There are some people...

...who are brilliant beyond comprehension in one fashion or another but cannot find that spark of faith in themselves to allow for happiness.  Reasons, excuses, justifications; all convenient but just another layer of pretty wrapping for a blackened cancer.  It grows, it spreads, it eats away at each flimsy facade becoming bigger and bigger with every chance to feed.  Fear is its nourishment, misery its goal.

I want to be happy.

A long time ago I came to the conclusion that my happiness was attainable in conjunction with my set of morals and standards.  I was fortunate enough to have been judged worthy by those on a higher plane but that I needed to "loosen up".  Sometimes it is possible to try too hard.  If you lose all the joy in life by single-mindedly focusing on ideals, it is just as bad as not abiding by them at all.  That isn't to say that ideals aren't worth having, but extenuating circumstances don't mean an automatic trip to hell.

There's an exchange between deceased British schoolboys in the "Season of Mists" portion of the Sandman series in which the two temporarily escape Death.  One says to the other, "I think hell is a place, but I don't think you have to stay anywhere forever."  Our prisons are ourselves and sometimes it takes a great earthquake to rattle the doors down.  Even then, a lot of people just don't know what to do.  Like lab rats who've spent a lifetime in confinement, when it comes to the choice of escaping their pain or sitting they stay because they don't know how else to react.  And while it would be a far simpler matter to be able to blame all problems on a fearsome godlike hand wielding implements of torture from the bigger side of locked bars, it's never that easy.  Most of the time, it's the cage that we create for ourselves that keeps us trapped.

Find your happiness and you'll find yourself.  When you get hold of it, hang tight and everything you need will come through.  At the end of the day, you still have to look at yourself in the mirror but maybe you can be satisfied with what's on the other side.

Mrs. Stein Don't Rent to Gypsies Anymore

It is mid-festival season here in New Orleans and I am working at a name brand hotel near the airport.  It's a job, and it pays, but not well.  There are small perks to it such as getting occasional tips and fed homemade nummies, but aside from that it's fairly banal.  For the most part we get a lot of repeat customers such as the oil workers or corporate contracts, but every once in awhile people try to return who aren't wanted; the Gypsies.

Now, I'm not entirely new to dealing with gypsies.  There are actually two Gypsy groups that go through the South on a regular basis.  The first are the Travellers, a set of Irish gypsies with brogue and all, who typically move with the carnivals.  They're not above picking your pocket, but are more likely to sit and have a beer with you while they do it.  Travellers love a ruckus and bar workers can't stand them once they've had to deal with them.

The Romani on the other hand, are of the stock that you might picture wearing colorful flowing outfits bedecked in coins and tassels.  If only it were that glamorous or obvious.  They wear average or sometimes poor clothing, depending on what angle they're working.  As the song says, gypsies come in bunches like bananas on a green banana tree.  Where there is one, there are likely at least twenty of his friends hiding out waiting to see what they can get away with.  Tonight was a perfect example.  But before we get to that, let me backtrack a bit.

A few days ago, two women in outfits that made me immediately think they were "working girls" came into the front lobby.  Now, we've had women who practice the world's oldest profession in before, and quite obviously so, but as long as they don't try recruiting customers nobody really cares.  (By the way, this is a good quality hotel.  The attitude is just the typical New Orleans perspective about vice.)  So it surprised me that this pair was immediately ushered out of the hotel with undisguised glares directed at them and pointed comments between housekeeping and the front desk.  I've never seen so many of the crew agitated at one time.  The housekeeping manager made it a point for me to get as good a look at the two as possible before they left.

When the head of housekeeping explained they were gypsies who'd been in before, I understood.  The look on the lead's face was one of pure disgust and loathing.  Gypsies are not the images of romance and adventure they're made out to be in books and movies.  They're shysters who are trained from birth as part of their culture to rip people off, especially the weak and naive.  Typical gypsy tactics are to send in one or two unassuming (or deliberately distracting) people as scouts to figure out the best way to divide and conquer while the other thirty or so (minimum--I'm not joking) wait in the sidelines for the cue to swarm.

Tonight, the same two girls came in wearing decidedly different clothing than two days before.  Had I not taken a good look (though that sixth sense definitely kicked in) I might have missed the correlation.  I say girls but they were easily in their forties and were road beaten.  Their dark, gritty complexions had lines like leather and an air of permanent travel b.o..  Definitely rough around the edges, but given that they were posing as blue collar workers it fit the disguise.  They came in asking about room rates, discounts, could they pay half up front and the other half in the morning...you see where this is going.

Sure enough, as soon as they were told in no uncertain terms that the rate would stay and must be paid up front per management they left; chittering in obviously disappointed Romanian.  One truck full of gypsies down, and a van with no windows carrying god knows how many following behind them.  Score one for the good guys!

Wait a minute, did I wear underpants today?  Dammit!