So I am in bed, which is where I belong and I just happen to be hanging with one my lawyers, Beth Libitard, esq, and we were talking about all sorts of things.
First, Beth has and always will be, an out and proud lesbian. For as long as I have known her, she has preferred the ladies, that's is how she likes to refer to her "lifestyle".
I never trust people who use the term lifestyle to describe lesbians, or gays for that matter. Really, what they are trying to do is degrade sexuality. For me, sexuality is a primal urge and it does not really matter much how one focuses that primal push for love and lust. Beth is beautiful, thoughtful, possibly brilliant,decent friend, a good dance partner and a lesbian. Oh well.
Me; What is something I don't know about you?
Beth; I have dual citizenship?
Me; Seriously?
Beth; Both parents were Australian.
Me; But you have no accent.
Beth; Well, I was born in rural New York and I just never got around to any sort of accent, be it New York, Australian and Polish.
Me; Are you going to make a polish joke?
Beth; Why would I?
Me; I sense you might be about to. You know, it's been years since people made Polish jokes.
Beth; Had no plan to make a Polish joke. I like Jewish jokes.
Me; Careful.
Beth; So, how are you explaining us in bed together on a warm Saturday morning?
Me; I try not to.
Beth; Explain?
Me; Right.
Beth; No, explain why you would not try to define how I ended up in your bed.
Me; Well, aren't you coy. First, as far as I know, you are in a long term committed relationship.
Beth; True that.
Me; Did you just say true that?
Beth; Yes.
Me; Anyway, what I remember is, we went out last night, walking the neighborhood, and we stopped at some house that you knew, not me and we talked with, what's his name?
Beth; Champ?
Me; Did you just swoon?
Beth; Well, did you see him?
Me; He's cut, yes, I saw him. Damn, now that I think about it, he is a handsome man. But I thought you were, what's the word I'm looking for?
Beth; In a committed long term relationship?
Me; Dyke.
Beth; That too. Does not mean I don't look.
Me; Seemed like more.
Beth; Open to possibilities.
Me; Aren't we all.
Beth; Hallelujah.
Me; So, how did rural, dual citizenship, incredibly sexy and athletic get a law degree?
Beth; Why is that so hard for you to comprehend?
Me; Just seems kind of weird.
Beth; Small minds.
Me; True that.
Beth; You're even more boring on Saturday mornings that you were trying to impress Champ with your new muscles.
Me; New muscles?
Beth; Right, ever since you started working out, you are wearing these little t-shirts.
Me; And?
Beth; And nothing. It's pathetic. How old are you?
Me; 28.
Beth; In dog years?
Me; I did not realize dogs were smart enough to have their own calenders.
Beth; True that.
Me; If I never hear the phrase true that again I will die happy.
Beth; Speaking of which, we were wondering, since you are writing a will, is there a limit on your lifespan?
Me; There is a limit on everyone's lifespan. How did you know about my will?
Beth; You left it open on your laptop.
Me; I leave a lot of things open on my laptop.
Beth; This much I know.
Me; Yes, working on a new will. The last one was dated. I have much less stuff to leave to far fewer people.
Beth; I did not notice my name anywhere.
Me; You are my attorney.
Beth; Right, but I am not even the executor.
Me; And your point is?
Beth; We are in bed on a warm Saturday morning, I love you, you love me, and not a thing in the revamped will.
Me; OK, well, I am working on it. How about I leave you a painting?
Beth; Can I pick which one? Because knowing your kids, there will be a battle.
Me; True that.
Beth; Stop.
Me; Sorry. Yes, I will find a painting that fits you, that I think will remind you of our time together.
Beth; What if I die first?
Me; Doubtful.
Beth; Seriously.
Me; Seriously.
Beth; Well, quit putzing around and find me my painting.
Me; It's not like this is my last weekend.
Beth; That would be a great novel, "My Last Weekend."
Me; If it was your last weekend, what would you do?
Beth; Let me think on that. What would you do?
Me; Killing spree of epic proportions.
Beth; Seriously?
Me; No. I'd hang with people I love.
Beth; That's it?
Me; Yeah. Probably. You?
Beth; I really don't give that much thought, I am all about the moment. In some ways, every weekend is lived as if it is my last.
Me; You never know when you might get hit by a car.
Beth; That's funny.
Me; Why?
Beth; My mom got hit by a car. And my dad.
Me; I did not know that. Same car?
Beth; Not sure, in both cases the driver did not stop.
Me; No way.
Beth; Way.
Me; Wow, this is something I did not know.
Beth; There's a lot about me you do not know.
Me; I know you totally have the butch dyke haircut going on.
Beth; You like it?
Me; I do.
Beth; You could use a haircut.
Me; There's a lot I could use right now.
Beth; Do you miss New York?
Me; I do. Do you?
Beth; Not as much as one would imagine. There was good and bad there. I liked the farm, but hated some of the people. Remember Sunday?
Me; Sure, tomorrow is Sunday.
Beth; No the white trash idiot who lived near the farm.
Me; Oh, right, I forgot about Sunday. She was French right?
Beth; Or so she claimed. Much like I'm Australian.
Me; Right she had no accent either.
Beth; Or manners.
Me; True that.
Beth; Thought we had a deal on true that.
Me; Again, sorry.
Beth; I miss New York City.
Me; You went to college in New York, right?
Beth; Columbia. Ivy League, first of my family to graduate with a law degree.
Me; How is that working out for you?
Beth; No complaints. The money is good.
Me; Right on.
Beth; But New York city lost its allure for me when I had to go to rehab.
Me; Bullshit. You never went to rehab.
Beth; There's a lot to me you don't know about. Did you know I was once engaged to a man?
Me; No fucking way.
Beth; Seriously.
Me; Tell me more.
Beth; A pilot for United. We fell for one another on a flight to Rome. We spent a month drinking, eating well and, as you can imagine, going at it like dogs.
Me; I can only imagine.
Beth; Please do.
Me; What happened?
Beth; Like the dog that he was, he went back to his wife and 8 kids.
Me; 8 Kids? Jesus.
Beth; Almost a litter, right?
Me; Almost.
Beth; Can you go get me some coffee?
Me; No.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
Numbers and comments
First, another record breaker and the week has been the busiest week ever for this tiny little blog, so thank you.
That said, some of you people are sick. Quick, stop reading this post and check out the comments, because I am deleting the really twisted ones. What is wrong with you? My lord, you know how to type fuck, does that make you feel special? By the way, I don't read the comments, but I get email regarding the comments and then I have to read them. I hardly ever delete, but apparently it was an early release day at the psyche ward, so now I am forced to wade through and clean shit up.
Look at that, in one paragraph I used both fuck and shit. OK, I am not a role model. I am actually a roll model, if you know what I mean.
So as my eyes flicker and close and my body screams for some alone time in the restroom, I am, instead, cleaning up your messes. Do everyone a favor, post comments as often and varied as you want, but try and keep it a little decent, because there are lesbian dogs who read this blog.
Have a good weekend you pic requesting fuck nuts.
That said, some of you people are sick. Quick, stop reading this post and check out the comments, because I am deleting the really twisted ones. What is wrong with you? My lord, you know how to type fuck, does that make you feel special? By the way, I don't read the comments, but I get email regarding the comments and then I have to read them. I hardly ever delete, but apparently it was an early release day at the psyche ward, so now I am forced to wade through and clean shit up.
Look at that, in one paragraph I used both fuck and shit. OK, I am not a role model. I am actually a roll model, if you know what I mean.
So as my eyes flicker and close and my body screams for some alone time in the restroom, I am, instead, cleaning up your messes. Do everyone a favor, post comments as often and varied as you want, but try and keep it a little decent, because there are lesbian dogs who read this blog.
Have a good weekend you pic requesting fuck nuts.
The new diet
A lot of people, thousands, stop me on a daily basis and ask how I have lost so much weight (this never happens) and I tell them (I never talk to strangers) that I have a new diet plan (this part is true) and then they ask me what it is (again, this never happens) and so I tell them (if I was talking to strangers, which I never do, I would certainly not be sharing dietary secrets, or anything else, unless it was a forbidden kiss and that's just because I am moody that way, but seriously, I never kiss strangers or talk to them, hard enough for me to get the courage to write these insipid blog posts.)
I will give you an example of how my diet works. This morning I was walking downtown, which is seemingly all I ever do if you read this blog and see all my exploits of speed walking the downtown core, but that is just not the case. Anyway, there I was, building to building, walking briskly in the light rain. As I entered one building I could smell fresh rolls just out of the oven. There are few things that smell better than fresh rolls out of the oven, maybe Becky who showers in Lilac, but that is it.
So I made a mental note to myself, as I was leaving, I would walk into the bakery and buy myself a fresh roll, maybe two because I like rolls. So I go up to the office, do my thing, flirt with the receptionist, admit that I like the new art on the walls and then I said goodbye.
I left the building, jaywalked across the street to the next building I was supposed to be visiting and as I took the elevator up to the 28th floor I started to think. What was it I was supposed to be doing? Was there something important I needed to remember? As the elevator doors opened and a beautiful young woman said hello, I said, I want a fresh roll.
That right there is how I have lost over 48 pounds in the last week. You too can lose ungodly fat and still be pretty, just like me, how? Forget about it. Not the fat, hard to forget about something hanging over your belt. No, do like I do, forget that you wanted a fresh roll, or lunch, or dinner or even ice cream. If you forget to eat, you start to shed the unwanted pounds away.
See how simple that is?
Now the key to this new and super special diet plan is this.
Wait for it.
Wait.
Never mind. I forgot.
I will give you an example of how my diet works. This morning I was walking downtown, which is seemingly all I ever do if you read this blog and see all my exploits of speed walking the downtown core, but that is just not the case. Anyway, there I was, building to building, walking briskly in the light rain. As I entered one building I could smell fresh rolls just out of the oven. There are few things that smell better than fresh rolls out of the oven, maybe Becky who showers in Lilac, but that is it.
So I made a mental note to myself, as I was leaving, I would walk into the bakery and buy myself a fresh roll, maybe two because I like rolls. So I go up to the office, do my thing, flirt with the receptionist, admit that I like the new art on the walls and then I said goodbye.
I left the building, jaywalked across the street to the next building I was supposed to be visiting and as I took the elevator up to the 28th floor I started to think. What was it I was supposed to be doing? Was there something important I needed to remember? As the elevator doors opened and a beautiful young woman said hello, I said, I want a fresh roll.
That right there is how I have lost over 48 pounds in the last week. You too can lose ungodly fat and still be pretty, just like me, how? Forget about it. Not the fat, hard to forget about something hanging over your belt. No, do like I do, forget that you wanted a fresh roll, or lunch, or dinner or even ice cream. If you forget to eat, you start to shed the unwanted pounds away.
See how simple that is?
Now the key to this new and super special diet plan is this.
Wait for it.
Wait.
Never mind. I forgot.
Peanuts
Next week my daughter, and in part myself, will be hosting a couple of exchange students from China. I am reminded of my own experience, leading a group of Japanese high school students many years ago on a visit/tour of California and the Grand Canyon.
Even now I do not remember how I got hoodwinked into such a mess, but there I was, waiting at the Jewish summer camp that would house the students for a few days. The bus pulled out and all these wonderful young students came clamoring out. To them, we were rock stars, Americans, powerful and sexy and smart. At least that's what I thought.
I had a small group of young men and almost immediately I was set upon by my packs leader, we will call him Shithead. Shithead was funny and charming and he had a nickname for me, Peanuts. The first few days we did fun things, swimming, playing catch and watching American movies. The students loved it. We were in Southern California, the weather was perfect and the Jewish summer camp had all sorts of game rooms and activities that would keep Jews busy, so the students and us counselors were having a great time.
The plan was to spend some time in California, bus to the Grand Canyon and then bus back for a couple of days at Disneyland and then they students would be on a plane back home. Pretty simple.
Shithead loved to have his posse around and call me, "Peanuts, we go swim now?" And I would say yes, because really, my job was to keep the students occupied and happy. "Peanuts, we watch movie now?" Why of course we will Shithead, why not? Late at night, a sleep Shithead would come to me, "Peanuts, we watch another movie?" Sure I would say, because that was my job and I was starting to warm to the posse, but especially Shithead, who almost seemed like the Asian version of me, always smiling, having fun and looking for and enjoying causing trouble. We would bond on our need to bring chaos to calm situations.
In the morning I would hear "Peanuts, where are you?" I would rumble out of bed and join Shithead and his posse for cereal and orange juice. Another day, more adventure. We went rock climbing, and Shithead was a light, albeit chubby, rock climbing master. He got to the top and screamed for all the world to hear, "Peanuts, I on top."
The bus ride to the Grand Canyon was boring, but I sat in the back with Shithead and his posse, laughing at jokes I failed to understand and making some of my own, which they in turn did not understand, but politely smiled and nodded at. It was a good time. At the canyon itself, everyone wanted their picture taken with me, Shithead orchestrating everything, "stand next to Peanuts, smile," he would demand. On it went. By the end of the day, we were all swimming, "Peanuts, play Mark Polo." We had a great time, laughing almost the entire day. It was good.
Back on the buses and off to Disneyland. I think we slept most of the time, although somewhere around the California border I woke to find Shithead trying to draw a smile on my forehead with a black marker. Not cool Shithead, not cool.
We checked into the hotel in Anaheim, Shithead and his band and I shared a room, so it was going to be a wild time, that was a given. We did get some sleep, and early the next morning we all made our way to the Magic Kingdom. All day all I heard was Peanuts this and Peanuts that. "We take picture with Peanuts." I felt for a second what it must be like to have celebrity status, these Asian boys just adored me and wanted my picture.
Now, you have to understand, for the vast majority of my young life I had very few nicknames, one being Fatty Matty and the other, a reoccurring name, Ugly. Peanuts was a marked improvement over both and I kind of thought if it stuck, it would not be that bad.
We had a magical time at Disneyland. The posse and I bonded, there were countless pictures of the boys and Peanuts and all the time, on every ride all I could hear was Peanuts, look, or Peanuts smile. It was fun beyond words.
Then we went back to the hotel to pack and the sad and shocking news would be delivered. The posse was packing bags and taking final group pictures, all of them asking for Peanuts to pose one last time, which I happily did. Then everyone wanted a picture of me and Shithead together. So we sat next to one another on a couch and everyone took our picture. It was fun.
As we sat there and the flashes from the cameras died out, I asked Shithead, why did he decide to start calling me Peanuts. "Because you Peanuts," he said and smiled. "But I am not Peanuts, my name is Matt." "No, you Peanuts," he reiterated. "I don't know what you mean," I said. "You Peanuts," he said and pointed to his crotch, "Peanuts, Peanuts, you peanuts."
"You mean, Penis?" I said, bewildered.
"Yes, you Peanuts."
For a week of fun, games, movies, travel and adventure, where I was seriously bonding with my brothers from Japan, the entire time they were basically calling me a dick, to my face, and I thought it was a compliment.
Lesson learned I guess, sometimes in life, we may think we are the Peanuts at the parade, and in reality, we are just another, well, dick.
Even now I do not remember how I got hoodwinked into such a mess, but there I was, waiting at the Jewish summer camp that would house the students for a few days. The bus pulled out and all these wonderful young students came clamoring out. To them, we were rock stars, Americans, powerful and sexy and smart. At least that's what I thought.
I had a small group of young men and almost immediately I was set upon by my packs leader, we will call him Shithead. Shithead was funny and charming and he had a nickname for me, Peanuts. The first few days we did fun things, swimming, playing catch and watching American movies. The students loved it. We were in Southern California, the weather was perfect and the Jewish summer camp had all sorts of game rooms and activities that would keep Jews busy, so the students and us counselors were having a great time.
The plan was to spend some time in California, bus to the Grand Canyon and then bus back for a couple of days at Disneyland and then they students would be on a plane back home. Pretty simple.
Shithead loved to have his posse around and call me, "Peanuts, we go swim now?" And I would say yes, because really, my job was to keep the students occupied and happy. "Peanuts, we watch movie now?" Why of course we will Shithead, why not? Late at night, a sleep Shithead would come to me, "Peanuts, we watch another movie?" Sure I would say, because that was my job and I was starting to warm to the posse, but especially Shithead, who almost seemed like the Asian version of me, always smiling, having fun and looking for and enjoying causing trouble. We would bond on our need to bring chaos to calm situations.
In the morning I would hear "Peanuts, where are you?" I would rumble out of bed and join Shithead and his posse for cereal and orange juice. Another day, more adventure. We went rock climbing, and Shithead was a light, albeit chubby, rock climbing master. He got to the top and screamed for all the world to hear, "Peanuts, I on top."
The bus ride to the Grand Canyon was boring, but I sat in the back with Shithead and his posse, laughing at jokes I failed to understand and making some of my own, which they in turn did not understand, but politely smiled and nodded at. It was a good time. At the canyon itself, everyone wanted their picture taken with me, Shithead orchestrating everything, "stand next to Peanuts, smile," he would demand. On it went. By the end of the day, we were all swimming, "Peanuts, play Mark Polo." We had a great time, laughing almost the entire day. It was good.
Back on the buses and off to Disneyland. I think we slept most of the time, although somewhere around the California border I woke to find Shithead trying to draw a smile on my forehead with a black marker. Not cool Shithead, not cool.
We checked into the hotel in Anaheim, Shithead and his band and I shared a room, so it was going to be a wild time, that was a given. We did get some sleep, and early the next morning we all made our way to the Magic Kingdom. All day all I heard was Peanuts this and Peanuts that. "We take picture with Peanuts." I felt for a second what it must be like to have celebrity status, these Asian boys just adored me and wanted my picture.
Now, you have to understand, for the vast majority of my young life I had very few nicknames, one being Fatty Matty and the other, a reoccurring name, Ugly. Peanuts was a marked improvement over both and I kind of thought if it stuck, it would not be that bad.
We had a magical time at Disneyland. The posse and I bonded, there were countless pictures of the boys and Peanuts and all the time, on every ride all I could hear was Peanuts, look, or Peanuts smile. It was fun beyond words.
Then we went back to the hotel to pack and the sad and shocking news would be delivered. The posse was packing bags and taking final group pictures, all of them asking for Peanuts to pose one last time, which I happily did. Then everyone wanted a picture of me and Shithead together. So we sat next to one another on a couch and everyone took our picture. It was fun.
As we sat there and the flashes from the cameras died out, I asked Shithead, why did he decide to start calling me Peanuts. "Because you Peanuts," he said and smiled. "But I am not Peanuts, my name is Matt." "No, you Peanuts," he reiterated. "I don't know what you mean," I said. "You Peanuts," he said and pointed to his crotch, "Peanuts, Peanuts, you peanuts."
"You mean, Penis?" I said, bewildered.
"Yes, you Peanuts."
For a week of fun, games, movies, travel and adventure, where I was seriously bonding with my brothers from Japan, the entire time they were basically calling me a dick, to my face, and I thought it was a compliment.
Lesson learned I guess, sometimes in life, we may think we are the Peanuts at the parade, and in reality, we are just another, well, dick.
A test
It is almost 7 AM here in the east. I have been up and awake for four hours, which has become the norm, but at 3 AM this morning I realized that I was not going to sleep, so I got up because I like to get things accomplished.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Readers write
Matt - Love the blog, but you stopped answering questions from readers. Why?
I have not stopped.
I did slow, mostly because Becky from Hell told me that they seemed like the same letter, with different words, different subjects and different people. I got so confused, I had to call the Online Counselors Association to see if seeking therapy for confusing statements from Becky from Hell would be covered on our group policy. They said they would get back to me, that was this morning, and outrageously enough, they have yet to call back.
Blogger - Do you have Erectile Dysfunction? Have you wanted to try an alternative to Viagra and the other so called ED drugs? How about a natural remedy?
Continue...
Matt - I have noticed that on Mondays your blog is often depressing, sad and generally not funny. Should I just not read on Mondays, or continue to check it in the hope that while I am gorging myself on pizza and marijuana during lunch, you will have published something funny for me to laugh at.
Where do you usually have lunch on Mondays?
Hi - Serious question. Sometimes my dog drags her ass on the carpet, then she sits there and licks herself. What should I do?
For her, a vet, for you, a hobby.
Matt- My mother called last night, after meeting my long term girlfriend for the first time this weekend and she told me I could do better. Now I kind of want to break up with my long term girlfriend because my mom may be right. Suggestion?
Yes, date your mother you big pussy.
Matt - We went to college together. I think we slept together a few times, University of South Dakota. I just wanted to touch base. I am not working and thought you might have some direction. If you remember, I was hot, sexy and dumb as a rock, at least that's how you used to describe me, but I think I proved you wrong. Recently I was governor of Alaska and for a few weeks people thought I might be senator, or something, then they called me stupid. Now I work for Fox News as a special spokesmodel, and sometimes I think of running for president, because your current Kenyan in chief of Muslims is not paying enough attention to real Americans. Anyway, I was wondering, do you have an interest in doing more with your life than writing blog posts and ruining t-shirts?
Kenyan in chief? Classy. Sorry, don't remember you and your story sounds, at the very least, fishy.
Matt - You have mentioned that you have a fiance and then someone said it ain't real without a picture. I tend to believe pictures, except ones of super models, cause I have never actually seen a super model, although I have seen sheep and cows.
Is there a question there?
Matt - you left your inflatable Antonio Banderas love doll at my house.
Keep it, I have others, many many others.
Dear Blogger, We have noticed that you answer questions from random writers on your random blog, and we were wondering, would you be interested in writing the next Harry Potter movie?
No.
Matt - Have you ever done it under a dam?
Goes without saying.
Matt - How do you know your dog is a lesbian?
She gets Sports Illustrated for the articles? No, but seriously, I get this question a lot and I think I have to be honest. She came out to us a couple of weeks ago. That's it. Oh, that and the constant Indigo Girl soundtrack she has playing on the house speaker system. Plus, well, to put it mildly, no shaving, if you know what I mean. I guess the combat boots were a bit of a giveaway also, then again, she did serve in the military occupation of Iraq.
I have not stopped.
I did slow, mostly because Becky from Hell told me that they seemed like the same letter, with different words, different subjects and different people. I got so confused, I had to call the Online Counselors Association to see if seeking therapy for confusing statements from Becky from Hell would be covered on our group policy. They said they would get back to me, that was this morning, and outrageously enough, they have yet to call back.
Blogger - Do you have Erectile Dysfunction? Have you wanted to try an alternative to Viagra and the other so called ED drugs? How about a natural remedy?
Continue...
Matt - I have noticed that on Mondays your blog is often depressing, sad and generally not funny. Should I just not read on Mondays, or continue to check it in the hope that while I am gorging myself on pizza and marijuana during lunch, you will have published something funny for me to laugh at.
Where do you usually have lunch on Mondays?
Hi - Serious question. Sometimes my dog drags her ass on the carpet, then she sits there and licks herself. What should I do?
For her, a vet, for you, a hobby.
Matt- My mother called last night, after meeting my long term girlfriend for the first time this weekend and she told me I could do better. Now I kind of want to break up with my long term girlfriend because my mom may be right. Suggestion?
Yes, date your mother you big pussy.
Matt - We went to college together. I think we slept together a few times, University of South Dakota. I just wanted to touch base. I am not working and thought you might have some direction. If you remember, I was hot, sexy and dumb as a rock, at least that's how you used to describe me, but I think I proved you wrong. Recently I was governor of Alaska and for a few weeks people thought I might be senator, or something, then they called me stupid. Now I work for Fox News as a special spokesmodel, and sometimes I think of running for president, because your current Kenyan in chief of Muslims is not paying enough attention to real Americans. Anyway, I was wondering, do you have an interest in doing more with your life than writing blog posts and ruining t-shirts?
Kenyan in chief? Classy. Sorry, don't remember you and your story sounds, at the very least, fishy.
Matt - You have mentioned that you have a fiance and then someone said it ain't real without a picture. I tend to believe pictures, except ones of super models, cause I have never actually seen a super model, although I have seen sheep and cows.
Is there a question there?
Matt - you left your inflatable Antonio Banderas love doll at my house.
Keep it, I have others, many many others.
Dear Blogger, We have noticed that you answer questions from random writers on your random blog, and we were wondering, would you be interested in writing the next Harry Potter movie?
No.
Matt - Have you ever done it under a dam?
Goes without saying.
Matt - How do you know your dog is a lesbian?
She gets Sports Illustrated for the articles? No, but seriously, I get this question a lot and I think I have to be honest. She came out to us a couple of weeks ago. That's it. Oh, that and the constant Indigo Girl soundtrack she has playing on the house speaker system. Plus, well, to put it mildly, no shaving, if you know what I mean. I guess the combat boots were a bit of a giveaway also, then again, she did serve in the military occupation of Iraq.
Drug of choice
As anyone who has read any posts on this blog would know, I gave up coffee April First. It has not been easy, but my friends at CA have really helped. I do have issues with Coffee Anonymous though, and not just because the meeting room in the basement of the church is next to Cats Anonymous, so everyone calls our rooms CaCa. No, that would actually be the least of my issues.
Larry McGuire (real name) is a member. I learned his last name by accident, but now when I see him I say Hi Larry McGuire and his face turns white, as if I just told him that the CaCa rooms were still locked.
See the thing about CA is that we are not supposed to know one anothers real world identities. When he does want to speak out about his terrible-terrible addiction to coffee he always starts his rant with, "Hi everyone, my name is Larry." See, that was his first mistake. One of the things I learned while living in California and attending BA meeting, Buddhist Anonymous, was that you should never use any real anything. Sometimes I would complain about my tuba playing elephant and everyone would be concerned about both my safety and the elephants happiness, which was indicative of the kind souls at BA.
CA is a completely different story. Coffee drinkers are a dangerous group. Seriously, check this statistic out from the "So you want to stop ruining your life with caffeine" booklet. Real quote, "97 percent of all serial killers drink coffee. The same percentage, 98 percent, is the number of congress members who also drink coffee, you do the math."
See? That is evidence right there. Strong evidence. Which is why I joined CA, that and that fucking tuba playing elephant has been dipping into my coffee stash, but that is neither here nor there. The truth about coffee is that it is a drug, a legal drug, just like alcohol, tobacco, cocaine and heroin. One of the things I have already learned from CA is that I am powerless to my addiction, except when I'm not.
Larry McGuire is totally powerless to his addiction. I know this because while he was in the caca room making poo, I rifled through his car. First thing I learned, his real name is Larry McGuire. That made me laugh. Then I noticed the hot cup of coffee in his cup holder, that made me sad and then I noticed he had a copy of Serial Killers Digest under the front seat. Weird, right?
Anyway, I walked down to the CaCa rooms and Larry came up to me and said "Marta, you ever wonder why they have coffee right out here in from of the CA room? That doesn't seem right."
I should explain, while some of the gullible addicts, like Larry, use their real names when testifying to the audience of strung out coffee heads, I made the choice not to. At first I just sat in the back of the CA room, quietly listening to the sad-sad tales of how the evil bean ruined their lives. There were countless stories of desperation, like one from "Paul", aka, Paul, who one day went into great detail about the time he had to drink McDonalds Coffee because he needed his fix and all the quality coffee shops were over 3 blocks away. We were all equally sympathetic and I think a little shocked, because really, I had never in my life met someone who had actually tasted the so called coffee they brew at McDonalds.
After weeks of attending meetings and sitting in the back, one day I knew I was ready. I walked up to the front of the room, everyones eyes wildly staring at me, like the caffeine fueled junkies I knew them to be, and I spoke. "Hello, my name is Marta, the car is in the garage." Then I walked back to my chair, sat down and waited. The room was quiet for a second, but soon a jumbled little skinny woman named, fuck if I know her name and damned if she was actually named Becky, so let's say her name was Captain Flapjack, stood up and walked to the podium.
Captain Flapjack walked to the front of the room, did the requisite hello my name is Captain Flapjack thing and started rambling about how she started drinking caffeine at age 11, hard core. Captain Flapjack was the sort of addict you would never think about being an addict, or really for any other reason. She was plain as day, kind of attractive in the inbred Alabama tattoo is for real sort of way. She had her charms, she would bring donuts and coffee to the CA meetings, that I really liked about her, but all in all, most of her addict stories were boring. "Hello my name is Captain Flapjacks and once I was so high on coffee, I met a guy, took him back to my hotel room and made love to him. After, I was still all high, so I asked if he wanted to go get some coffee, but he looked at me like an addict and gave me 50 bucks. He said I reeked of coffee, cigarettes and tobacco, which I thought was weird, because where I come from, tobacco is made of cigarettes."
A couple of days later I was waiting for the doors to the CaCa rooms to get unlocked and Larry McGuire saddled up to me. Hey Marta, he said, "how the hell are you?"
If there is one lesson I have learned in life, and even one lesson would be a welcome improvement at this point, it is this, people who saddle up to you are not to be treated with kid gloves, which was a good thing, because that particular day I had left my kid gloves at home. Plus who asks how the hell are you? There is just so much wrong with that question. I looked at Larry McGuire and said, "the car is in the garage."
Larry; Yeah, I got that.
Me; The car.
Larry; I was wondering how you are doing.
Me; Marta, the car is in the garage.
Larry; I know giving up the juice can be hard, so I wanted you to know, I am here for you. I'd say I was there for you, but I don't know where there is.
Me; The garage.
Larry; Well, I guess it could be. I like you Marta.
Me; Marta, the car is in the garage.
Larry; That's a good thing, yeah, I agree. Listen, you ever party? I got some T, a little K and some fresh Meth if you want to partake.
Me; The garage.
Larry; Hell yeah, we can party in the garage. Shit, you want to, we can party in your car, parked in the garage, right?
Me; Marta, the car is in the garage.
Larry; Well, Marta, you just let me know.
A few minutes later I saddled up in front of the crowd at CA, everyone sat somewhat still, their brown teeth smiling at me as a way to show warmth and acceptance. I walked up, set down my to-go cup of vodka and looked out at everyones eager faces and said, "Marta, the car is in the garage." I grabbed my cup, took a swig of the vodka, started to walk back to my chair and Larry stood up and said "we should be proud of Marta, 2 weeks clean and sober." I took another drink of vodka, Larry pulled out a pipe and lit up some substance, inhaling deeply, the fat guy in the front of the room started to inject something into his arm and the woman sitting next to him reached into her purse and pulled out a small delicate little kitten, she stood and said, "this is totally not Cats Anonymous, is it?" and left.
Larry McGuire (real name) is a member. I learned his last name by accident, but now when I see him I say Hi Larry McGuire and his face turns white, as if I just told him that the CaCa rooms were still locked.
See the thing about CA is that we are not supposed to know one anothers real world identities. When he does want to speak out about his terrible-terrible addiction to coffee he always starts his rant with, "Hi everyone, my name is Larry." See, that was his first mistake. One of the things I learned while living in California and attending BA meeting, Buddhist Anonymous, was that you should never use any real anything. Sometimes I would complain about my tuba playing elephant and everyone would be concerned about both my safety and the elephants happiness, which was indicative of the kind souls at BA.
CA is a completely different story. Coffee drinkers are a dangerous group. Seriously, check this statistic out from the "So you want to stop ruining your life with caffeine" booklet. Real quote, "97 percent of all serial killers drink coffee. The same percentage, 98 percent, is the number of congress members who also drink coffee, you do the math."
See? That is evidence right there. Strong evidence. Which is why I joined CA, that and that fucking tuba playing elephant has been dipping into my coffee stash, but that is neither here nor there. The truth about coffee is that it is a drug, a legal drug, just like alcohol, tobacco, cocaine and heroin. One of the things I have already learned from CA is that I am powerless to my addiction, except when I'm not.
Larry McGuire is totally powerless to his addiction. I know this because while he was in the caca room making poo, I rifled through his car. First thing I learned, his real name is Larry McGuire. That made me laugh. Then I noticed the hot cup of coffee in his cup holder, that made me sad and then I noticed he had a copy of Serial Killers Digest under the front seat. Weird, right?
Anyway, I walked down to the CaCa rooms and Larry came up to me and said "Marta, you ever wonder why they have coffee right out here in from of the CA room? That doesn't seem right."
I should explain, while some of the gullible addicts, like Larry, use their real names when testifying to the audience of strung out coffee heads, I made the choice not to. At first I just sat in the back of the CA room, quietly listening to the sad-sad tales of how the evil bean ruined their lives. There were countless stories of desperation, like one from "Paul", aka, Paul, who one day went into great detail about the time he had to drink McDonalds Coffee because he needed his fix and all the quality coffee shops were over 3 blocks away. We were all equally sympathetic and I think a little shocked, because really, I had never in my life met someone who had actually tasted the so called coffee they brew at McDonalds.
After weeks of attending meetings and sitting in the back, one day I knew I was ready. I walked up to the front of the room, everyones eyes wildly staring at me, like the caffeine fueled junkies I knew them to be, and I spoke. "Hello, my name is Marta, the car is in the garage." Then I walked back to my chair, sat down and waited. The room was quiet for a second, but soon a jumbled little skinny woman named, fuck if I know her name and damned if she was actually named Becky, so let's say her name was Captain Flapjack, stood up and walked to the podium.
Captain Flapjack walked to the front of the room, did the requisite hello my name is Captain Flapjack thing and started rambling about how she started drinking caffeine at age 11, hard core. Captain Flapjack was the sort of addict you would never think about being an addict, or really for any other reason. She was plain as day, kind of attractive in the inbred Alabama tattoo is for real sort of way. She had her charms, she would bring donuts and coffee to the CA meetings, that I really liked about her, but all in all, most of her addict stories were boring. "Hello my name is Captain Flapjacks and once I was so high on coffee, I met a guy, took him back to my hotel room and made love to him. After, I was still all high, so I asked if he wanted to go get some coffee, but he looked at me like an addict and gave me 50 bucks. He said I reeked of coffee, cigarettes and tobacco, which I thought was weird, because where I come from, tobacco is made of cigarettes."
A couple of days later I was waiting for the doors to the CaCa rooms to get unlocked and Larry McGuire saddled up to me. Hey Marta, he said, "how the hell are you?"
If there is one lesson I have learned in life, and even one lesson would be a welcome improvement at this point, it is this, people who saddle up to you are not to be treated with kid gloves, which was a good thing, because that particular day I had left my kid gloves at home. Plus who asks how the hell are you? There is just so much wrong with that question. I looked at Larry McGuire and said, "the car is in the garage."
Larry; Yeah, I got that.
Me; The car.
Larry; I was wondering how you are doing.
Me; Marta, the car is in the garage.
Larry; I know giving up the juice can be hard, so I wanted you to know, I am here for you. I'd say I was there for you, but I don't know where there is.
Me; The garage.
Larry; Well, I guess it could be. I like you Marta.
Me; Marta, the car is in the garage.
Larry; That's a good thing, yeah, I agree. Listen, you ever party? I got some T, a little K and some fresh Meth if you want to partake.
Me; The garage.
Larry; Hell yeah, we can party in the garage. Shit, you want to, we can party in your car, parked in the garage, right?
Me; Marta, the car is in the garage.
Larry; Well, Marta, you just let me know.
A few minutes later I saddled up in front of the crowd at CA, everyone sat somewhat still, their brown teeth smiling at me as a way to show warmth and acceptance. I walked up, set down my to-go cup of vodka and looked out at everyones eager faces and said, "Marta, the car is in the garage." I grabbed my cup, took a swig of the vodka, started to walk back to my chair and Larry stood up and said "we should be proud of Marta, 2 weeks clean and sober." I took another drink of vodka, Larry pulled out a pipe and lit up some substance, inhaling deeply, the fat guy in the front of the room started to inject something into his arm and the woman sitting next to him reached into her purse and pulled out a small delicate little kitten, she stood and said, "this is totally not Cats Anonymous, is it?" and left.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Gay slur
I just read that now a major league baseball coach has been accused of using a gay slur. Last week is was presumed rapist and Lakers star Kobe Bryant who used the F word. F in this case I assume was FAG.
Which brings me to my point thank you very much.
Dear Gays,
We would like some words back. You can keep Fag because mostly the only other people using that word are the English, and they use that to describe a cylindrical object they put in their mouths. Wait for it. Never mind.
You may keep the Fag word.
Queer? We want that one back, sorry. Personally, queer is a great word. When someone does something eccentric, they are doing something queer. Now, you people, you have used that word to describe all sorts of behavior. When Sketchy the Addict spends countless hours cruising gay hook up sites on the internet looking for an unknown number of new partners, that is very queer, right? See, the word needs to be returned, and cleaned first.
Fist. Well, now that I think about it, keep fist. Although recently I fell off a chair and hurt my hand and when I was talking to my doctor I told him I was having trouble with my fist and he said, use more lube. Own it.
Bear. Now, just yesterday, I was walking in the city and I came face to face with a large man with a lot of facial hair and my instinctive reaction was, wow that man looks like a bear and just as quickly, I realized that you gays have stolen that word and use it to describe short fat hairy men, of which, by the way, I am one. So, that word, return it, after a brush and shampoo.
Queen. Look my gay brothers, we are about to go through the ritual of yet another royal wedding, with millions of idiots tuning in around the world for god knows what reason. All I know is soon enough I will be hearing stories about the queen did this and the queen did that, and all I will think about is a sort of feminine man dancing in the streets in a pink tutu. Speaking on behalf of the citizens of the world, return the queen and leave that word alone. You can keep Elton John.
Mary. My sister is named Mary for gods sake, is nothing scared? Plus, I think we can make a trade. If you gays will stop using the word Mary, the rest of the world will let you Marry. Deal?
Finally, and this one is a little dicey. Anal. That's right, we want anal back. I have a lot of jewish friends and on almost a daily basis I find myself prepared to say something to the effect of "well, maybe if you weren't so anal." Then of course, I catch myself. You gays have ruined one of the simplest diagnoses for Jewish paranoia that ever existed. Not only do we want anal, wait did I just write that we want anal? So be it, speaking on behalf of the citizens of the English speaking world, we want anal and we want it now!
Thank you for your quick response to these requests.
Yours,
Beth Libitard, esq
Attorney for Verbiage and Stuff
PS; Before returning Anal, how about a long shower? Thanks.
Which brings me to my point thank you very much.
Dear Gays,
We would like some words back. You can keep Fag because mostly the only other people using that word are the English, and they use that to describe a cylindrical object they put in their mouths. Wait for it. Never mind.
You may keep the Fag word.
Queer? We want that one back, sorry. Personally, queer is a great word. When someone does something eccentric, they are doing something queer. Now, you people, you have used that word to describe all sorts of behavior. When Sketchy the Addict spends countless hours cruising gay hook up sites on the internet looking for an unknown number of new partners, that is very queer, right? See, the word needs to be returned, and cleaned first.
Fist. Well, now that I think about it, keep fist. Although recently I fell off a chair and hurt my hand and when I was talking to my doctor I told him I was having trouble with my fist and he said, use more lube. Own it.
Bear. Now, just yesterday, I was walking in the city and I came face to face with a large man with a lot of facial hair and my instinctive reaction was, wow that man looks like a bear and just as quickly, I realized that you gays have stolen that word and use it to describe short fat hairy men, of which, by the way, I am one. So, that word, return it, after a brush and shampoo.
Queen. Look my gay brothers, we are about to go through the ritual of yet another royal wedding, with millions of idiots tuning in around the world for god knows what reason. All I know is soon enough I will be hearing stories about the queen did this and the queen did that, and all I will think about is a sort of feminine man dancing in the streets in a pink tutu. Speaking on behalf of the citizens of the world, return the queen and leave that word alone. You can keep Elton John.
Mary. My sister is named Mary for gods sake, is nothing scared? Plus, I think we can make a trade. If you gays will stop using the word Mary, the rest of the world will let you Marry. Deal?
Finally, and this one is a little dicey. Anal. That's right, we want anal back. I have a lot of jewish friends and on almost a daily basis I find myself prepared to say something to the effect of "well, maybe if you weren't so anal." Then of course, I catch myself. You gays have ruined one of the simplest diagnoses for Jewish paranoia that ever existed. Not only do we want anal, wait did I just write that we want anal? So be it, speaking on behalf of the citizens of the English speaking world, we want anal and we want it now!
Thank you for your quick response to these requests.
Yours,
Beth Libitard, esq
Attorney for Verbiage and Stuff
PS; Before returning Anal, how about a long shower? Thanks.
Breaking news - Ninja problems
The greater Pittsburgh area has been contending with a very annoying ninja infestation lately. If you've ever had a ninja problem yourself, you know that they're really hard to get rid of, and if you see one, you can be sure there's hundreds more where he came from.
The most recent outbreak occurred when a sword-wielding ninja was spotted breaking into eleven cars by a man named Santino Guzzo. When Guzzo confronted him, the ninja "tried to stab him." Guzzo was packing heat, however, and drew his gun. That sent the ninja running off into the cover of darkness, yet he still somehow managed to "break the rear window of Guzzo's car as he ran off."
Guzzo said he chased the man, who did not move with the grace typically associated with a ninja.
"He was like a gazelle that just got attacked by a lion," Guzzo said. "He got up and fell, and got up and fell. Then he jumped off a cliff."
Less than two weeks prior, Ross Hurst, a resident of Scottdale (less than hour south of Pittsburgh), had left his four-year-old son sleeping alone at home — when police picked him up at 1:30 am allegedly "pretending to be a ninja."
Police insist Hurst was dressed all in black and "playing ninja" when they confronted him. They said Hurst claimed his [separated wife] was babysitting, but she told police she wasn't.
"Oh, it was a big misunderstanding. I wasn't playing ninja," said Hurst. "I wasn't playing anything. I went out for a jog. I told the cops that, but they didn't believe me. It was a mistake. I'm not disputing that.
Hurst is being held on child endangerment charges. Duh. Ninjas and children don't mix.
The most recent outbreak occurred when a sword-wielding ninja was spotted breaking into eleven cars by a man named Santino Guzzo. When Guzzo confronted him, the ninja "tried to stab him." Guzzo was packing heat, however, and drew his gun. That sent the ninja running off into the cover of darkness, yet he still somehow managed to "break the rear window of Guzzo's car as he ran off."
Guzzo said he chased the man, who did not move with the grace typically associated with a ninja.
"He was like a gazelle that just got attacked by a lion," Guzzo said. "He got up and fell, and got up and fell. Then he jumped off a cliff."
Less than two weeks prior, Ross Hurst, a resident of Scottdale (less than hour south of Pittsburgh), had left his four-year-old son sleeping alone at home — when police picked him up at 1:30 am allegedly "pretending to be a ninja."
Police insist Hurst was dressed all in black and "playing ninja" when they confronted him. They said Hurst claimed his [separated wife] was babysitting, but she told police she wasn't.
"Oh, it was a big misunderstanding. I wasn't playing ninja," said Hurst. "I wasn't playing anything. I went out for a jog. I told the cops that, but they didn't believe me. It was a mistake. I'm not disputing that.
Hurst is being held on child endangerment charges. Duh. Ninjas and children don't mix.
Patron saint
A couple of years ago my dad, deep into retirement, purchased one of those extra large pickup trucks. When he pulled up to my house he looked tiny inside the cab of the monster. He honked the deep horn and my children ran over to see this strange and awesome sight.
I just thought he liked trucks, until a couple of summers ago he bought a rock star trailer. I am not sure how big it actually is, but I am pretty sure it has more square footage that my house, garage and most of the front yard combined. He had a plan, he was going to hit the road. His life long dream, touring the highways of America. Well, if memory serves me correct, his life long dream was to divorce my mother and marry a woman who owned a collection of liquor stores along the coast. He then could spend his days driving from one to the other, making sure everything was just right.
Last summer I drove to Northern California, a small town, I forget the name, Rio something, Rio Linda maybe, along the shores of the Sacramento River. He had driven the big truck and the extra large trailer and found a place that rented enough space for both, with water and power hookups included. He seemed happy to see me and a little surprised.
We ended up going out for dinner, pizza and beer. He is a larger man, maybe too many beers over a lifetime and not enough long walks, but we all make choices. He seemed happy. It was quiet there and I think that is what he wanted most. There was a time when he and I, alone eating pizza with few distractions, may have been awkward, but over the last few years we have come to realize in our differences, we are much the same.
He asked me how things were at home. I told him the kids are growing up.
Me; The kids are growing up.
Him; They do that.
Me; It seems so fast. Just yesterday they were in diapers.
Him; Just yesterday you were in diapers.
Me; How did you know that.
Him; (smiling) I have my ways. Life is short son, it goes very fast.
Me; I am getting that idea.
Him; Are you happy?
Me; Not even sure what that means any more.
Him; Kids seem to make you happy.
Me; Happy and crazy.
Him; You were already crazy.
Me; Crazier.
Him; Hard to imagine.
Me; Look at you with the one liners.
Him; I have time to think, out here, alone.
Me; You thinking it might be time to date?
Him; Doubt your mother would appreciate that.
Me; True. Then again, she is not big on appreciation.
Him; True.
Me; You remember when Grandpa was in the hospital.
him; Hard to forget.
Me; I wanted to ask him some questions, but he was not forthcoming.
Him; He never was.
Me; Fathers rarely are.
Him; What's that mean?
Me; Oh, I don't know. As a father myself now, I see I am walking a fine line, I have to rule the nest, enforce some discipline and still, I want to be approachable and loving.
Him; Not sure what you mean. Sound more like a power hungry king.
Me; Your generation was different.
Him; Same process though, trying to raise kids to be good adults.
Me; That was it?
Him; Yes. Maybe smart adults, but for that I led by example.
Me; (Smiling) On that we might disagree.
Him; Are you smiling?
Me; Led by example?
Him; Think about it. I worked hard to provide food and shelter for you.
Me; But not a moment to play catch.
Him; You may need to let that go. We are never everything to everyone. You are a man now, you see it is not easy to balance everything.
Me; I am barely a man and still, the balance thing is harder than ever.
Him; It's not like I raised you in caveman days.
Me; Seemed like it.
Him; You're funny.
Me; As are you.
Him; Funnier perhaps.
Me; Is this a competition?
Him; Isn't everything for you?
Me; What's your plan here? Do you live in the trailer now? I thought you were touring the country.
Him; I just needed to get away from your mother.
Me; Hey, she might be my mother, but she's your wife.
Him; In name only.
Me; Seriously?
Him; Might be time to divorce her, I would, but I feel like she would just shrivel and die.
Me; She is kind of already shriveled.
Him; Oh she would love to hear that, why don't you call her and mention that you consider her to be shriveled.
Me; You have a phone?
Him; I bet there is no way you would call her. (Handed me a cell).
Me; How much is the bet?
Him; Seriously? One hundred dollars. You're mother will kill youif you tell her she is, what was it, shriveled?
Me; One hundred it is.
Him; You won't do it. I would like the hundred in small bills please.
Me;(dialing) How well do you know me. (Into the phone). Mom? Yes, I am calling on dads phone, how did you know? You have caller ID? Why? That is just stupid. No, everything is fine. Pizza and beer. Why is that funny? Yes, I am calling for a reason. I want you to know that in my eyes you have begun to shrivel. I said shrivel. Yes. OK, I love you too. (handing phone back).
Him; You called her?
Me; I did.
Him; And you really told her she is shriveling?
Me; Did you not hear me?
Him; And what did she say?
Me; She asked if you put me up to calling her and I said yes.
Him; And?
Me; She said you were, I believe the term she used was, asshole.
Him; So I will be staying here for a while I guess.
Me; I guess so.
I just thought he liked trucks, until a couple of summers ago he bought a rock star trailer. I am not sure how big it actually is, but I am pretty sure it has more square footage that my house, garage and most of the front yard combined. He had a plan, he was going to hit the road. His life long dream, touring the highways of America. Well, if memory serves me correct, his life long dream was to divorce my mother and marry a woman who owned a collection of liquor stores along the coast. He then could spend his days driving from one to the other, making sure everything was just right.
Last summer I drove to Northern California, a small town, I forget the name, Rio something, Rio Linda maybe, along the shores of the Sacramento River. He had driven the big truck and the extra large trailer and found a place that rented enough space for both, with water and power hookups included. He seemed happy to see me and a little surprised.
We ended up going out for dinner, pizza and beer. He is a larger man, maybe too many beers over a lifetime and not enough long walks, but we all make choices. He seemed happy. It was quiet there and I think that is what he wanted most. There was a time when he and I, alone eating pizza with few distractions, may have been awkward, but over the last few years we have come to realize in our differences, we are much the same.
He asked me how things were at home. I told him the kids are growing up.
Me; The kids are growing up.
Him; They do that.
Me; It seems so fast. Just yesterday they were in diapers.
Him; Just yesterday you were in diapers.
Me; How did you know that.
Him; (smiling) I have my ways. Life is short son, it goes very fast.
Me; I am getting that idea.
Him; Are you happy?
Me; Not even sure what that means any more.
Him; Kids seem to make you happy.
Me; Happy and crazy.
Him; You were already crazy.
Me; Crazier.
Him; Hard to imagine.
Me; Look at you with the one liners.
Him; I have time to think, out here, alone.
Me; You thinking it might be time to date?
Him; Doubt your mother would appreciate that.
Me; True. Then again, she is not big on appreciation.
Him; True.
Me; You remember when Grandpa was in the hospital.
him; Hard to forget.
Me; I wanted to ask him some questions, but he was not forthcoming.
Him; He never was.
Me; Fathers rarely are.
Him; What's that mean?
Me; Oh, I don't know. As a father myself now, I see I am walking a fine line, I have to rule the nest, enforce some discipline and still, I want to be approachable and loving.
Him; Not sure what you mean. Sound more like a power hungry king.
Me; Your generation was different.
Him; Same process though, trying to raise kids to be good adults.
Me; That was it?
Him; Yes. Maybe smart adults, but for that I led by example.
Me; (Smiling) On that we might disagree.
Him; Are you smiling?
Me; Led by example?
Him; Think about it. I worked hard to provide food and shelter for you.
Me; But not a moment to play catch.
Him; You may need to let that go. We are never everything to everyone. You are a man now, you see it is not easy to balance everything.
Me; I am barely a man and still, the balance thing is harder than ever.
Him; It's not like I raised you in caveman days.
Me; Seemed like it.
Him; You're funny.
Me; As are you.
Him; Funnier perhaps.
Me; Is this a competition?
Him; Isn't everything for you?
Me; What's your plan here? Do you live in the trailer now? I thought you were touring the country.
Him; I just needed to get away from your mother.
Me; Hey, she might be my mother, but she's your wife.
Him; In name only.
Me; Seriously?
Him; Might be time to divorce her, I would, but I feel like she would just shrivel and die.
Me; She is kind of already shriveled.
Him; Oh she would love to hear that, why don't you call her and mention that you consider her to be shriveled.
Me; You have a phone?
Him; I bet there is no way you would call her. (Handed me a cell).
Me; How much is the bet?
Him; Seriously? One hundred dollars. You're mother will kill youif you tell her she is, what was it, shriveled?
Me; One hundred it is.
Him; You won't do it. I would like the hundred in small bills please.
Me;(dialing) How well do you know me. (Into the phone). Mom? Yes, I am calling on dads phone, how did you know? You have caller ID? Why? That is just stupid. No, everything is fine. Pizza and beer. Why is that funny? Yes, I am calling for a reason. I want you to know that in my eyes you have begun to shrivel. I said shrivel. Yes. OK, I love you too. (handing phone back).
Him; You called her?
Me; I did.
Him; And you really told her she is shriveling?
Me; Did you not hear me?
Him; And what did she say?
Me; She asked if you put me up to calling her and I said yes.
Him; And?
Me; She said you were, I believe the term she used was, asshole.
Him; So I will be staying here for a while I guess.
Me; I guess so.
Thousands of dates
I was unable to sleep last night so I started counting dates. Sometimes this is what I do when I can't sleep. Some people count sheep, but in my life, I have only known two sheep and they were neither funny or fun.
The interesting thing about sheep is that if you sit them on their butt, they will sit still with front legs just kind of slapping against their fat bellies like a football fan watching a game. It's actually very enduring. We had two sheep in New York for a time. I do not remember their names, then again, neither did they. I remember countless times where I would stand outside the kitchen, calling their names, Reagan and Hitler, that may have been their names, and they would stand a hundred yards away, grazing.
Humans have lost the art of grazing. I see these enormous pig people in their extra large vehicles, lined up outside fast food death outlets, waiting for morsels of unhealthy crap, unable to take the time to get out of their cars, sit in the sun and enjoy a healthy meal. Sheeps have a lot to teach us. Reagan and Hitler focused almost exclusively on grazing. Sure, they had play time, but that usually involved Beth the Lesbian Wonder Dogs insane sister, Incredibly Angry Psycho dog.
At a young age Incredibly Angry Psycho Dog got the taste for murder and she never gave up. She was a natural born herder, so getting lesser animals to do what she wanted was not an issue. Of course, like any super angry psycho killer, our little dog finally went after something that was bigger, smarter and with less care than, say, a stupid chicken. Angry Psycho Dog did try to corner the sheeps, but to no avail. Sheeps may be slow and incredibly stupid, but one thing they are not is easy eating.
Chickens on the other hand are defenseless, almost brain dead from day one and they make a decent meal, even for Incredibly Angry Psycho Dog. At some point someone needed to leave, the sheeps, the chickens or the dog. In her free time Incredibly Angry Psycho Dog has taken an interest in Native American culture, which was ironic because she was clearly Australian.
In America everyone claims to be from somewhere else. Incredibly Angry Psycho Dog, who even barked with an Australian accent, at one point was running around in the high grass and I heard her bragging to her lesbian sister, this is what our ancestors used to do before the white man ruined everything. Oh sure, the white man ruins everything. Now that I think about it, from oil exploration to fracking away the water supply, white men really have done a job on this planet. I thought of Reagan and Hitler, slowly grazing away, waiting to be set up on their butts so they could be like fat men watching football and then I forgot what I was saying.
I knew a tall dumb white guy once, his name was something like Christian Johansen, he was as white as possible, round faced like his round faced Norwegian ancestors and kind of stupid. When I first met him he claimed to be Norwegian, nothing wrong with that I thought, since he so obviously was. Plus, the whole Johansen thing makes it complete. Then one day we were talking and he said he was Native American, to which I replied sarcastically, so am I. Because in the end, we are all Native American and I'd be damned if some tall, terribly white moron was going to claim sisterhood to my Native American brothers. Not to mention, I really am Native American. A few months later I ran into the Norwegian version of Zelig. We had a coffee and got to talking and at some point he asked me what I was doing for Hanukkah. Strange question coming from a super white Norwegian Native American, but I said something to the effect of killing Christ, like always, and he shook his head and said, "our people should not make such jokes." Our people? Why yes he said, "I'm a jew."
So, in the span of about 7 months, a super white, incredibly stupid Norwegian had jumped ship and joined the Native American community, only to decide sometime later, to claim membership in my original tribe, the put upon Jews. Why not? Heck, just this morning, when I signed some document from my childs school, she said she could not read my writing, which meant that the school administrator, Shaky the Clown, would not be able to read my writing, which meant that at some point I would get a call and I would have to answer for my bad penmanship. My daughter asked me why I wrote so poorly and I said, probably because I am African American. She looked at me like I might be insane and I said, seriously, look it up, our people are from South Africa.
Let's just put the above mess out of our collective minds and move on. There was a message here somewhere and damned if I am not going to find it.
Right, dates and counting them. By some estimations I have been on well over 750 thousand actual dates in my life. Some involved meals, a couple involved sky diving and at least on involved getting all sexy underneath a dam in Southern California. Most people have never been inside a dam, I have only been inside a dam twice, once was with a young woman whom I will call Young Woman With a Troubled Life.
The interior of a dam is a pretty amazing place, because it is a thick cement structure that is, or could be, almost a mile long. There are tunnels and sensors and all sorts of interesting passageways. The YWWATL was the daughter of the dam manager. It is true, people get hired to live near a dam and watch it. Her father, a raging alcoholic who also happened to claim to be not only Norwegian, but Native American (blaming his alcohol abuse on some long distant relative) and later, he became a fundamentalist preacher. TWWATL invited me over via a note on my car windshield. This was the very first time in my life that a woman had accosted me. I was young and vibrant, a fallen beauty pageant contestant, unable to finish up on the talent portion of the competition. YWWATL saw me fail, but also found me seductively special, leaving a note on my car and inviting me to tour the dam.
That dam, for one night only, served as both our own private world and the largest and creepiest place in the country to engage in sexual behavior. In the darkness of the tunnels inside the dam itself we made love in every available position. At some point she walked away, into the deep darkness. I was tired and sat down. The floor felt wet, but it was not. A door opened a great distance away and TWWATL said if I wanted to go, I should leave. I left.
Counting dates is my way of falling asleep with a warm glow. I have dated some amazing people and a couple not so amazing people. I stay in touch with many former lovers, mostly because, after the initial breakup, we tend to remember those things that brought us together, and that leads to a phone call and at that point the conversation goes like this.
Me; Hello.
Becky; Hi, it's me Becky.
Me; I thought we broke up months ago.
Becky; We did.
Me; Well, it's nice to hear your voice.
Becky; It's nice to hear your's as well.
Me; Well, thanks for calling.
I usually hang up and sometimes the phone will begin to ring again, but I learned a valuable lesson from a sheep named Reagan, never pick up the phone if you would be forced to engage in a conversation that makes you uncomfortable.
There is a lot we can learn from sheep.
The interesting thing about sheep is that if you sit them on their butt, they will sit still with front legs just kind of slapping against their fat bellies like a football fan watching a game. It's actually very enduring. We had two sheep in New York for a time. I do not remember their names, then again, neither did they. I remember countless times where I would stand outside the kitchen, calling their names, Reagan and Hitler, that may have been their names, and they would stand a hundred yards away, grazing.
Humans have lost the art of grazing. I see these enormous pig people in their extra large vehicles, lined up outside fast food death outlets, waiting for morsels of unhealthy crap, unable to take the time to get out of their cars, sit in the sun and enjoy a healthy meal. Sheeps have a lot to teach us. Reagan and Hitler focused almost exclusively on grazing. Sure, they had play time, but that usually involved Beth the Lesbian Wonder Dogs insane sister, Incredibly Angry Psycho dog.
At a young age Incredibly Angry Psycho Dog got the taste for murder and she never gave up. She was a natural born herder, so getting lesser animals to do what she wanted was not an issue. Of course, like any super angry psycho killer, our little dog finally went after something that was bigger, smarter and with less care than, say, a stupid chicken. Angry Psycho Dog did try to corner the sheeps, but to no avail. Sheeps may be slow and incredibly stupid, but one thing they are not is easy eating.
Chickens on the other hand are defenseless, almost brain dead from day one and they make a decent meal, even for Incredibly Angry Psycho Dog. At some point someone needed to leave, the sheeps, the chickens or the dog. In her free time Incredibly Angry Psycho Dog has taken an interest in Native American culture, which was ironic because she was clearly Australian.
In America everyone claims to be from somewhere else. Incredibly Angry Psycho Dog, who even barked with an Australian accent, at one point was running around in the high grass and I heard her bragging to her lesbian sister, this is what our ancestors used to do before the white man ruined everything. Oh sure, the white man ruins everything. Now that I think about it, from oil exploration to fracking away the water supply, white men really have done a job on this planet. I thought of Reagan and Hitler, slowly grazing away, waiting to be set up on their butts so they could be like fat men watching football and then I forgot what I was saying.
I knew a tall dumb white guy once, his name was something like Christian Johansen, he was as white as possible, round faced like his round faced Norwegian ancestors and kind of stupid. When I first met him he claimed to be Norwegian, nothing wrong with that I thought, since he so obviously was. Plus, the whole Johansen thing makes it complete. Then one day we were talking and he said he was Native American, to which I replied sarcastically, so am I. Because in the end, we are all Native American and I'd be damned if some tall, terribly white moron was going to claim sisterhood to my Native American brothers. Not to mention, I really am Native American. A few months later I ran into the Norwegian version of Zelig. We had a coffee and got to talking and at some point he asked me what I was doing for Hanukkah. Strange question coming from a super white Norwegian Native American, but I said something to the effect of killing Christ, like always, and he shook his head and said, "our people should not make such jokes." Our people? Why yes he said, "I'm a jew."
So, in the span of about 7 months, a super white, incredibly stupid Norwegian had jumped ship and joined the Native American community, only to decide sometime later, to claim membership in my original tribe, the put upon Jews. Why not? Heck, just this morning, when I signed some document from my childs school, she said she could not read my writing, which meant that the school administrator, Shaky the Clown, would not be able to read my writing, which meant that at some point I would get a call and I would have to answer for my bad penmanship. My daughter asked me why I wrote so poorly and I said, probably because I am African American. She looked at me like I might be insane and I said, seriously, look it up, our people are from South Africa.
Let's just put the above mess out of our collective minds and move on. There was a message here somewhere and damned if I am not going to find it.
Right, dates and counting them. By some estimations I have been on well over 750 thousand actual dates in my life. Some involved meals, a couple involved sky diving and at least on involved getting all sexy underneath a dam in Southern California. Most people have never been inside a dam, I have only been inside a dam twice, once was with a young woman whom I will call Young Woman With a Troubled Life.
The interior of a dam is a pretty amazing place, because it is a thick cement structure that is, or could be, almost a mile long. There are tunnels and sensors and all sorts of interesting passageways. The YWWATL was the daughter of the dam manager. It is true, people get hired to live near a dam and watch it. Her father, a raging alcoholic who also happened to claim to be not only Norwegian, but Native American (blaming his alcohol abuse on some long distant relative) and later, he became a fundamentalist preacher. TWWATL invited me over via a note on my car windshield. This was the very first time in my life that a woman had accosted me. I was young and vibrant, a fallen beauty pageant contestant, unable to finish up on the talent portion of the competition. YWWATL saw me fail, but also found me seductively special, leaving a note on my car and inviting me to tour the dam.
That dam, for one night only, served as both our own private world and the largest and creepiest place in the country to engage in sexual behavior. In the darkness of the tunnels inside the dam itself we made love in every available position. At some point she walked away, into the deep darkness. I was tired and sat down. The floor felt wet, but it was not. A door opened a great distance away and TWWATL said if I wanted to go, I should leave. I left.
Counting dates is my way of falling asleep with a warm glow. I have dated some amazing people and a couple not so amazing people. I stay in touch with many former lovers, mostly because, after the initial breakup, we tend to remember those things that brought us together, and that leads to a phone call and at that point the conversation goes like this.
Me; Hello.
Becky; Hi, it's me Becky.
Me; I thought we broke up months ago.
Becky; We did.
Me; Well, it's nice to hear your voice.
Becky; It's nice to hear your's as well.
Me; Well, thanks for calling.
I usually hang up and sometimes the phone will begin to ring again, but I learned a valuable lesson from a sheep named Reagan, never pick up the phone if you would be forced to engage in a conversation that makes you uncomfortable.
There is a lot we can learn from sheep.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Pretty Shallow
Another night, another text. This time Pretty Shallow texted, asking if I wanted to go see a movie.
I met Pretty Shallow in New York a couple of years ago. He is a nice guy, makes some money, travels for work and pleasure and is both pretty and shallow. I mean that in the best way possible.
There really is nothing wrong with being pretty or shallow, in fact, for a while, those were the only people I would date. There was a time that if you needed to know anything about pretty shallow people, I was your man. Then I got married, which was fine for a few minutes and not so fine for a few more and then is disappeared like a bad dust storm.
After that I changed the way I operated. I would no longer date just on looks alone. I wanted more. Although I was not confident I could offer more, I knew I could no longer be on a first date and realize that I was sitting across from a person who was both pretty and shallow. Of course, I am not so pretty, but I have my shallow moments, so I was a part time member of the pretty/shallow club.
When I met Pretty Shallow he was working for a bank on Wall Street. I had traveled to the city to interview an elderly woman who was about to have her condo foreclosed. She was a sweet woman, a liberal from the days when that meant something. She was photographed by a friend of mine protesting bank bailouts while homeowners were thrown into the streets. Before meeting this woman, I was tooling around the canyons of Wall Street, shooting b-roll footage for a long form film I was kind of piecing together. While standing in front of the New York Stock Exchange Pretty Shallow approached me, asked what I was doing and after a few moments, invited me to his 38th floor office where I would have an expansive view of the entire financial district.
Pretty Shallow had an assistant and a secretary. I think my sense of making it has always involved a driver. I knew I had done well if I could place a call and a driver in a nice car came and picked me up and took me where I needed to go. This has not happened, but I hold out hope.
Pretty Shallow had made it. You need money to have an assistant and a secretary and god knows what other support staff and he certainly had that. Plus, he really did have an expansive view from his corner office with glass walls looking out over the heart of the worlds financial empires. He had a lot to say about the countries economy and when I pulled out my wireless microphone Pretty Shallow said no way would he be interviewed, ever, for anything. I made a mental note of that.
We exchanged all sorts of contact information, email and cell numbers and we would talk often over the months, from finances to terrible relationships. Pretty Shallow is apparently incapable of any sort of long form relationship, having had one longer term relationship that lasted 6 months. Then again, being pretty and shallow has a payoff, people often want to talk with you, get to know you, sleep with you. Pretty Shallow does well in the bringing people back to his apartment routine. The problem with pretty shallow people is that after a short time period, most adults get bored looking at someone who is both pretty and shallow.
That is not always the case with me, but I do not speak for everyone.
Pretty Shallow has been in my city for a couple of weeks, working on some sort of merger project, all hush hush and again, Pretty Shallow put up a wall years ago when it came to specifics, insider trading is something he fears more than hair loss.
I texted back, telling Pretty Shallow that there was not a movie out right now that I would be interested in seeing. This statement is not all together true, only because I am unaware of any movies in theaters right now, up and above whether I would want to see them or not.
We have been out a few times, dinner, sometimes a club in the city, sometimes just a group of people I would not know, sharing some sort of communal meal in Brooklyn. Pretty Shallow is hardly ever the center of attention, because after the nice suits and perfect hair, the white teeth and the art on the walls, his opinions are based more on assumptions and TV that knowledge and understanding. He is shallow and seemingly proud of this fact. As he once said to me in the middle of a night of expensive wine drinking, "no one ever wants to go out with me cause I am smart."
Truer words.
So, faced with the prospect of a movie sitting next to Pretty Shallow and a night alone, at home, looking at an off white wall and a neurotic dog who keeps stepping on my genitals, I texted back and said I was on a date.
I met Pretty Shallow in New York a couple of years ago. He is a nice guy, makes some money, travels for work and pleasure and is both pretty and shallow. I mean that in the best way possible.
There really is nothing wrong with being pretty or shallow, in fact, for a while, those were the only people I would date. There was a time that if you needed to know anything about pretty shallow people, I was your man. Then I got married, which was fine for a few minutes and not so fine for a few more and then is disappeared like a bad dust storm.
After that I changed the way I operated. I would no longer date just on looks alone. I wanted more. Although I was not confident I could offer more, I knew I could no longer be on a first date and realize that I was sitting across from a person who was both pretty and shallow. Of course, I am not so pretty, but I have my shallow moments, so I was a part time member of the pretty/shallow club.
When I met Pretty Shallow he was working for a bank on Wall Street. I had traveled to the city to interview an elderly woman who was about to have her condo foreclosed. She was a sweet woman, a liberal from the days when that meant something. She was photographed by a friend of mine protesting bank bailouts while homeowners were thrown into the streets. Before meeting this woman, I was tooling around the canyons of Wall Street, shooting b-roll footage for a long form film I was kind of piecing together. While standing in front of the New York Stock Exchange Pretty Shallow approached me, asked what I was doing and after a few moments, invited me to his 38th floor office where I would have an expansive view of the entire financial district.
Pretty Shallow had an assistant and a secretary. I think my sense of making it has always involved a driver. I knew I had done well if I could place a call and a driver in a nice car came and picked me up and took me where I needed to go. This has not happened, but I hold out hope.
Pretty Shallow had made it. You need money to have an assistant and a secretary and god knows what other support staff and he certainly had that. Plus, he really did have an expansive view from his corner office with glass walls looking out over the heart of the worlds financial empires. He had a lot to say about the countries economy and when I pulled out my wireless microphone Pretty Shallow said no way would he be interviewed, ever, for anything. I made a mental note of that.
We exchanged all sorts of contact information, email and cell numbers and we would talk often over the months, from finances to terrible relationships. Pretty Shallow is apparently incapable of any sort of long form relationship, having had one longer term relationship that lasted 6 months. Then again, being pretty and shallow has a payoff, people often want to talk with you, get to know you, sleep with you. Pretty Shallow does well in the bringing people back to his apartment routine. The problem with pretty shallow people is that after a short time period, most adults get bored looking at someone who is both pretty and shallow.
That is not always the case with me, but I do not speak for everyone.
Pretty Shallow has been in my city for a couple of weeks, working on some sort of merger project, all hush hush and again, Pretty Shallow put up a wall years ago when it came to specifics, insider trading is something he fears more than hair loss.
I texted back, telling Pretty Shallow that there was not a movie out right now that I would be interested in seeing. This statement is not all together true, only because I am unaware of any movies in theaters right now, up and above whether I would want to see them or not.
We have been out a few times, dinner, sometimes a club in the city, sometimes just a group of people I would not know, sharing some sort of communal meal in Brooklyn. Pretty Shallow is hardly ever the center of attention, because after the nice suits and perfect hair, the white teeth and the art on the walls, his opinions are based more on assumptions and TV that knowledge and understanding. He is shallow and seemingly proud of this fact. As he once said to me in the middle of a night of expensive wine drinking, "no one ever wants to go out with me cause I am smart."
Truer words.
So, faced with the prospect of a movie sitting next to Pretty Shallow and a night alone, at home, looking at an off white wall and a neurotic dog who keeps stepping on my genitals, I texted back and said I was on a date.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Becky Who Drinks, in her own words
It's early evening. A light rain is falling, ending what has been a beautiful sunny day. I am napping on the couch, which is what I am supposed to be doing. The phone rings.
Me: (answering phone) Hello.
Becky Who Drinks (WD): I read the blog post.
Me: Who is this?
BeckyWD: Seriously, you make me sound like a raving alcoholic.
Me: Did not. Who is this any how?
BeckWD; It's Becky Who Drinks.
Me; You can't complain about sounding like an alcoholic when you wake a man at 3 in the afternoon to identify yourself as Becky Who Drinks.
BeckyWD; You did that. You gave me that name on your blog.
Me; Did not.
BeckyWD; Did too.
Me; Did not.
BeckyWD; Stop. I am not a drunk.
Me; That's what Drunky McDrunkington used to say.
BeckyWD; Did he now.
Me; True, he would actually say that shit faced drunk.
BeckyWD; Have you ever seen me shit faced drunk.
Me; Doggy style.
BeckyWD; What's that?
Me; I have not seen you shit faced drunk.
BeckyWD; That's not what you said.
Me; No, to answer your question, I have never seen you totally shit faced drunk.
BeckyWD; See that?
Me; What?
BeckyWD; You added a "totally" in the sentence.
Me; Don't think I did.
BeckyWD; Well, if you use this in your blog, be sure and edit out the part that makes you look like a weasel.
Me; I always do.
BeckyWD; What did doggy style mean.
Me; No idea what you are talking about.
BeckyWD; Hey shit head, page up, you said "doggy Style?"
Me; Right.
BeckyWD; Yes, right. So, why did you throw that in there.
Me; Might have been the only time I saw you shit faced drunk.
BeckyWD; Portland?
Me; Yes, Portland. My lord...
BeckyWD; That's true. Well, not me being shit faced. I was not.
Me; Seemed like it.
BeckyWD; I imagine from your perspective that might be true.
Me; I imagine from the bartenders perspective it might be true.
BeckyWD; Right, that too.
Me; Good times though.
BeckyWD; Not the point of this call actually. You wrote in your blog about me.
Me; Yeah, but I did not use your real name or any real identifying characteristics.
BeckyWD; Let's see, red hair, lobby for gun rights, was in Pittsburgh for the NRA convention. I could go on.
Me; That and you drink.
BeckyWD; Seriously, shut up. I am not an alcoholic.
Me; Me neither.
BeckyWD; I liked you better when you weren't drinking.
Me; Well, I am working my way to becoming an alcoholic.
BeckyWD; Nice goal.
Me; Alcohol is my gateway drug, I hope to be shooting heroin when I turn 80.
BeckyWD; Just when you turn 80, or will you already be shooting.
Me; God no. I mean, first I hate needles and 3, I could not sustain the addict lifestyle, I want to start around 80.
BeckyWD; You missed 2.
Me; What?
BeckyWD; You said point one, and then point 3. There was no point 2.
Me; So?
BeckyWD; Just makes sense that if you have only two points to make, you might go from one to two, instead of jumping over 2 and moving directly to 3.
Me; Fuck 2.
BeckyWD; Anyway, my point is, or was, is that you did not have to keep mentioning that I was drinking. Plus, to be honest, the post about me? It sucked.
Me; Not true.
BeckyWD; No, seriously, it sucked.
Me; Right. That part I agree with.
BeckyWD; So, maybe what you could do is do one of those stupid interview things where you write down what the person says.
Me; I did that a week ago with Houdini. People loved it, most popular post ever on the blog.
BeckyWD; Right, so do me some help. Do one of those, but make it interesting.
Me; I'm not sure that's possible. Well, wait, are you drinking now.
BeckyWD; Glass of wine, why?
Me; Well, I mean, your name is Becky Who Dirnks. And you are drinking. Got it.
BeckyWD; No, don't focus on the drinking. I could tell some sort of funny story. I walked in on Senator Ensign masturbating at a gun show in Phoenix.
Me; That's gross. That's not funny. That's plain gross. There is nothing about that story that is funny. Entirely gross. Thanks for that. You know what, if I was typing everything you said, I would add that part about a senator yanking in Arizona and I would find a way to remind people that you told that unfunny lame ass story while drinking alcohol.
BeckyWD; Wine.
Me; Oh, wine is alcohol. You know what Drunky McDrunkington used to say? Wine is alcohol like pot is brownies.
BeckyWD; He really was an idiot.
Me; Was? I believe he still is.
BeckyWD; Anyway, could you please do something to rehab my presence on your blog?
Me; You want to be a reoccurring character?
BeckyWD; Is Houdini?
Me; Gots to be. People love him. Although, in a month, during a blind rage over an answer I get wrong while watching Jeopardy, I am going to brutally kill him.
BeckyWD; I want in on that.
Me; Step up your game Becky Who Drinks, or no one will want you involved in the story.
BeckyWD; Please don't call me Becky Who Drinks.
Me; Hey now, calm down. Do you think Drunky McDrunkington likes his name?
BeckyWD; But that's his real name.
Me; As is yours, as is yours....
Me: (answering phone) Hello.
Becky Who Drinks (WD): I read the blog post.
Me: Who is this?
BeckyWD: Seriously, you make me sound like a raving alcoholic.
Me: Did not. Who is this any how?
BeckWD; It's Becky Who Drinks.
Me; You can't complain about sounding like an alcoholic when you wake a man at 3 in the afternoon to identify yourself as Becky Who Drinks.
BeckyWD; You did that. You gave me that name on your blog.
Me; Did not.
BeckyWD; Did too.
Me; Did not.
BeckyWD; Stop. I am not a drunk.
Me; That's what Drunky McDrunkington used to say.
BeckyWD; Did he now.
Me; True, he would actually say that shit faced drunk.
BeckyWD; Have you ever seen me shit faced drunk.
Me; Doggy style.
BeckyWD; What's that?
Me; I have not seen you shit faced drunk.
BeckyWD; That's not what you said.
Me; No, to answer your question, I have never seen you totally shit faced drunk.
BeckyWD; See that?
Me; What?
BeckyWD; You added a "totally" in the sentence.
Me; Don't think I did.
BeckyWD; Well, if you use this in your blog, be sure and edit out the part that makes you look like a weasel.
Me; I always do.
BeckyWD; What did doggy style mean.
Me; No idea what you are talking about.
BeckyWD; Hey shit head, page up, you said "doggy Style?"
Me; Right.
BeckyWD; Yes, right. So, why did you throw that in there.
Me; Might have been the only time I saw you shit faced drunk.
BeckyWD; Portland?
Me; Yes, Portland. My lord...
BeckyWD; That's true. Well, not me being shit faced. I was not.
Me; Seemed like it.
BeckyWD; I imagine from your perspective that might be true.
Me; I imagine from the bartenders perspective it might be true.
BeckyWD; Right, that too.
Me; Good times though.
BeckyWD; Not the point of this call actually. You wrote in your blog about me.
Me; Yeah, but I did not use your real name or any real identifying characteristics.
BeckyWD; Let's see, red hair, lobby for gun rights, was in Pittsburgh for the NRA convention. I could go on.
Me; That and you drink.
BeckyWD; Seriously, shut up. I am not an alcoholic.
Me; Me neither.
BeckyWD; I liked you better when you weren't drinking.
Me; Well, I am working my way to becoming an alcoholic.
BeckyWD; Nice goal.
Me; Alcohol is my gateway drug, I hope to be shooting heroin when I turn 80.
BeckyWD; Just when you turn 80, or will you already be shooting.
Me; God no. I mean, first I hate needles and 3, I could not sustain the addict lifestyle, I want to start around 80.
BeckyWD; You missed 2.
Me; What?
BeckyWD; You said point one, and then point 3. There was no point 2.
Me; So?
BeckyWD; Just makes sense that if you have only two points to make, you might go from one to two, instead of jumping over 2 and moving directly to 3.
Me; Fuck 2.
BeckyWD; Anyway, my point is, or was, is that you did not have to keep mentioning that I was drinking. Plus, to be honest, the post about me? It sucked.
Me; Not true.
BeckyWD; No, seriously, it sucked.
Me; Right. That part I agree with.
BeckyWD; So, maybe what you could do is do one of those stupid interview things where you write down what the person says.
Me; I did that a week ago with Houdini. People loved it, most popular post ever on the blog.
BeckyWD; Right, so do me some help. Do one of those, but make it interesting.
Me; I'm not sure that's possible. Well, wait, are you drinking now.
BeckyWD; Glass of wine, why?
Me; Well, I mean, your name is Becky Who Dirnks. And you are drinking. Got it.
BeckyWD; No, don't focus on the drinking. I could tell some sort of funny story. I walked in on Senator Ensign masturbating at a gun show in Phoenix.
Me; That's gross. That's not funny. That's plain gross. There is nothing about that story that is funny. Entirely gross. Thanks for that. You know what, if I was typing everything you said, I would add that part about a senator yanking in Arizona and I would find a way to remind people that you told that unfunny lame ass story while drinking alcohol.
BeckyWD; Wine.
Me; Oh, wine is alcohol. You know what Drunky McDrunkington used to say? Wine is alcohol like pot is brownies.
BeckyWD; He really was an idiot.
Me; Was? I believe he still is.
BeckyWD; Anyway, could you please do something to rehab my presence on your blog?
Me; You want to be a reoccurring character?
BeckyWD; Is Houdini?
Me; Gots to be. People love him. Although, in a month, during a blind rage over an answer I get wrong while watching Jeopardy, I am going to brutally kill him.
BeckyWD; I want in on that.
Me; Step up your game Becky Who Drinks, or no one will want you involved in the story.
BeckyWD; Please don't call me Becky Who Drinks.
Me; Hey now, calm down. Do you think Drunky McDrunkington likes his name?
BeckyWD; But that's his real name.
Me; As is yours, as is yours....
The weak and hobbled
I was doing my semi-annual visit to my local favorite hospital this morning and something dawned on me. There are an awful lot of sick people at hospitals.
I always say hello, it is something I learned while caring for my ailing mother. When she was living at an elder care facility in Seattle, all of the staff would make it a point to honor the elders with friendliness. I thought it was a good idea, so I incorporated that into my interactions. Of course, at the time, my mother was being cared for in the Old Jewish Women's angry and bitter facility. I am not sure if that was the exact name, but you get the drift.
Point of order.
Look it's a new blog feature (tm) where when things begin to not make any sense, anyone can call Point of Order and then everything will get back to the point that was supposed to be made.
The hospital is a beautiful structure, bricks and windows. The waiting room I was seated in was another story. People with brain issues, injuries, disease and senility are hardly ever any fun. What I did not realize was that people get freaky about their brains.
See, when you injure a finger, it is right there, hopefully, on the end of your hand. Or stub a tie, you know exactly where to look. When you injure your brain, or your brain begins to long slow process into Alzheimers, it can be downright freak central. Brains are a lot like god, we don't really pay much attention until it gets our attention.
I was chatting with an older man this morning, waiting to visit a doctor. He crumbled up a piece of paper and asked if I thought he could make the shot into the nearby trash can. I said doubtful, the man was in his 80's and looked frail, confused and like he could not make a shot shooting a crumbled piece of paper into a trash can. My interior guess was that he would miss a slam dunk into the trash can.
He took the shot and missed horrible and when I picked up the paper and threw it away, he said, "thank you young man." I am always looking for a positive moment to focus on and for me, the rest of today, I will be thinking that the shot missing older man was nice enough to call me young.
I don't feel young.
Then again, today is a training day and I was already on a cycle this morning, sweating to the oldies on my Ipod.
I like hospitals, but I am tired of visiting them. I do, however, like to see people who are getting healthier. This battle we are all waging against age and our own bodies and minds, is a battle we know we will lose, but it is a battle we take on with free will, and fight passionately, because without the battle against time, against our own bodies betraying us, we would die.
I always say hello, it is something I learned while caring for my ailing mother. When she was living at an elder care facility in Seattle, all of the staff would make it a point to honor the elders with friendliness. I thought it was a good idea, so I incorporated that into my interactions. Of course, at the time, my mother was being cared for in the Old Jewish Women's angry and bitter facility. I am not sure if that was the exact name, but you get the drift.
Point of order.
Look it's a new blog feature (tm) where when things begin to not make any sense, anyone can call Point of Order and then everything will get back to the point that was supposed to be made.
The hospital is a beautiful structure, bricks and windows. The waiting room I was seated in was another story. People with brain issues, injuries, disease and senility are hardly ever any fun. What I did not realize was that people get freaky about their brains.
See, when you injure a finger, it is right there, hopefully, on the end of your hand. Or stub a tie, you know exactly where to look. When you injure your brain, or your brain begins to long slow process into Alzheimers, it can be downright freak central. Brains are a lot like god, we don't really pay much attention until it gets our attention.
I was chatting with an older man this morning, waiting to visit a doctor. He crumbled up a piece of paper and asked if I thought he could make the shot into the nearby trash can. I said doubtful, the man was in his 80's and looked frail, confused and like he could not make a shot shooting a crumbled piece of paper into a trash can. My interior guess was that he would miss a slam dunk into the trash can.
He took the shot and missed horrible and when I picked up the paper and threw it away, he said, "thank you young man." I am always looking for a positive moment to focus on and for me, the rest of today, I will be thinking that the shot missing older man was nice enough to call me young.
I don't feel young.
Then again, today is a training day and I was already on a cycle this morning, sweating to the oldies on my Ipod.
I like hospitals, but I am tired of visiting them. I do, however, like to see people who are getting healthier. This battle we are all waging against age and our own bodies and minds, is a battle we know we will lose, but it is a battle we take on with free will, and fight passionately, because without the battle against time, against our own bodies betraying us, we would die.
Mary
I was talking to my fiance this weekend and we were discussing where we would get married and when. As these things do, the subject of gay marriage came up. I am a big supporter of love, marriage on the other hand can be dicey. I do believe that any two adults should have the right to get married and have that marriage recognized by the government. As long as there are financial benefits to marriage, it should be something that adults enter into without regard to who they are marrying.
That said, what I always find funny is that there rabid rednecks who oppose gays in general and gay marriage in particular can actually go to American states where it is legal and watch and see just how damaging gay marriage is to the institution of marriage.
Because, guess what? It's not. So, here is a Tea Bagger rally in New Hampshire and I think this perfectly shows that, a- we do have much bigger problems in this country that trying to stop people from committing to one another and b- most people just don't seem to care.
That said, what I always find funny is that there rabid rednecks who oppose gays in general and gay marriage in particular can actually go to American states where it is legal and watch and see just how damaging gay marriage is to the institution of marriage.
Because, guess what? It's not. So, here is a Tea Bagger rally in New Hampshire and I think this perfectly shows that, a- we do have much bigger problems in this country that trying to stop people from committing to one another and b- most people just don't seem to care.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Hung
I got a text about 8 last night, meet me at the Westin. I showered and drove into the city. This was not my plan for the night, I already had serious plans for the night. Instead, I was about to walk into a ballroom filled with gun nuts.
Becky who drinks had emailed me earlier this week. She is a lobbyist for some manufacturer of weapons. Mostly she has red hair, a brilliant smile, knows how to dress the part and she can speak words around anyone who will listen. I met her years ago, over 20 years ago. At the time she was the national spokesman for a chemical company that had promised their new food container would be biodegradable. Of course it was all a lie, Becky who drinks knew it, but there she would be, talking to consumer groups and politicians, shaking hands, brilliant smile, a few words on biodegradable food storage units and then she would be on to the next group.
Now she does guns. I am sure she is great at it, because that is what she is. For me, she is as honest as the day is long and when she texts and says drinks at the Westin, all I need is a time.
I showed up and here is my problem with gun nuts. Unlike the rest of the country, conventions of gun nuts is always made up of badly dressed white guys. I could see the red hair at about 100 yards. I made my way to Becky who drinks and she handed me a glass of red wine and said, "drink up honey, you're going to need it."
A few glasses later we were on our way to another cocktail hour on the 17th floor of the Omni hotel. There, as if transplanted from the other party, more badly dressed white guys, these ones might have been slightly older and a little quieter. I was on my third glass of wine, nothing to eat and I was getting loopy.
A guy from a major gun manufacturing company walked up and gave me a brass belt buckle. I looked over to Becky who drinks, she made a gun using her index finger and thumb, and fired a shot in my general direction.
Becky who drinks wobbled over to me and said we should go back to her hotel room, slurring, "I have something to show you." I replied, "Seen it, not that impressive." She smiled and said, "no, follow, you see."
We both were, at that point, certainly legally intoxicated, but her hotel was within walking distance, so off we went into the warm spring evening.
In the corner of her suite was a large figure, lurking in the dark. Who's that I asked. She turned on the light, a poster of the former actor Antonio Banderas was leaning up against the curtain. I smiled.
There is not always a lot to learn when you are drunk. Last night was nothing special, a night with an old friend who has the verbal dexterity to sell a whale the ocean, and a giant cut out of a fading actor. All in all, I'd say the night started perfectly.
It's what happened when we took the cab to the dance club, carrying Antonia Banderas and a bottle of cheap scotch when things really got out silly.
Becky who drinks had emailed me earlier this week. She is a lobbyist for some manufacturer of weapons. Mostly she has red hair, a brilliant smile, knows how to dress the part and she can speak words around anyone who will listen. I met her years ago, over 20 years ago. At the time she was the national spokesman for a chemical company that had promised their new food container would be biodegradable. Of course it was all a lie, Becky who drinks knew it, but there she would be, talking to consumer groups and politicians, shaking hands, brilliant smile, a few words on biodegradable food storage units and then she would be on to the next group.
Now she does guns. I am sure she is great at it, because that is what she is. For me, she is as honest as the day is long and when she texts and says drinks at the Westin, all I need is a time.
I showed up and here is my problem with gun nuts. Unlike the rest of the country, conventions of gun nuts is always made up of badly dressed white guys. I could see the red hair at about 100 yards. I made my way to Becky who drinks and she handed me a glass of red wine and said, "drink up honey, you're going to need it."
A few glasses later we were on our way to another cocktail hour on the 17th floor of the Omni hotel. There, as if transplanted from the other party, more badly dressed white guys, these ones might have been slightly older and a little quieter. I was on my third glass of wine, nothing to eat and I was getting loopy.
A guy from a major gun manufacturing company walked up and gave me a brass belt buckle. I looked over to Becky who drinks, she made a gun using her index finger and thumb, and fired a shot in my general direction.
Becky who drinks wobbled over to me and said we should go back to her hotel room, slurring, "I have something to show you." I replied, "Seen it, not that impressive." She smiled and said, "no, follow, you see."
We both were, at that point, certainly legally intoxicated, but her hotel was within walking distance, so off we went into the warm spring evening.
In the corner of her suite was a large figure, lurking in the dark. Who's that I asked. She turned on the light, a poster of the former actor Antonio Banderas was leaning up against the curtain. I smiled.
There is not always a lot to learn when you are drunk. Last night was nothing special, a night with an old friend who has the verbal dexterity to sell a whale the ocean, and a giant cut out of a fading actor. All in all, I'd say the night started perfectly.
It's what happened when we took the cab to the dance club, carrying Antonia Banderas and a bottle of cheap scotch when things really got out silly.
Angry letters on easter
I was just downstairs watching Netflix with Beth the lesbian wonder dog and I realized, she was not paying attention to the screen at all, and apparently not even listening, so when I stopped the show in the middle of a scene, she just stood up and ran to the door, not a care in the world and unable to tell me about the story arc in the least.
In other words, Beth the lesbian wonder dog is stupid.
So I got an email last week from someone who called me a mysongist, missongest, missinggnomome, something, I forget. Anyway, apparently this particular blog reading person was upset that whenever Beth the lesbian wonder dog is mentioned in this blog, it is always with the word lesbian attached.
This was news to me and it almost motivated me to go back and read through posts on this blog and see if that was indeed the case. To be honest, I never proof these posts and the one time I did go back to read something, I could not stand it, words misspelled, grammar embarrassingly misused and on and on. So I made a pledge never to go back and review any of these posts, no matter what, unless ordered to do so by a judge, and believe me, I think that day is coming.
All that said, letter writing blog reader does not like that Beth the lesbian wonder dog is referred to constantly as Beth the lesbian wonder dog.
I called one of my free lawyers late last night, he was drunk, as far as I could tell, in a bar, somewhere, possibly New Orleans, possibly London, but if that was the case, he would have been getting drunk in the morning, London time. I asked him if referring to Beth the lesbian wonder dog was some sort of criminal offense. "Beth's a lesbian?"
See, I thought Beth the lesbian wonder dog was out to everyone. Actually, now that I think about it, when pretty boy Nathan the international pilot and story telling Abercrombie and Fitch model came to visit for a holiday last year, I do believe he attested to the fact that Beth the lesbian wonder dog was kind of showing a mild interest in possible dating, or something.
Once the shock of Beth the lesbian wonder dogs lesbionic ways filtered out of his juice filled head, my lawyer chastised me for calling and asking inane questions. He hung up mid-sentence, the last words I could hear was him ordering a scotch on the rocks and saying to someone nearby, "fuckin Beth the lesbian wonder dog is a lesbian..."
So, blog reading letter writer, I hope that answers your question. Just so you know, I just read this outloud to Beth the lesbian wonder dog, who is resting on my bed, right behind me. She sighed heavily and rolled over onto her back.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Dusty streets
It's always amazing when the wind blows and the rain falls
I sense that the time is floating, almost pushing gravity
She said she wanted to walk through the garden
I told her I was afraid of vegetables and she smiled.
We held hands then, and I felt at peace.
The times when the brass band would play I found distressing.
People were concerned, but kept their distance,
which was both strange and comforting.
The dancer told me that I needed to sweat,
and for a moment, I believed.
There comes a time when you fall and do not get up,
there comes a time.
Cracked and dusty lips, a harmonica
and yet no one can hear me.
Kiss me with your country mouth and tell me a lie
the rain is bending leaves and the sound it makes sounds like applause
which is inspiring.
There is a pain that runs through you like a dull knife cutting fresh bread
sometimes I like it, reminding me that I used to feel tall.
Sometimes when I am overwhelmed I dwell on disasters.
The wet grass, on my bare feet feels comforting.
I wish it was always so simple, but there is a storm that threatens.
I sense that the time is floating, almost pushing gravity
She said she wanted to walk through the garden
I told her I was afraid of vegetables and she smiled.
We held hands then, and I felt at peace.
The times when the brass band would play I found distressing.
People were concerned, but kept their distance,
which was both strange and comforting.
The dancer told me that I needed to sweat,
and for a moment, I believed.
There comes a time when you fall and do not get up,
there comes a time.
Cracked and dusty lips, a harmonica
and yet no one can hear me.
Kiss me with your country mouth and tell me a lie
the rain is bending leaves and the sound it makes sounds like applause
which is inspiring.
There is a pain that runs through you like a dull knife cutting fresh bread
sometimes I like it, reminding me that I used to feel tall.
Sometimes when I am overwhelmed I dwell on disasters.
The wet grass, on my bare feet feels comforting.
I wish it was always so simple, but there is a storm that threatens.
Friday, April 22, 2011
From the comments
Oh, I want to write long winded posts where I throw in conjecture and opinion and expect everyone to understand. I want to see how many suckers will read my words as if they are worthy. I like some of your posts, but god damned, you can be everything to everyone. You want to answer sex questions, do that, or short stories, do that, or letters or phone calls from distant friends, that works too. But look at these posts, some serious, some sublime and some meaningless gibberish. It makes me, as a reader, wonder what the fuck is wrong with you. Are you dying or something, because that too is alluded to with enough mystery and hints to make me wonder. If you are sick, why post? If you are working, how in fucks name do you have the time to post these long winded meaningless rants? Plus, how is the donate thing working out? If you make money doing this, more power to you, but no one really makes money on the internet, unless there are dicks and shaved pussies involved. Hey, look at me, I am writing a long winded and meaningless post, let me be a guest poster and pay me.
So a few years ago I was filming the artist Mark diSuvero while he installed a large piece at the Currier Museum in New Hampshire. I love Mark diSuvero, have made 3 films about him. He has allowed me into his studio a few times, even gave me a present of a large chunk of metal.
I was standing outside the museum, in the space where the sculpture was going to be installed, shooting the before sort of images that would blend into what it would look like when completed, dramatic. After some time a short man with a beer belly and a look of exasperation on his face walked up to me. He as looking at the massive steel beams that diSuvero would be piecing together to create his sculpture. He looked at me, then at the metal, asked if I was part of the crew, I explained that I was just there documenting the installation.
He shook his head and said he was not impressed with diSuveros work, that is was just pieces of metal welded together that did not make any sense. He was upset that the museum had paid millions of dollars for this so-called art. He said he could easily go to the junk yard and make something equally as complex.
That was it for me. I could not take it anymore. I told him if that was the case, that he was so creative and talented that he could indeed take some scrap metal and make it into a work of art, then he was wasting his time talking to me and he should immediately get himself down to that junk yard. I believe he said I was the sort of person who had sex with their mother, or something, and then he walked away.
I check every now and then and so far, the Currier has not added any new junk yard sculptures to their collection.
So a few years ago I was filming the artist Mark diSuvero while he installed a large piece at the Currier Museum in New Hampshire. I love Mark diSuvero, have made 3 films about him. He has allowed me into his studio a few times, even gave me a present of a large chunk of metal.
I was standing outside the museum, in the space where the sculpture was going to be installed, shooting the before sort of images that would blend into what it would look like when completed, dramatic. After some time a short man with a beer belly and a look of exasperation on his face walked up to me. He as looking at the massive steel beams that diSuvero would be piecing together to create his sculpture. He looked at me, then at the metal, asked if I was part of the crew, I explained that I was just there documenting the installation.
He shook his head and said he was not impressed with diSuveros work, that is was just pieces of metal welded together that did not make any sense. He was upset that the museum had paid millions of dollars for this so-called art. He said he could easily go to the junk yard and make something equally as complex.
That was it for me. I could not take it anymore. I told him if that was the case, that he was so creative and talented that he could indeed take some scrap metal and make it into a work of art, then he was wasting his time talking to me and he should immediately get himself down to that junk yard. I believe he said I was the sort of person who had sex with their mother, or something, and then he walked away.
I check every now and then and so far, the Currier has not added any new junk yard sculptures to their collection.
The snoring homeless man in my office
We had what I consider to be a mild winter. Sure, there was snow and a couple of decent storms, but for me, nothing to complain about.
In the middle of December my youngest child came to me as we were walking downtown, doing some holiday shopping, and she said, "daddy, does that homeless man get cold?"
That is one of the sweet things about children, they remind us that all those things we try to avoid in our lives, homeless people and getting old, are still right there, if we would just bother to pay attention.
"Why yes," honey, I said, "they do get cold."
"Why do they stay outside?"
See, children get to a certain age and it is hard to deal with them in reality. When she was much younger, I could just say things like "because" or something and her tiny little brain would focus on something else, like a butterfly fluttering nearby and that would be the end of it.
Now she has focus and inquisitiveness and all sorts of questions. See, we are not a perfect world, or a perfect country. I am not sure what the options would be, but in some ways, we do not always do what is best for the people who really need help. My daughter, that sweet young girl, does not understand spending priorities. We think it is more important to invade, say, Iraq or Libya, instead of funding mental health and addiction programs. Priorities, we have them and children do not understand such things.
I told her people make choices in life and sometimes those choices lead to sleeping in the street. She was outraged, who would make such a choice, it was cold out.
We walked around for a while longer. She went into a bakery to get a hot roll and I stood outside and called my fiance. We were chatting and planning our upcoming wedding and I lost track of time, turned around and my daughter was standing next to me, and next to her was Herman, the homeless guy she adopted.
We spent the better part of late winter and early spring housing Herman. For the most part my daughter made him meals and made sure he was enjoying the comforts of the cable channels and flat screen high definition television. He liked coffee, so we were always buying coffee. A couple of times he called in orders for Chinese food, but he never bothered to order dishes I was fond of. Herman was fun. He would sprawl out on the couch and just fall asleep, his feet dangling off the edge. Sometimes I would be carrying my briefcase in from the car, late afternoon, and Herman would be sleeping in the flower garden, enjoying a cold nap.
As spring started to warm up the region and flowers began to unfurl from the ground, Herman said it was probably time for him to move on. We stood on our front porch, watching with a certain fondness as Herman slowly walked down our street, stopping once to rifle through a neighbors trash can. Then he turned the corner and was gone.
I looked at my daughter, proud that she righted an injustice and cared enough to help a fellow person who was down on their luck. I smiled, she said why was I smiling and I told her how proud I was of her. She held her nose and said, "he sure did stink, next time, let's adopt a kitty."
Lesson learned.
In the middle of December my youngest child came to me as we were walking downtown, doing some holiday shopping, and she said, "daddy, does that homeless man get cold?"
That is one of the sweet things about children, they remind us that all those things we try to avoid in our lives, homeless people and getting old, are still right there, if we would just bother to pay attention.
"Why yes," honey, I said, "they do get cold."
"Why do they stay outside?"
See, children get to a certain age and it is hard to deal with them in reality. When she was much younger, I could just say things like "because" or something and her tiny little brain would focus on something else, like a butterfly fluttering nearby and that would be the end of it.
Now she has focus and inquisitiveness and all sorts of questions. See, we are not a perfect world, or a perfect country. I am not sure what the options would be, but in some ways, we do not always do what is best for the people who really need help. My daughter, that sweet young girl, does not understand spending priorities. We think it is more important to invade, say, Iraq or Libya, instead of funding mental health and addiction programs. Priorities, we have them and children do not understand such things.
I told her people make choices in life and sometimes those choices lead to sleeping in the street. She was outraged, who would make such a choice, it was cold out.
We walked around for a while longer. She went into a bakery to get a hot roll and I stood outside and called my fiance. We were chatting and planning our upcoming wedding and I lost track of time, turned around and my daughter was standing next to me, and next to her was Herman, the homeless guy she adopted.
We spent the better part of late winter and early spring housing Herman. For the most part my daughter made him meals and made sure he was enjoying the comforts of the cable channels and flat screen high definition television. He liked coffee, so we were always buying coffee. A couple of times he called in orders for Chinese food, but he never bothered to order dishes I was fond of. Herman was fun. He would sprawl out on the couch and just fall asleep, his feet dangling off the edge. Sometimes I would be carrying my briefcase in from the car, late afternoon, and Herman would be sleeping in the flower garden, enjoying a cold nap.
As spring started to warm up the region and flowers began to unfurl from the ground, Herman said it was probably time for him to move on. We stood on our front porch, watching with a certain fondness as Herman slowly walked down our street, stopping once to rifle through a neighbors trash can. Then he turned the corner and was gone.
I looked at my daughter, proud that she righted an injustice and cared enough to help a fellow person who was down on their luck. I smiled, she said why was I smiling and I told her how proud I was of her. She held her nose and said, "he sure did stink, next time, let's adopt a kitty."
Lesson learned.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Delivering quality firemen since 2011
Here is a present for someone. Either those lonely housewives or the freaky gay guys, or even my dog Beth who enjoys firemen as much as anyone.
Stand back
A few years ago I was a serious cyclist. The first year I trained I was on an old Cannondale mountain bike, wearing gray sweatpants and a t-shirt and if it was cold, a sweatshirt and if it was raining, an ill fitting slicker.
When I got into shape I bought a road bike. I started to wear bike gear, spandex shorts, cleats and shirts that could breath out the sweat. Even at that point I needed mileage to really start to loosen up the muscles in my legs. The first 5 miles of each ride was really about loosening up, but right about the fifth mile of my warm up, I would find myself on this flat road, running along the shore of Bainbridge Island, Washington.
I would check my speed and the first year, it was maybe 14 miles per hour. What I did was internally note that and try and ride 10 percent faster the next summer. Every summer I would try and ride 10 percent higher than the previous summer. Starting at 14 miles per hour was a good, low level of speed to grow from. Keep in mind, unless there was snow on the road, I would ride right through all the seasons, but it was my summer average I was paying attention to.
The next summer I averaged 16 miles per hour, beating my 10 percent goal. The next I clocked in at 18 and change. I was strong and constantly riding, so I could will myself to push hard and go faster. I got to the point where, on those flats, with no wind, I was averaging 22 miles per hour.
The real goal for me was always 10 percent. I just wanted to get faster. I lost weight and rode in the wind, the rain and even in snowy conditions. I was an addict and my real high was increasing the speed.
The last few weeks this blog has been gaining new readers on a daily basis. We set a record for most hits in a single day about a week or so ago, a new high. Then yesterday, we blasted right past that number. Today, and it's about 2PM on the east coast as I write this, we have surpassed yesterdays record breaking number by 10 percent.
As a way of thanking you, oh first, since I am competitive this way, please copy this blog address and send it to friends, or enemies, or just old professors, and tell them to check it. I'd like to keep the ten percent increase going. Anyway, as my way of thanking you, and especially those people who click donate on the right side of this page, I am not going to delete any more comments today. That should shut up that particular debate.
Oh, and I can say fuck too. Wow, just typing fuck makes me feel like so much more of a man. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Shit.
Fuck.
When I got into shape I bought a road bike. I started to wear bike gear, spandex shorts, cleats and shirts that could breath out the sweat. Even at that point I needed mileage to really start to loosen up the muscles in my legs. The first 5 miles of each ride was really about loosening up, but right about the fifth mile of my warm up, I would find myself on this flat road, running along the shore of Bainbridge Island, Washington.
I would check my speed and the first year, it was maybe 14 miles per hour. What I did was internally note that and try and ride 10 percent faster the next summer. Every summer I would try and ride 10 percent higher than the previous summer. Starting at 14 miles per hour was a good, low level of speed to grow from. Keep in mind, unless there was snow on the road, I would ride right through all the seasons, but it was my summer average I was paying attention to.
The next summer I averaged 16 miles per hour, beating my 10 percent goal. The next I clocked in at 18 and change. I was strong and constantly riding, so I could will myself to push hard and go faster. I got to the point where, on those flats, with no wind, I was averaging 22 miles per hour.
The real goal for me was always 10 percent. I just wanted to get faster. I lost weight and rode in the wind, the rain and even in snowy conditions. I was an addict and my real high was increasing the speed.
The last few weeks this blog has been gaining new readers on a daily basis. We set a record for most hits in a single day about a week or so ago, a new high. Then yesterday, we blasted right past that number. Today, and it's about 2PM on the east coast as I write this, we have surpassed yesterdays record breaking number by 10 percent.
As a way of thanking you, oh first, since I am competitive this way, please copy this blog address and send it to friends, or enemies, or just old professors, and tell them to check it. I'd like to keep the ten percent increase going. Anyway, as my way of thanking you, and especially those people who click donate on the right side of this page, I am not going to delete any more comments today. That should shut up that particular debate.
Oh, and I can say fuck too. Wow, just typing fuck makes me feel like so much more of a man. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Shit.
Fuck.
Dude - the return of Houdini
Me: What time is it there?
Houdini: Fuck if I know. Why are you calling me this late, and I mean, late your time?
Me: I'm awake.
Houdini: Obviously. What's up.
Me: A couple of women who read my blog wanted to know more about you.
Houdini: So?
Me: That's it. I mean, that's why I called.
Houdini: You should just do an interview with me, I am endlessly fascinating.
Me: Probably not, on both counts, no interview, and not that interesting.
Houdini: My female fans will argue differently.
Me: Don't forget the male fan.
Houdini: I have a male fan?
Me: Oh yeah, the gays love the blog and one took a liking to you.
Houdini: "Took a liking?" What the fuck does that even mean?
Me: Showed an interest.
Houdini: Swell. So you called to tell me some woman wants to meet me?
Me: Would not go that far.
Houdini: Well, it's been nice talking. Call if you become compelling.
Me: Wait. Tell me more about your life.
Houdini: This is an interview. I can hear you typing, what, do you think I'm stupid?
Me: I don't think you're stupid.
Houdini: Why did you emphasize the word think in that sentence.
Me: No, I mean, I doubt you are stupid.
Houdini: Again, mystery words, you doubt that I am stupid? I'm pretty sure you're retarded.
Me: You could not even spell retarded.
Houdini: Don't have to, I am not the one trying to spell right now.
Me: Touche.
Houdini: And I doubt you know how to spell touche.
Me: Spell check.
Houdini: Spell check is what is saving your blog from just being random letters, connected by punctuation.
Me: I should change the official title to "random letters, connected by punctuation.
Houdini: If you had integrity and honesty, you would.
Me: Well, where were you born?
Houdini: Seriously, stop. How are your sheep?
Me: We don't have the sheep anymore.
Houdini: How'd they taste.
Me: Delicious.
Houdini: So, where were you born.
Me: Seriously, the post about you was read by more people than any other post. I am going to do weekly interviews with you, just to keep things interesting.
Houdiini: Hmmmm. (silence).
Me: Hello? Are you there? Did you hang up? What the fuck.
Houdini: Fuck if I know. Why are you calling me this late, and I mean, late your time?
Me: I'm awake.
Houdini: Obviously. What's up.
Me: A couple of women who read my blog wanted to know more about you.
Houdini: So?
Me: That's it. I mean, that's why I called.
Houdini: You should just do an interview with me, I am endlessly fascinating.
Me: Probably not, on both counts, no interview, and not that interesting.
Houdini: My female fans will argue differently.
Me: Don't forget the male fan.
Houdini: I have a male fan?
Me: Oh yeah, the gays love the blog and one took a liking to you.
Houdini: "Took a liking?" What the fuck does that even mean?
Me: Showed an interest.
Houdini: Swell. So you called to tell me some woman wants to meet me?
Me: Would not go that far.
Houdini: Well, it's been nice talking. Call if you become compelling.
Me: Wait. Tell me more about your life.
Houdini: This is an interview. I can hear you typing, what, do you think I'm stupid?
Me: I don't think you're stupid.
Houdini: Why did you emphasize the word think in that sentence.
Me: No, I mean, I doubt you are stupid.
Houdini: Again, mystery words, you doubt that I am stupid? I'm pretty sure you're retarded.
Me: You could not even spell retarded.
Houdini: Don't have to, I am not the one trying to spell right now.
Me: Touche.
Houdini: And I doubt you know how to spell touche.
Me: Spell check.
Houdini: Spell check is what is saving your blog from just being random letters, connected by punctuation.
Me: I should change the official title to "random letters, connected by punctuation.
Houdini: If you had integrity and honesty, you would.
Me: Well, where were you born?
Houdini: Seriously, stop. How are your sheep?
Me: We don't have the sheep anymore.
Houdini: How'd they taste.
Me: Delicious.
Houdini: So, where were you born.
Me: Seriously, the post about you was read by more people than any other post. I am going to do weekly interviews with you, just to keep things interesting.
Houdiini: Hmmmm. (silence).
Me: Hello? Are you there? Did you hang up? What the fuck.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Restrepo director dies
You have probably already read that Tim Hethrington, one of the directors of the stunning documentary Restrepo, has died in Libya.
I watched Restrepo about a week ago and I think it is the sort of film that haunts you for a long time.
News report: Tim Hetherington, the Oscar-nominated co-director (with Sebastian Junger) of the film Restrepo, has been killed while covering the Libyan conflict. Three photojournalists working alongside him were injured, two of them seriously, the Guardian reports.
Here is some of Hethringtons final work.
I watched Restrepo about a week ago and I think it is the sort of film that haunts you for a long time.
News report: Tim Hetherington, the Oscar-nominated co-director (with Sebastian Junger) of the film Restrepo, has been killed while covering the Libyan conflict. Three photojournalists working alongside him were injured, two of them seriously, the Guardian reports.
Here is some of Hethringtons final work.
Diary (2010) from Tim Hetherington on Vimeo.
Big numbers
So, 4-20 was a good day and not just for stoners. This blog set a record for most hits in a single day, a record that was originally set about a week ago.
Now, if you could do me a favor, when you read something on here that is pretty, or nice, or completely fucked up, could you just send a link to the people in your life who would be likely to enjoy it, hate it, or send me threatening mail? That would be fun.
Plus, the kids tell me you can bookmark this site and return to it on an minute by minute basis, because apparently I post about every little detail that passes my eyesight.
Finally, I rarely read the comments and I hardly ever remove them. That said, I know there are people who are not old enough to vote who read this blog, because one or two of them sprung from my loins, or a soiled t-shirt, but either way, write what you want, but try not to cross the line, whatever that is. You'll know it when you cross it? Yes, probably.
Now, if you could do me a favor, when you read something on here that is pretty, or nice, or completely fucked up, could you just send a link to the people in your life who would be likely to enjoy it, hate it, or send me threatening mail? That would be fun.
Plus, the kids tell me you can bookmark this site and return to it on an minute by minute basis, because apparently I post about every little detail that passes my eyesight.
Finally, I rarely read the comments and I hardly ever remove them. That said, I know there are people who are not old enough to vote who read this blog, because one or two of them sprung from my loins, or a soiled t-shirt, but either way, write what you want, but try not to cross the line, whatever that is. You'll know it when you cross it? Yes, probably.
A new record
We just passed the other record for most hits in one day. I guess this many viewers is the new normal.
Please feel free to get funky in the comment section.
And enjoy the picture of the sexy new bike.
The magic beanie
I have a gray beanie I wear in the mornings, even now in Spring, because it controls my hair from having a free and easy life of its own.
This particular beanie is kind of magic, not just because it has the power of control, but it also led the an unbelievable series of events that introduced me to how devious and scary some people can be.
Then, after showing me the bad in some men, it has only shown me how great life can be. I trust in the beanie and for the most part, the beanie has been great for me. It is a great year and the beanie has been the anchor that allows me to sail.
So I was just out run/walking across the entire downtown core, oh wait, tangent time.
I am strong and nimble right now, or as strong and nimble as someone in my "condition" can be, that is, someone who spends an equal amount of time working out and throwing up, so in some ways, I am a anorexic athlete. Now, if you turn me lose to walk fast around a city, there really is no slowing me down, except today.
If you have ever been to a horse race you know that the strongest, fittest, most likely to kick ass horse always gets some extra weight added, which I am not quite sure why, except to maybe level the playing field, as it were.
So there I was, wearing a back pack, as I pranced around downtown, darting in between slow moving obese people and hacking smokers, trying my hardest to race through the city. I was carrying a backpack with about 20 pounds of documents for work. All of a sudden I realized what race horses must get as they round the final turn headed for the finish line, that it is bullshit to have to carry all that extra weight.
I made it back to my office drenched in sweat.
So, while out doing my deliveries, I had my magic beanie, at first wearing it, but then as I started to get over heated, I put it in my pocket. Now, keep in mind, this beanie is more responsible for dumping my fiance than anything else, so it has some sort of power and I like that about it. It is a magic honest beanie, you can not deceive it, charm it or do anything that it will not hold against you. Power magic beanie, away.
I called my dear friend in Seattle and we shared some thoughts about race relations in America and the decline of network television, or something like that, and I was sitting in my buildings lobby and I realized, my beanie was gone. Frantic I jumped up and began to retrace my steps. As the door opened to the outside a large man with a bald head and a smile stood, holding my magic beanie and said, I figured you'd come looking for it.
Magic Beanie, your power astounds me.
They might be Giants
As you know, I was in San Francisco yesterday and everywhere I went, seriously, everywhere I went, this video was blaring. I even ended up dancing on Polk Street.
Smoking
This just in:
NEW YORK – A New Jersey woman was stabbed in the face with a pen on a New York City subway train after she tried to stop a man from lighting a cigarette.
The assault occurred on a crowded No. 3 train near the Chambers Street station during Tuesday's morning rush.
Witnesses told the Daily News and the New York Post that an argument quickly escalated when Evelyn Seeger asked the man not to smoke. The witnesses say two riders were trying to restrain the man when he pulled out a pen and slashed Seeger's face.
Seeger, of Nutley, N.J., was treated at a hospital and released.
Police charged the man with felony assault and criminal possession of a weapon.
NEW YORK – A New Jersey woman was stabbed in the face with a pen on a New York City subway train after she tried to stop a man from lighting a cigarette.
The assault occurred on a crowded No. 3 train near the Chambers Street station during Tuesday's morning rush.
Witnesses told the Daily News and the New York Post that an argument quickly escalated when Evelyn Seeger asked the man not to smoke. The witnesses say two riders were trying to restrain the man when he pulled out a pen and slashed Seeger's face.
Seeger, of Nutley, N.J., was treated at a hospital and released.
Police charged the man with felony assault and criminal possession of a weapon.
Letters, more and more letters
Matt, I have an itch I can't scratch.
Sadly, more and more people write to me with that exact issue.
Matt, there once was a man from Nantucket.
That much is clear.
Hi, I have a question for you. When my husband and I are engaged in sex, sometimes he has a very angry expression on his face. He says he is not mad, but sometimes it is intense and scary. What is going on?
For whatever reason your husband is disgusting and makes me sick.
Matt-I work at a zoo. Recently one of the giraffes, a male, has started to crane his neck and put his nose in a female giraffes private area and he waits and then she pees on his face. I talked to one of the staff zoologists who said this is part of their natural breeding ritual, but for me, it's disgusting. What is your take on this?
While disgusting, it is also natural and to be honest, from what I hear from the Water Sports animals I know, kind of fun. Plus, this is the exact same technique I used to know when it was time to make a baby. How else would you know?
Mat (one T is sexy) - Can you please edit your comment section. A couple of times I have found myself reading them and then someone posts something obscene or unnatural and it traumatizes me. Please, just edit them.
No. Well, first, point me in the direction of the nasty and obscene ones. Then, no, I don't edit comments. Unless they are mean towards me, cause I am shallow that way.
Hi, any suggestions on a good place for a Lent dinner?
Seriously? Are you serious?
Matt- Much more Houdini. Anyone who calls you at 2AM and bothers you has got to be worth a few more posts. Can you call him and just write what you talk about? The post with Houdini is by far my favorite and I think I have read all your blog posts. More please.
Yes, I am interviewing Houdini on almost a daily basis. Soon enough he will be the sole focus of this blog. Just you wait and see.
Matt - What's the story with weddings?
Here is something I have witnessed a few times, the first time it was funny, but now, it makes me mad. OK, so the best man stands up to give a speech and he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and begins to read, "so and so is a great man, a man who gives money to charity, a man who cares about his community, a man who loves deeply and is loved and a man with an extra long (looking at the groom), whats this word, I can't reading your writing."
See, it's funny, but only one time in a lifetime. Then it is moronic. So, best men out there, cut it out. If I see this stunt one more time, I am going to lose it.
Sadly, more and more people write to me with that exact issue.
Matt, there once was a man from Nantucket.
That much is clear.
Hi, I have a question for you. When my husband and I are engaged in sex, sometimes he has a very angry expression on his face. He says he is not mad, but sometimes it is intense and scary. What is going on?
For whatever reason your husband is disgusting and makes me sick.
Matt-I work at a zoo. Recently one of the giraffes, a male, has started to crane his neck and put his nose in a female giraffes private area and he waits and then she pees on his face. I talked to one of the staff zoologists who said this is part of their natural breeding ritual, but for me, it's disgusting. What is your take on this?
While disgusting, it is also natural and to be honest, from what I hear from the Water Sports animals I know, kind of fun. Plus, this is the exact same technique I used to know when it was time to make a baby. How else would you know?
Mat (one T is sexy) - Can you please edit your comment section. A couple of times I have found myself reading them and then someone posts something obscene or unnatural and it traumatizes me. Please, just edit them.
No. Well, first, point me in the direction of the nasty and obscene ones. Then, no, I don't edit comments. Unless they are mean towards me, cause I am shallow that way.
Hi, any suggestions on a good place for a Lent dinner?
Seriously? Are you serious?
Matt- Much more Houdini. Anyone who calls you at 2AM and bothers you has got to be worth a few more posts. Can you call him and just write what you talk about? The post with Houdini is by far my favorite and I think I have read all your blog posts. More please.
Yes, I am interviewing Houdini on almost a daily basis. Soon enough he will be the sole focus of this blog. Just you wait and see.
Matt - What's the story with weddings?
Here is something I have witnessed a few times, the first time it was funny, but now, it makes me mad. OK, so the best man stands up to give a speech and he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and begins to read, "so and so is a great man, a man who gives money to charity, a man who cares about his community, a man who loves deeply and is loved and a man with an extra long (looking at the groom), whats this word, I can't reading your writing."
See, it's funny, but only one time in a lifetime. Then it is moronic. So, best men out there, cut it out. If I see this stunt one more time, I am going to lose it.
None
I was walking briskly through the city this morning, delivering a package and searching for a muffin, which is not a metaphor for anything. So, there I was, waiting for a light to turn green on a busy city street and up ahead of me, on the opposite block I see a fast walking woman in a black dress. I thank to myself, hello fast walking woman, I will soon pass you.
There you have insight into my competitive nature. Inside my head I am competing all the time, whether with myself and some goal I set or, like the woman in the black dress, an innocent person doing the same thing I am doing, but I must will myself to catch and pass.
In fact, a few years ago when I had the time to ride a cycle seriously, I would spot a fellow cyclist somewhere ahead of me and make it my goal to catch and release. That is what I called it, first catch them, pass them and forget them. There was nothing they were aware of, all I was to them was a sweaty guy riding past. It is traditional to say "left" as you pass a cyclist, let them know you are there or something, but not for me. I liked to overtake them stealthily, just pump my legs hard in a low hear and pass them without so much as a word.
Once or twice I was scolded for shocking them, but once or twice I was also trailed by the person I passed, they falling in behind me, letting me lead the way and they could get a good workout that way. Not to worry, people passed me too, although as I got stronger and healthier that happened less and less, but when I was passed I too would pick up my pace and ride with them.
There is always a superior athlete, that is just the way the world works. At some point, back in those days of daily long hard rides, there was a kid who was training for some sort of professional career as a cyclist. Some mornings I would see him far ahead of me and set catching and passing him as my goal. I may have been able to catch him once or twice, but that was either because he was just doing a relaxed ride, or he was on the phone or something. He was an animal on a cycle, no pain and all endurance. It was a good goal to try and catch him and sometimes he would let me ride with him, I think, just to let me know who was king of the cycle.
This morning, waiting for that light to turn green, I kept my eye on the woman in the black dress. She was moving quickly, but I knew, given a green light and a parting of the people crowding the street, I could catch her within a block.
The light flickered green and I stepped off the curb with power. My strides quickly accelerating and I was on a fast pace. People in this city seem to dawdle and walk slowly, not sure why. I weaved and moved between slow moving pedestrians and spotted the woman in the black dress, now a city block ahead and pulling away. Because I had to walk the length of the city, I figured either I would catch her within a couple of blocks or she might even get to her destination before I had a chance.
Then she got held up by a red light. I saw it change and I noticed her slowing. I would not catch her with my speed, but with the stupid traffic signals. Either way, I saw my opportunity, pushed myself into a faster walking gear and sped up to catch and release mode. If I planned this right, just as the light was changing I would be by her side, in step and moving away. It was going to be a perfect moment.
But the light held. I slowed and it was still red and there was now gridlock blocking the crosswalk. I sauntered up to the fast walking woman in the black dress. I stood next to her for a second, turning my head, taking her in. She was older, much older, pasty white skin and wrinkles upon wrinkles. She looked forward for a bit, then she turned her head to catch my gaze. She had crystal clear blue eyes that seemed to smile. I acknowledged the sly look in her eyes and said "good morning sister." She smiled a bit, nodded and said good morning to me, the light turned and she was off.
She was going to beat me through the traffic and onto the sidewalk, disappearing into a crowd of people. I was slowed by a car in the crosswalk. She had sized me up and took off like a firecracker. A nun with endurance. I admired her as I saw her weaving fast through the crowds. Someday I hope to be old, wrinkled, pasty white and kicking ass as I compete on my own level, in my own head with people who may not may not even know it.
There you have insight into my competitive nature. Inside my head I am competing all the time, whether with myself and some goal I set or, like the woman in the black dress, an innocent person doing the same thing I am doing, but I must will myself to catch and pass.
In fact, a few years ago when I had the time to ride a cycle seriously, I would spot a fellow cyclist somewhere ahead of me and make it my goal to catch and release. That is what I called it, first catch them, pass them and forget them. There was nothing they were aware of, all I was to them was a sweaty guy riding past. It is traditional to say "left" as you pass a cyclist, let them know you are there or something, but not for me. I liked to overtake them stealthily, just pump my legs hard in a low hear and pass them without so much as a word.
Once or twice I was scolded for shocking them, but once or twice I was also trailed by the person I passed, they falling in behind me, letting me lead the way and they could get a good workout that way. Not to worry, people passed me too, although as I got stronger and healthier that happened less and less, but when I was passed I too would pick up my pace and ride with them.
There is always a superior athlete, that is just the way the world works. At some point, back in those days of daily long hard rides, there was a kid who was training for some sort of professional career as a cyclist. Some mornings I would see him far ahead of me and set catching and passing him as my goal. I may have been able to catch him once or twice, but that was either because he was just doing a relaxed ride, or he was on the phone or something. He was an animal on a cycle, no pain and all endurance. It was a good goal to try and catch him and sometimes he would let me ride with him, I think, just to let me know who was king of the cycle.
This morning, waiting for that light to turn green, I kept my eye on the woman in the black dress. She was moving quickly, but I knew, given a green light and a parting of the people crowding the street, I could catch her within a block.
The light flickered green and I stepped off the curb with power. My strides quickly accelerating and I was on a fast pace. People in this city seem to dawdle and walk slowly, not sure why. I weaved and moved between slow moving pedestrians and spotted the woman in the black dress, now a city block ahead and pulling away. Because I had to walk the length of the city, I figured either I would catch her within a couple of blocks or she might even get to her destination before I had a chance.
Then she got held up by a red light. I saw it change and I noticed her slowing. I would not catch her with my speed, but with the stupid traffic signals. Either way, I saw my opportunity, pushed myself into a faster walking gear and sped up to catch and release mode. If I planned this right, just as the light was changing I would be by her side, in step and moving away. It was going to be a perfect moment.
But the light held. I slowed and it was still red and there was now gridlock blocking the crosswalk. I sauntered up to the fast walking woman in the black dress. I stood next to her for a second, turning my head, taking her in. She was older, much older, pasty white skin and wrinkles upon wrinkles. She looked forward for a bit, then she turned her head to catch my gaze. She had crystal clear blue eyes that seemed to smile. I acknowledged the sly look in her eyes and said "good morning sister." She smiled a bit, nodded and said good morning to me, the light turned and she was off.
She was going to beat me through the traffic and onto the sidewalk, disappearing into a crowd of people. I was slowed by a car in the crosswalk. She had sized me up and took off like a firecracker. A nun with endurance. I admired her as I saw her weaving fast through the crowds. Someday I hope to be old, wrinkled, pasty white and kicking ass as I compete on my own level, in my own head with people who may not may not even know it.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Four letter word
It does not take a rocket scientist to understand that I am a basic man, nothing special here, just move on. I do not consider myself super special. I know very little about the religion I feel closest to. I have only had unsuccessful relationships with brutal and dishonest people. I have wasted money on terrible and wasteful concepts. I have a dog, but she disrespects me. I am a regular man.
Except for one thing. For whatever reason, people like to tell me things that often times make me sad.
I was setting up my camera and some microphones for work today. A nice conference room in a modern building. On days like this, I am always the first person there and almost always the last to leave, it is how I am. So, alone, I was setting things up and this beautiful woman appears in the doorway. She asks who I am, I tell her, she says she has the right room and comes in and starts to set up her own stuff. We are both early.
She is stunning. Naturally beautiful and aging incredibly well. I am really just minding my own business and out of the blue she asks if she can talk with me.
Now, this is a completely professional environment. A professional office building, with professional people in professional offices. I was wearing a suit, a white shirt and tie. It would be hard not to think of me as a professional.
Of course, I answered, without regard to any sort of doors (trap or otherwise) that could be opening.
"I just found out last night that my daughter was raped."
She began to cry.
"I promised not to tell my ex-husband or any other family members."
She really started to cry.
"I don't know what to do. What to say. I don't know anything."
I was at a loss. Personally, and I told her this later, I feel rapists should be dragged out of their dorm rooms, or crack dens, or office parks, and shot. That is true, it is how I think of these people. I thought this many years before I had daughters, but once I had daughters, I knew that would be the only option available for rapists if I was ever named king.
She told me what happened. Daughter is a freshman, got drunk, ended up in a room. Now, anyone in college has probably been in some sort of similar situation. Here is my attitude, if you are a man and can not seduce a college student without getting them so black out drunk they can't recognize you in a line up, then first off you should not be having sex with drunk girls and second, you should be dragged from your dorm room and shot.
Oh, I know, she got drunk, so in some way, she got what she deserved, at least that is probably the mantra of college boys around the world. See, god did something amazing to men. If men get black out drunk, they can't perform sexually. Now, god may have done the same for women, but for rapists, that impediment does not come into play.
So I tried to lend a helping ear to this woman who was so obviously overwhelmed with pain and frustration. There was not much I could say. College students do stupid things? Could I say that? I could have told her that I know women who have been sexually assaulted and some are damaged for life. I should have told her that she should leave and go pick up her daughter and take her home and let he be alone for a few months.
Instead, I just listened. When there was a pause, I tried to explain that her daughter should be able to get as drunk as she wants without the threat of sexual assault. I think people should get drunk, or high, especially in college, but that does not open a door to rape. Guys should get drunk too, say stupid thinks, pull stunts that they will have to pay for, like painting obscene words on the administration building walls. What guys should never do is take advantage of a drunken woman.
Yet, this mother, this wonderful woman, this person showing up to do her job, is burdened with the thought that after successfully getting her daughter to the edge of adulthood, must now help her daughter hold it together after an unimaginable assault.
The way my job works is that I am almost always the first person in the room and almost always the last to leave. At the end of the day, as the crowd of people had left, it was me and the mother, alone again. She was packing up her stuff, I was packing mine. As she was preparing to leave she said she wanted to thank me for listening. I looked at her, a tear coming to my eye, gently rolling down my cheek, and I said, "I am the father of two young women and your daughter has survived my greatest fear. My heart goes out to you."
We hugged, she cried. Then she left. Walking down a long hallway in a professional office building, surrounded by professional people, doing their jobs.
Except for one thing. For whatever reason, people like to tell me things that often times make me sad.
I was setting up my camera and some microphones for work today. A nice conference room in a modern building. On days like this, I am always the first person there and almost always the last to leave, it is how I am. So, alone, I was setting things up and this beautiful woman appears in the doorway. She asks who I am, I tell her, she says she has the right room and comes in and starts to set up her own stuff. We are both early.
She is stunning. Naturally beautiful and aging incredibly well. I am really just minding my own business and out of the blue she asks if she can talk with me.
Now, this is a completely professional environment. A professional office building, with professional people in professional offices. I was wearing a suit, a white shirt and tie. It would be hard not to think of me as a professional.
Of course, I answered, without regard to any sort of doors (trap or otherwise) that could be opening.
"I just found out last night that my daughter was raped."
She began to cry.
"I promised not to tell my ex-husband or any other family members."
She really started to cry.
"I don't know what to do. What to say. I don't know anything."
I was at a loss. Personally, and I told her this later, I feel rapists should be dragged out of their dorm rooms, or crack dens, or office parks, and shot. That is true, it is how I think of these people. I thought this many years before I had daughters, but once I had daughters, I knew that would be the only option available for rapists if I was ever named king.
She told me what happened. Daughter is a freshman, got drunk, ended up in a room. Now, anyone in college has probably been in some sort of similar situation. Here is my attitude, if you are a man and can not seduce a college student without getting them so black out drunk they can't recognize you in a line up, then first off you should not be having sex with drunk girls and second, you should be dragged from your dorm room and shot.
Oh, I know, she got drunk, so in some way, she got what she deserved, at least that is probably the mantra of college boys around the world. See, god did something amazing to men. If men get black out drunk, they can't perform sexually. Now, god may have done the same for women, but for rapists, that impediment does not come into play.
So I tried to lend a helping ear to this woman who was so obviously overwhelmed with pain and frustration. There was not much I could say. College students do stupid things? Could I say that? I could have told her that I know women who have been sexually assaulted and some are damaged for life. I should have told her that she should leave and go pick up her daughter and take her home and let he be alone for a few months.
Instead, I just listened. When there was a pause, I tried to explain that her daughter should be able to get as drunk as she wants without the threat of sexual assault. I think people should get drunk, or high, especially in college, but that does not open a door to rape. Guys should get drunk too, say stupid thinks, pull stunts that they will have to pay for, like painting obscene words on the administration building walls. What guys should never do is take advantage of a drunken woman.
Yet, this mother, this wonderful woman, this person showing up to do her job, is burdened with the thought that after successfully getting her daughter to the edge of adulthood, must now help her daughter hold it together after an unimaginable assault.
The way my job works is that I am almost always the first person in the room and almost always the last to leave. At the end of the day, as the crowd of people had left, it was me and the mother, alone again. She was packing up her stuff, I was packing mine. As she was preparing to leave she said she wanted to thank me for listening. I looked at her, a tear coming to my eye, gently rolling down my cheek, and I said, "I am the father of two young women and your daughter has survived my greatest fear. My heart goes out to you."
We hugged, she cried. Then she left. Walking down a long hallway in a professional office building, surrounded by professional people, doing their jobs.
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