulin pump (and believe me, I was shocked when I realized that the user feedback tones for my meter and my pump were in the same key). When I showed it to a diabetic friend of mine, he nearly had a panic attack because he thought his pump was going haywire.

It starts with the sound sequence associated with prepping a blood test and lasts exactly as long as it takes to run one on a Lifescan One Touch II, the brand of meter I used for most of my childhood, before ending on the device's distinctive confirmation chirp. In a manner of speaking, this was partially inspired by Glassjaw's "Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Silence," the title track to an album which deals heavily with themes of chronic illness.

I got to give props to the fellow diabeto. The track is pretty slick.

Related links:

• Vijith Assar's MySpace
• My MySpace

R.I.P. Miss Deaf Texas

The headline reads: "Miss Deaf Texas Killed By Train".

I know it is sick of me to make light of such a story and make it look amusing, but hear me out. Why is this news, for one (besides how she died...read the story)? And why must we single people out by their differences, which only points out those differences more, when the whole time I figured everyone wanted to be equal. We have Miss Deaf America...wait, better yet, I just found Miss Black Deaf America. Not only are they deaf, but also black. Then of course, you have Miss Black America, Miss Gay Universe, Miss Philippines-America, and The Miss Ugly (in China), amongst countless others. I do not understand. I think it was more impressive having a deaf woman win Miss America or even a diabetic win the pageant. Put everyone on a level playing field--even the uglies.

Not the deceased, but still odd.

Inevitably someone will read this and add that we should have Miss Caucasian America and White Entertainment Television. I understand that these differences are used too much, but that may be taking it too far, especially considering a TV network called WET. I can see the Aryan porn jokes now.

If we are all equal, let us be equal. Don't point out to me that you're deaf, black, or gay. Either I will notice or I won't.

If this continues, I have no choice, but to start a Mr. Diabetic America pageant.

And Miss Deaf Texas...rest in peace.

UPDATE (3/15/06): She was texting when hit by train. Technology--what a shame.

Related link: The Darwin Awards (http://www.darwinawards.com/) --"We salute the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who remove themselves from it. Of necessity, this honor is generally bestowed posthumously."

Full Moon Fever

I'm not one to believe in cosmic mumbo jumbo. I don't look up my horoscope and live my life in fear of "something unfortunate transpiring from a business dealing" or whatever generic BS they prescribe. However, today I found myself having one of those record breaking days that forced me to say, "is there a full moon out"?

As the day progressed and each odd occurence piled up, the question became a more serious one...not necessarily the full moon question, but more of a general "what the hell is going on here?" That is especially considering how much you can really question the phase of the moon during daylight hours.

We all have these days at some point. Nothing seems to go according to how you would assume, and not even close. As much as you think you are right, you are constantly told you are wrong. There are twists in the storyline that cannot be explained. What you think is silly deja vu is some sick joke of reality.

It's like you're having this great First Communion bash at your place with all the family and punch and pie, but you suddenly discover your pet guinea pig is a paralyzed bloody mess because a little cousin got ahold of it and thought it would be cool to ride it. You expect the happy happy joy joy, but all you get is an annoying rubber nipple salesman at your door. Sometimes life don't make no sense...real good.

Out of curiosity, when I arrived home, I checked the moon's calendar, which states the full moon for this month hits tomorrow during the 23rd hour. I was only a day off. So maybe there is some truth to all of this nonsense. Maybe there's some kind of magnetism in the rotation that is affecting people adversely. Strange days are no good, except when they're Doors' songs.

Danno! and Lizards Throwing Stones

This past Thursday, as I mentioned previously, The Daniel Rothstein Blues Revolution made their debut at Cicero's to a decent sized crowd. In fact, most left after Dan's set, which was actually the opening act. It started off rocky, but he finished off strong. I posted a live track of "Lizard With A Briefcase Throwing Stones" from this show on the band's Myspace page. Check it out.

Diabetoboy and Daniel Rothstein (left) after the show.

Additional links:

• The Daniel Rothstein Blues Revolution's Myspace page.
• My Myspace page.

I Have Found Jesus...

The fiance, the dog, and I went down to the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Downtown St. Louis. Aside from all of those dancing girls with the same goofy curled hair (wigs!), the highlight for me was meeting Jesus. He didn't have to say anything. I felt him communicate to me that my mission in DiabetoBlog is a good one. He told me he would look into punishing all of the priests and nuns that have done me wrong. Hallelujah!

Diabetoboy and Jesus Christ

The Bargaining Practices of the Pinoys

Yesterday, the Pinoys at work told me that on the way home they would be stopping at the junkyard. These boys love their vehicles, so it makes sense that for after work recreation they'd want to go to the junkyard instead of say the local watering hole or an amusement park. You can't beat the price either, at a buck a head.

I was told it was a weekly activity for them, which made me feel priveleged that they would bring me along for such a thing; although I was pretty much obliged to go since they were my ticket home. During their last visit, they spotted a treasure of a back seat of a jeep. The only drawback was that there was a petrified piece of crap on that prize seat. These boys are smart though, so the poo became their bargaining point.

I took a walk through the automotive graveyard with one of the Filipinos, while the other two extracted the seat and removed the excrement (believe it or not, I can identify with the excrement removal process). It was a sad place. I knew there was a story behind each of the skeletons of a car that remained. We found a football helmet, one out of two fancy Nike boots, and the precious poo. One man's trash is another's treasure--I believe the saying goes. I was told to snap a photo of the evidence to verify its existence, and then we ventured back to the gate to negotiate.

The man at the gate was kind, but was not familiar with the turd discount. Another filthier gentleman had to step up and confirm this markdown. It is true that bargain basement prices can be attained through petrified poop. It's a lesson for us all.

We're Here to Revolutionize Blues...and We Have a Web Page

Dan performing at my dog Sadie's birthday party a few weeks ago

This week, my best man and good pal, Dan Roth will debut his newest musical incarnation as The Daniel Rothstein Blues Revolution. I have been assisting him in writing some songs, which is a scary thought, but nonetheless enjoyable for me. It may even mean a guest vocal spot for myself when he hits the stage this week as the opening act for the Eric Tessmer Band at Cicero's in the U-City Loop. The show starts at 8:30pm with a $5 charge.

To prepare for the inevitable craze to follow, I have created a MySpace page for The Daniel Rothstein Blues Revolution. Check it out. The only recording we had was a test that we made for his song "Run!", but we plan to add more soon.

Winners of the Retail Servicing Cup!

The Retail Servicing Cup

To the doubters of the power of retail servicing: maybe you just don't realize how much we do as Retail Service Representatives. Look, the people you put down are the people you depend on. We fix your barbeque grills; we arrange your pots. We display your worm poop fertilizers; we build your patio displays. Do not...fuck with us.

At least the Midwestern Legion of Retail Service Representatives recognized us this week as Retail Servicing group of the year. Our head Filipino accepted the Cup awarded to us. We celebrated by eating 4 fresh fish that he killed with a homemade bamboo blow gun. It was enough to bring leftovers to his starving family.

Here comes dinner!

This week was rough. We had to team up with others from the establishment we were working at. Some old man that let the power get to his head got to the retired pro wrestler we work with. He lost it and ended up climbing one of the steel shelving structures and elbow dropping on the old man. Never underestimate our power. Remember...those fancy Christmas tree setups you see during the holiday season...those are our gnomes that put those together.

• If you are wondering who's behind the setups at Danny & Clyde's Food Service in Mandeville, Louisiana, it's not us...look to these guys.