Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
War crimes
Ratko Mladic, renowned war criminal and all around evil guy was arrested last week. Now, on this blog, this would not make it on here since this blog seems completely focused on fashion and boogers, but for Ratko, we make an exception.
First, Ratko is the Osama Bin Ladin of white, racist, raping, killing, war criminals. Second he has the best name of any evil war criminal since Hitler. Now, I don't know how to pronounce Ratko's last name, but really, when your first name is Ratko and you kill people, rape people, steal from people and are charged with crimes against humanity, well, I think we can all agree Ratko is the perfect single name for you. Kind of like Madonna, only without the steroids and fake religion.
So, why am I thinking of Ratko this beautiful morning? Well, much like Osama, Ratko has been on the run for many years and unlike Osama, Ratko will face a judge and jury and will face some sort of life in jail and so on, the victims will not feel much better, at least the ones who are alive, but Ratko will no longer be a free man and in some cases, that is what the justice system does.
Now, the problem for me is that Ratko is now off my list of people I can claim to have seen at the local Macy's store. Oh, I know what you're thinking, I am one of those nuts who calls the police with witness accounts of dangerous thugs or suspicious rocks or something, no, not me, not at all.
I keep a dossier of Interpols top ten criminals, one that I keep with me at all times. I also keep the top ten FBI most wanted list, and with both of these, I keep a toll free number to contact the authorities when I see a person of interest. Now, the question you must be asking yourself is, what is the possibility that I, a guy in Pittsburgh, might just happen to run into a world famous criminal mastermind at a mall or Trader Joe's? Wrong question.
In the 90's one of the FBI's most wanted criminals was an unknown whacko who went by the name the Unabomber, a strange man who sent home made bombs to universities and businesses that this Unabomber character thought was ruining the world, or something. See, Unabomber man did not make a lot of sense, but then again, for a long time, he was able to send bombs to professors and inventors and get away with it. The FBI has a hotline, which is my favorite was of communication.
So for many years, I would call the FBI hotline and I would describe in detail the person I thought might be the Unabomber, often supplying a car license plate number or a couple of times, a home address. How was I able to get these things? Because the license plate and home address belonged to my brother, who it turned out was not the Unabomber, but for me, the fun was in the investigation, not the actual arrest.
Imagine my sadness when the actual loony Unabomber was arrested, charged and convicted. Sad times, sad times indeed. Now, I have had to improvise over the past few years. Homeland Security has visited my brothers house twice looking for Osama Bin Ladin and Interpol has both stopped him at the airport in London and watched his house for two weeks after I called breathlessly telling them that I saw Ratko Mladic hanging his laundry outside of my brothers house a few times.
The Ratkos arrest and the Unabomber behind bars and Osama swimming with the fishes, I am getting close to the end. Oh sure, there will always be an FBI top ten list, but much like Billboards top ten, there will never again be Michael Jackson and there will never again be Osama Bin Ladin, Unabomber and Ratko. Plus, my brother moved and refuses to give me his new address.
First, Ratko is the Osama Bin Ladin of white, racist, raping, killing, war criminals. Second he has the best name of any evil war criminal since Hitler. Now, I don't know how to pronounce Ratko's last name, but really, when your first name is Ratko and you kill people, rape people, steal from people and are charged with crimes against humanity, well, I think we can all agree Ratko is the perfect single name for you. Kind of like Madonna, only without the steroids and fake religion.
So, why am I thinking of Ratko this beautiful morning? Well, much like Osama, Ratko has been on the run for many years and unlike Osama, Ratko will face a judge and jury and will face some sort of life in jail and so on, the victims will not feel much better, at least the ones who are alive, but Ratko will no longer be a free man and in some cases, that is what the justice system does.
Now, the problem for me is that Ratko is now off my list of people I can claim to have seen at the local Macy's store. Oh, I know what you're thinking, I am one of those nuts who calls the police with witness accounts of dangerous thugs or suspicious rocks or something, no, not me, not at all.
I keep a dossier of Interpols top ten criminals, one that I keep with me at all times. I also keep the top ten FBI most wanted list, and with both of these, I keep a toll free number to contact the authorities when I see a person of interest. Now, the question you must be asking yourself is, what is the possibility that I, a guy in Pittsburgh, might just happen to run into a world famous criminal mastermind at a mall or Trader Joe's? Wrong question.
In the 90's one of the FBI's most wanted criminals was an unknown whacko who went by the name the Unabomber, a strange man who sent home made bombs to universities and businesses that this Unabomber character thought was ruining the world, or something. See, Unabomber man did not make a lot of sense, but then again, for a long time, he was able to send bombs to professors and inventors and get away with it. The FBI has a hotline, which is my favorite was of communication.
So for many years, I would call the FBI hotline and I would describe in detail the person I thought might be the Unabomber, often supplying a car license plate number or a couple of times, a home address. How was I able to get these things? Because the license plate and home address belonged to my brother, who it turned out was not the Unabomber, but for me, the fun was in the investigation, not the actual arrest.
Imagine my sadness when the actual loony Unabomber was arrested, charged and convicted. Sad times, sad times indeed. Now, I have had to improvise over the past few years. Homeland Security has visited my brothers house twice looking for Osama Bin Ladin and Interpol has both stopped him at the airport in London and watched his house for two weeks after I called breathlessly telling them that I saw Ratko Mladic hanging his laundry outside of my brothers house a few times.
The Ratkos arrest and the Unabomber behind bars and Osama swimming with the fishes, I am getting close to the end. Oh sure, there will always be an FBI top ten list, but much like Billboards top ten, there will never again be Michael Jackson and there will never again be Osama Bin Ladin, Unabomber and Ratko. Plus, my brother moved and refuses to give me his new address.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Re: are you good at get f*cked - 26
I get as much junk email as anyone, but for the past week or so, I have received one with the above referenced subject line about 10 times. First, this is the best subject line ever, because right off it makes you think.
First, how do you answer that question?
And, and....well, it has a "re" involved. Which mean, in theory, this is an email in response to something I supposedly wrote, so it demand my attention, because if you follow the logic of this email chain, I sent someone the original email with a subject line, "Re: are you good at get f*cked - 26."
The strange thing is, I often do send such an email, but that is neither here nor there.
Now, along with the above spam email, I also received this one, or at least this subject line, "Boobs as big as balloons" - which is of course very important to me. Now, these various emails end up in my spam email folder, which is where they belong of course, but it sure makes me wonder. One thing, who is stupid enough to actually open these? And second, if you are that stupid, then I guess you probably do have an answer to Are you goood at get f*cked or Boobs as big as balloons.
There is never a shortage of stupids, even stupids who respond to stupid emails.
First, how do you answer that question?
And, and....well, it has a "re" involved. Which mean, in theory, this is an email in response to something I supposedly wrote, so it demand my attention, because if you follow the logic of this email chain, I sent someone the original email with a subject line, "Re: are you good at get f*cked - 26."
The strange thing is, I often do send such an email, but that is neither here nor there.
Now, along with the above spam email, I also received this one, or at least this subject line, "Boobs as big as balloons" - which is of course very important to me. Now, these various emails end up in my spam email folder, which is where they belong of course, but it sure makes me wonder. One thing, who is stupid enough to actually open these? And second, if you are that stupid, then I guess you probably do have an answer to Are you goood at get f*cked or Boobs as big as balloons.
There is never a shortage of stupids, even stupids who respond to stupid emails.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
One of those moments
New love, true love, is something we all know and respect, I think. I mean, it's kind of like when you see a pregnant woman and even the skeeziest of scummy people will hold a door open. Every where I have been in live, people get out of the way of pregnant women, they are honored on almost an animalistic level. Even crackhead pregnant women get the door held for them. There are parts of our world that we all just seem to understand. So when we see new love, we honor it, we look at it and hope for it. New love is better than old love because it does not have a history, yet.
So I was sitting on my porch and I heard this conversation. Since I did not see the conversationalists, I will call them S and B.
S; Well, you know, I think you're sexy as all get out.
B; You say that, but how do I know you mean it.
S; I'm here right now, ain't I?
B; Yeah.
S; And baby, you get your hair done, you will be so hot.
B; Thought I was hot.
S; Oh, you is, but get it done, you super hot.
B; Yeah baby.
S; You in my heart baby.
B; What's that?
S; You in my heart baby, you have a place in my heart.
B; Yeah? I don't know what that means.
S; You know, baby, you inside of me. In here.
B; Yeah. OK.
S; Serious.
B; Yeah, OK.
S; And baby, when we together, it's magic.
B; That much is true.
S; Magic.
B; You amaze me.
S; No, you amaze me baby.
B; Yeah?
S; Oh yeah baby.
B; You wanna go back inside?
S; Serious?
B; Serious.
Right around there I was feeling all kinds of guilty. I mean, obviously this was some sort of ghetto seduction I was listening in on, right there, in my own front yard, and dang if it did not make any sense at all to me. Baby this, serious that, not a word making a bit of sense. Kids these days.
Then I stood up to get another beer and I looked over the railing. Laying there in front of me, my lawyer, Beth Libitard, getting all sorts of cozy with Edith the slug. I wanted to throw up. My lord, if she was not my lawyer, I swear I would kick her out of my house.
So I was sitting on my porch and I heard this conversation. Since I did not see the conversationalists, I will call them S and B.
S; Well, you know, I think you're sexy as all get out.
B; You say that, but how do I know you mean it.
S; I'm here right now, ain't I?
B; Yeah.
S; And baby, you get your hair done, you will be so hot.
B; Thought I was hot.
S; Oh, you is, but get it done, you super hot.
B; Yeah baby.
S; You in my heart baby.
B; What's that?
S; You in my heart baby, you have a place in my heart.
B; Yeah? I don't know what that means.
S; You know, baby, you inside of me. In here.
B; Yeah. OK.
S; Serious.
B; Yeah, OK.
S; And baby, when we together, it's magic.
B; That much is true.
S; Magic.
B; You amaze me.
S; No, you amaze me baby.
B; Yeah?
S; Oh yeah baby.
B; You wanna go back inside?
S; Serious?
B; Serious.
Right around there I was feeling all kinds of guilty. I mean, obviously this was some sort of ghetto seduction I was listening in on, right there, in my own front yard, and dang if it did not make any sense at all to me. Baby this, serious that, not a word making a bit of sense. Kids these days.
Then I stood up to get another beer and I looked over the railing. Laying there in front of me, my lawyer, Beth Libitard, getting all sorts of cozy with Edith the slug. I wanted to throw up. My lord, if she was not my lawyer, I swear I would kick her out of my house.
80 Degrees and a cycle
Today is the day.
A perfect sunny day. My cycle is lubed, the tires inflated perfectly. It has been years since this cycle has been on a road and today is the day it returns to duty. If you page back on this log there are numerous entries related to a bike crash a few years ago, subsequent brain damage, treatment on and on it goes. The bottom of all those lines is that for a few years and for a variety of reasons I have been staying off roads when it came to cycling.
There is a track near Pittsburgh, paved and clean and well kept. I have never been on it, but I have driven past it. Today I put my cycle in my car, which I have always found ironic when I have seen others do it, but today, it is what I did. I drove to the track, got out, dressed and go on my bike.
I have never been on a track like this before, with the sloped turns and perfectly laid asphalt. There were a couple of riders circling the track, one slow and just out for a stretch, one in lycra and speeding. I just wanted to see what it felt like to be on pavement. I started slow, there was a decent flat so I peddled and the wind it my face was just a little shocking. I did a loop at a nice pace, only passing the slow guy, but most important for me, not being passed by anyone, which is often one of my internal goals.
Second loop my legs felt strong and I was not breathing any differently, so I decided to push myself a bit and shifted into a harder gear and started to peddle faster. I passed the slow guy again and on the flat, I passed the fast guy and as I approached one of the curves, with no warning what so ever, I was passed on the right so quickly it was shocking. It was one of those speed demons, on a bike worth more than my car, no fat on this guy and he was pumping hard. I pulled in behind him, as is my way. Find the fastest and try and stay with him. That lasted about ten seconds. I quickly realized I am in shape only indoors.
Outside riding is a lot more complex than indoor riding. Elements play a factor, there was a kids party in the inner part of the track, so there was human movement to keep an eye on, and always the bike and the road. Since it has been years since I have been on asphalt, I was strictly monitoring how the bike felt, listening for any new noises, strange little tweaks that might be coming from a chair or tire. A flat tire at 25 miles an hour can be very painful. I have been told by medical professionals once or twice that my brain might not respond well to another trauma.
I did the loop a few more times. I was riding the entire loop at a strong pace now, with discomfort in my legs and lower back. Every time I came near the parking area I started to think of ending my test day, but instead, I would talk myself into another loop. Then three cyclists joined. All lycra clad and obviously in cycling shape. Since they were just warming up, I passed them with ease and continued on my way. As I was approaching them to lap them the second time, they seemed to shift and all fell into a line and picked up their pace. I passed them on the outside and it took a lot of work. I did another loop without any of them passing me and I called it a day. The battery on my odometer is no longer working, so I could not say what my average speed was, how many miles I went or the fastest I was able to go. It did feel good. The sun and wind. The other cyclists. The road under my tires.
A perfect sunny day. My cycle is lubed, the tires inflated perfectly. It has been years since this cycle has been on a road and today is the day it returns to duty. If you page back on this log there are numerous entries related to a bike crash a few years ago, subsequent brain damage, treatment on and on it goes. The bottom of all those lines is that for a few years and for a variety of reasons I have been staying off roads when it came to cycling.
There is a track near Pittsburgh, paved and clean and well kept. I have never been on it, but I have driven past it. Today I put my cycle in my car, which I have always found ironic when I have seen others do it, but today, it is what I did. I drove to the track, got out, dressed and go on my bike.
I have never been on a track like this before, with the sloped turns and perfectly laid asphalt. There were a couple of riders circling the track, one slow and just out for a stretch, one in lycra and speeding. I just wanted to see what it felt like to be on pavement. I started slow, there was a decent flat so I peddled and the wind it my face was just a little shocking. I did a loop at a nice pace, only passing the slow guy, but most important for me, not being passed by anyone, which is often one of my internal goals.
Second loop my legs felt strong and I was not breathing any differently, so I decided to push myself a bit and shifted into a harder gear and started to peddle faster. I passed the slow guy again and on the flat, I passed the fast guy and as I approached one of the curves, with no warning what so ever, I was passed on the right so quickly it was shocking. It was one of those speed demons, on a bike worth more than my car, no fat on this guy and he was pumping hard. I pulled in behind him, as is my way. Find the fastest and try and stay with him. That lasted about ten seconds. I quickly realized I am in shape only indoors.
Outside riding is a lot more complex than indoor riding. Elements play a factor, there was a kids party in the inner part of the track, so there was human movement to keep an eye on, and always the bike and the road. Since it has been years since I have been on asphalt, I was strictly monitoring how the bike felt, listening for any new noises, strange little tweaks that might be coming from a chair or tire. A flat tire at 25 miles an hour can be very painful. I have been told by medical professionals once or twice that my brain might not respond well to another trauma.
I did the loop a few more times. I was riding the entire loop at a strong pace now, with discomfort in my legs and lower back. Every time I came near the parking area I started to think of ending my test day, but instead, I would talk myself into another loop. Then three cyclists joined. All lycra clad and obviously in cycling shape. Since they were just warming up, I passed them with ease and continued on my way. As I was approaching them to lap them the second time, they seemed to shift and all fell into a line and picked up their pace. I passed them on the outside and it took a lot of work. I did another loop without any of them passing me and I called it a day. The battery on my odometer is no longer working, so I could not say what my average speed was, how many miles I went or the fastest I was able to go. It did feel good. The sun and wind. The other cyclists. The road under my tires.
Friday, May 27, 2011
American pie
I am not sure why I love this video or why I am sitting here with tears in my eyes.
So be it.
So be it.
An exceptional day
I was recently in the office of a major and exceptional financial manager on Wall Street. It was an exceptional office, for an exceptional man, in the midst of a truly exceptional life.
Sometimes I do these short films for clients and sometimes I end up in places where I am the equivalent of the man on the moon, if ever there was such a thing, because, that's right, I am a Mooner. I will not believe man walked on the moon until I see evidence.
So I was hired to do some sort of promotional short for this incredibly exceptional banker and there I was, in his exceptional office, shooting him on my super high tech new HD camera from behind a series of monitors and screens that cover his desk. His face would get all serious as he would read some detail on a screen, his eyes darting to another screen, recognizing some important data, he might smile a little, focus somewhere else and pick up his phone and scream some detail into his ear piece.
So it went. Younger than me, smarter than me, certainly wealthier than me and probably all my friends added together, and best of all, he seemed so sad and bored that I wanted to cry. Oh sure, the screens would keep his attention and the minutia of trades and valuation and dancing on the head of a needle all day would keep him high in a way only true junkies could understand, but at the end of the day, his life was boring and tedious, this I would learn at dinner.
If you ever wonder how American society works, go out to an exclusive bistro on Manhattans Upper East Side with a wealthy financier and his latest wife thing. This is a woman who may have been in her 20's and if she was not, she was surgically doing everything in her power to appear that way. Almost skeletal in appearance, she was wearing a slight dress that barely covered her emaciated skinny little arms. She had that big beautiful hair that Italian woman always seem so proud of and Jewish women always tie up in shame. She was neither. When I asked her nationality all she would say was "I grew up in Florida."
The joy of being super wealthy is you do not have to pretend to do much, like have interesting conversations with women who forgot how to eat or that Florida might not be a nationality. No, when you are wealthy, especially super wealthy, all you have to do is be wealthy and a certain type of woman will find you compelling. I am pretty sure these sorts of arrangements have been going on for a really long time, since the oldest profession seems to suggest that women at some point knew there was a value in their sexuality and looks. At least for men with gold.
Sad banker has gold. Lots and lots of gold. So what that buys him in modern society is a great table in an exclusive bistro at one of the best addresses in the world, not really eating a well prepared meal that would cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.
Unhappy banker started drinking in the car ride over and ordered another scotch when we were seated. His beautiful and doll like wife was already seated, drinking a white colored beverage, probably wine, and I was downing shots of tequila just so I might be able to forget.
Skelator, this wife sort of subject, would not order food, so we continued to drink, with the sad banker orderubg a bloody steak and I had the vegetarian plate. Over dinner I asked the sad banker what the short film I was creating would be used for. He said it was part of a new web series the company was creating. Boring I thought, but remained interested because if a wealthy banker and his minions would all be needing short films for a new web project and I became the go-to guy, I could someday have a skeleton wife, drink endlessly and wear nice shiny clothes. Where could I sign up?
At some point, post steak, but before Skeletor had to run to the ladies room to join all the other Upper East Side matrons in a nice round of vomiting, I asked Sad Banker how he got into the whole financial services industry. He studied here and there, he told me, did not have focus, but needed work, a friend had a newly minted MBA from Harvard and had landed a great job and helped him in the door. That was it, the rest of finding a niche and exposing it.
Me; You have a great office.
SB; I know, right?
Me; Car service, great office, beautiful wife.
SB; Hot piece on the side.
Me; Well, see I did not know about that.
SB; Man's got to have options.
Me; Spoken like a true banker.
SB; Guess the lingo comes with the territory.
Me; Funny how that works. You look sad to me.
SB; How can you say that?
Me; Just an observation.
SB; I have a house in the Hamptons. Never mind, I could go on and on. It's stuff, and I have a lot.
Me; And you are happy then?
SB; Depends on how you define happy.
Me; That's what I meant. I know you have stuff and a beautiful wife.
SB; She is beautiful, right?
Me; I just said that, yeah. But you don't seem happy.
SB; What is it with you liberals always trying to find a way to devalue capitalism?
Me; Huh? I did nothing like that. I am talking about you.
SB; Trust me, I have stuff, I drive nice cars, sleep in great beds, fly first class or private and life is great.
Me; Which makes the whole dour look you have seem remarkable.
SB; Still not sure where you are going with this. I have an exceptional life. As you noticed, an exceptional wife, office, clothes, vacations, the list, really, could go one and on. What I don't get is what sort of agenda you might have.
Me; No agenda. Just seems ironic, you have everything, right? And yet, you seem to have an air of deep apprehension.
SB; Well, it might have been that I was being followed by you and your crew all day.
Me; That's true. But we follow people all the time, after a few minutes almost everyone gets used to it.
SB; So that's not it? What's your guess Dr. Freud?
Me; Oh, see, right there, you do that avoidance thing by bringing in my medical background.
SB; You have a medical background? I thought you made films.
Me; Sometimes, but sometimes I pretend to have a medical background.
SB; Pretend?
Me; We should have more tequila.
SB; You're the only one drinking tequila.
Me; Probably for the better.
I woke up at a friends loft in Chelsea. Not sure how I got there, or why I was wearing what appeared at first to be a hand me down costume from Peter Pan. I did find some clothes that fit a little better than green leotards and I went to breakfast.
Sometimes I do these short films for clients and sometimes I end up in places where I am the equivalent of the man on the moon, if ever there was such a thing, because, that's right, I am a Mooner. I will not believe man walked on the moon until I see evidence.
So I was hired to do some sort of promotional short for this incredibly exceptional banker and there I was, in his exceptional office, shooting him on my super high tech new HD camera from behind a series of monitors and screens that cover his desk. His face would get all serious as he would read some detail on a screen, his eyes darting to another screen, recognizing some important data, he might smile a little, focus somewhere else and pick up his phone and scream some detail into his ear piece.
So it went. Younger than me, smarter than me, certainly wealthier than me and probably all my friends added together, and best of all, he seemed so sad and bored that I wanted to cry. Oh sure, the screens would keep his attention and the minutia of trades and valuation and dancing on the head of a needle all day would keep him high in a way only true junkies could understand, but at the end of the day, his life was boring and tedious, this I would learn at dinner.
If you ever wonder how American society works, go out to an exclusive bistro on Manhattans Upper East Side with a wealthy financier and his latest wife thing. This is a woman who may have been in her 20's and if she was not, she was surgically doing everything in her power to appear that way. Almost skeletal in appearance, she was wearing a slight dress that barely covered her emaciated skinny little arms. She had that big beautiful hair that Italian woman always seem so proud of and Jewish women always tie up in shame. She was neither. When I asked her nationality all she would say was "I grew up in Florida."
The joy of being super wealthy is you do not have to pretend to do much, like have interesting conversations with women who forgot how to eat or that Florida might not be a nationality. No, when you are wealthy, especially super wealthy, all you have to do is be wealthy and a certain type of woman will find you compelling. I am pretty sure these sorts of arrangements have been going on for a really long time, since the oldest profession seems to suggest that women at some point knew there was a value in their sexuality and looks. At least for men with gold.
Sad banker has gold. Lots and lots of gold. So what that buys him in modern society is a great table in an exclusive bistro at one of the best addresses in the world, not really eating a well prepared meal that would cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.
Unhappy banker started drinking in the car ride over and ordered another scotch when we were seated. His beautiful and doll like wife was already seated, drinking a white colored beverage, probably wine, and I was downing shots of tequila just so I might be able to forget.
Skelator, this wife sort of subject, would not order food, so we continued to drink, with the sad banker orderubg a bloody steak and I had the vegetarian plate. Over dinner I asked the sad banker what the short film I was creating would be used for. He said it was part of a new web series the company was creating. Boring I thought, but remained interested because if a wealthy banker and his minions would all be needing short films for a new web project and I became the go-to guy, I could someday have a skeleton wife, drink endlessly and wear nice shiny clothes. Where could I sign up?
At some point, post steak, but before Skeletor had to run to the ladies room to join all the other Upper East Side matrons in a nice round of vomiting, I asked Sad Banker how he got into the whole financial services industry. He studied here and there, he told me, did not have focus, but needed work, a friend had a newly minted MBA from Harvard and had landed a great job and helped him in the door. That was it, the rest of finding a niche and exposing it.
Me; You have a great office.
SB; I know, right?
Me; Car service, great office, beautiful wife.
SB; Hot piece on the side.
Me; Well, see I did not know about that.
SB; Man's got to have options.
Me; Spoken like a true banker.
SB; Guess the lingo comes with the territory.
Me; Funny how that works. You look sad to me.
SB; How can you say that?
Me; Just an observation.
SB; I have a house in the Hamptons. Never mind, I could go on and on. It's stuff, and I have a lot.
Me; And you are happy then?
SB; Depends on how you define happy.
Me; That's what I meant. I know you have stuff and a beautiful wife.
SB; She is beautiful, right?
Me; I just said that, yeah. But you don't seem happy.
SB; What is it with you liberals always trying to find a way to devalue capitalism?
Me; Huh? I did nothing like that. I am talking about you.
SB; Trust me, I have stuff, I drive nice cars, sleep in great beds, fly first class or private and life is great.
Me; Which makes the whole dour look you have seem remarkable.
SB; Still not sure where you are going with this. I have an exceptional life. As you noticed, an exceptional wife, office, clothes, vacations, the list, really, could go one and on. What I don't get is what sort of agenda you might have.
Me; No agenda. Just seems ironic, you have everything, right? And yet, you seem to have an air of deep apprehension.
SB; Well, it might have been that I was being followed by you and your crew all day.
Me; That's true. But we follow people all the time, after a few minutes almost everyone gets used to it.
SB; So that's not it? What's your guess Dr. Freud?
Me; Oh, see, right there, you do that avoidance thing by bringing in my medical background.
SB; You have a medical background? I thought you made films.
Me; Sometimes, but sometimes I pretend to have a medical background.
SB; Pretend?
Me; We should have more tequila.
SB; You're the only one drinking tequila.
Me; Probably for the better.
I woke up at a friends loft in Chelsea. Not sure how I got there, or why I was wearing what appeared at first to be a hand me down costume from Peter Pan. I did find some clothes that fit a little better than green leotards and I went to breakfast.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Trouble in paradise
As presidential candidates go, Jasper Flem has been remarkable. He announced his candidacy last week and already he is the leading candidate for the Republican nomination for president by the latest Fox News-Mens Warehouse poll.
That said, the mud-slinging is well underway and our man, and I say "our" man because quite honestly, Jasper Flem really does represent us, now, doesn't he? When you step back and think about it, this is a man with two children and a wife, and seven more children from various employees, maids, auto repair professionals and even an ice cream vendor. He is just like us.
Which is why we should all be supporting Jasper Flem.
Anyway, here is his latest missile defense from the Flem campaign. HERE
Family ties
I am plotting my summer break, because if anyone knows anything about summer breaks, it is not me, but I hope to know a lot more by August.
In planning my break, I thought of attending the annual Tulip and Book Festival in the small town of Oxford. Now, I hate flowers, more than most people hate hugging.
Do not get me started on the hugging thing. I knew this hideous monster out west who for whatever internet reason felt a need to hug me whenever we saw one another. Now, it was not just that she tended to wear these flowing dresses meant to hide the underbrush of whatever it was growing in the far reaching territory of her body, but it was also the organic and all natural smell that emanated from each and every crevice, of which there were plenty.
It has never been about the hugging, it's always about hugging the individual.
Anyway, that is obviously neither here not there. When traveling to Oxford there are few if any real places a family can stay. I was going to stay at the classic hotel, The Brinkman, but apparently it exploded a couple of weeks ago. Seems that over the winter some meth heads took over the basement, set up an industrial sized lab and let it explode as spring set it.
I called Bronkmans, at least I think it's Bronkmans. See, as many of you have surmised, I am completely unable to focus.
Now would be as good of a time as any, starting June 1, and for most of the summer, this blog will be posting/hosting a chapter a day of Branson, the very worst detective crime novel ever. The nice thing, you get the novel for free, the other nice thing, it too will have some little links embedded just for fun and the exceptionally nice thing, I will not be writing anything for the summer.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The joy of weakness
Oh I hear your complaints, not enough sleep, or food, or sex. It's what you do, complain. Now, me? I never complain. I am happy to be here, to be able to dance and make fajitas and watch bad movies.
I was thinking about this while I was having a cupcake at my new favorite place for cupcakes, but I can not mention the name for two reasons. One is that if I mention the name it will be flooded with goofballs and idiots, make that more goofballs and idiots and lord knows, I have more than my fair share of goofballs and idiots in my life right now.
There were a couple of well dressed women sharing a cupcake when I first sat down. Of all the cupcake places in America, why did these two loud mouth morons have to pick my new favorite place?
Which got me to thinking about the space shuttle. How come, whenever politicians talk about budget cuts they never ever talk about the money spent on space travel? Why is this the one program that remains off limits? Oh, they can cut Medicare and road safety and lord knows they have already cut funding for bike lanes, but you ask them to stop buying 10 thousand dollar boxes of tissues for astronauts and everyone goes silent.
Strange.
So there I was, about to polish off one of the best cupcakes that the good lord sweet jesus ever made and this loud brash and decidedly uncupcake worthy woman looks over at me, catches my eye, catches me catching her catch my eye and looks at me with disgust and spits out some cupcake while she spews, "what in fuck are you lookin at?"
What indeed I wanted to say. Instead, I took a large bite of my vanilla bean cupcake and said, "flarm phlemple clammer tamjoe."
That right there may be the real reason that candidates like Tim Pawlenty an Jasper Flem are showing so much promise. See people are tired and angry, more angry that tired, and those are the ones not on some sort of medication. I called my ex this morning and said, "honey, what were those pills that seemed to make you so happy when we were together?" The answer? "Birth control pills."
Another reason ex always appears before her name. I could go on and if you know anything about this blog is is that rest assured, I will. But not right now, because first I have to get to my Yoga class and after that, I need to get my muffler repaired. You know, in a perfect world, you would be able to do both at the same time. Am I right, or am I right?
I was thinking about this while I was having a cupcake at my new favorite place for cupcakes, but I can not mention the name for two reasons. One is that if I mention the name it will be flooded with goofballs and idiots, make that more goofballs and idiots and lord knows, I have more than my fair share of goofballs and idiots in my life right now.
There were a couple of well dressed women sharing a cupcake when I first sat down. Of all the cupcake places in America, why did these two loud mouth morons have to pick my new favorite place?
Which got me to thinking about the space shuttle. How come, whenever politicians talk about budget cuts they never ever talk about the money spent on space travel? Why is this the one program that remains off limits? Oh, they can cut Medicare and road safety and lord knows they have already cut funding for bike lanes, but you ask them to stop buying 10 thousand dollar boxes of tissues for astronauts and everyone goes silent.
Strange.
So there I was, about to polish off one of the best cupcakes that the good lord sweet jesus ever made and this loud brash and decidedly uncupcake worthy woman looks over at me, catches my eye, catches me catching her catch my eye and looks at me with disgust and spits out some cupcake while she spews, "what in fuck are you lookin at?"
What indeed I wanted to say. Instead, I took a large bite of my vanilla bean cupcake and said, "flarm phlemple clammer tamjoe."
That right there may be the real reason that candidates like Tim Pawlenty an Jasper Flem are showing so much promise. See people are tired and angry, more angry that tired, and those are the ones not on some sort of medication. I called my ex this morning and said, "honey, what were those pills that seemed to make you so happy when we were together?" The answer? "Birth control pills."
Another reason ex always appears before her name. I could go on and if you know anything about this blog is is that rest assured, I will. But not right now, because first I have to get to my Yoga class and after that, I need to get my muffler repaired. You know, in a perfect world, you would be able to do both at the same time. Am I right, or am I right?
Sunday, May 22, 2011
The benefits of friends
It has been years since I could talk with a friend without fear of recrimination or even interruption. I had forgotten how nice it is to just get together and spend time talking. I have often been called a guy who is all talk, and for a while that was just not the case, I was a man without much talk in my life. In fact, in many ways, I chose to remain silent, to be talkless as it were. Sometimes it is healthy to not spend a lot of time talking, to remove yourself from the conversation and just listen and watch.
Yesterday I made the decision to call a fairly new friend and get together just to talk, no other agenda. Talk is what we did. Sure it started simply, as it should. Keep it peaceful so neither one of us gets hurt. There were a couple of glasses on the table. A candle burning and some sort of perfume in the air. After an hour or so of talking one of use decided that it would be OK to put more effort into the communication. Talking turned to heated debate which quickly turned to almost arguing, but how long can one really argue passionately with a friend?
Soon enough we shared a glass of wine and we were quietly talking. Again, this peaceful, slow talk that is important and brings about a sense of calm. Though in our friendship, the passion can arise out of the blue, one moment we are quietly talking, the next, almost screaming and soon after, a whisper.
So it went till early this morning. All that talk had taken its toll on my brain and my body. During the long hours of almost constant talking even my body was feeling the effects and I found myself shifting to more comfortable positions, contorting myself after hours of talk, so I could remain comfortable while still talking away, always talking.
Now the nice thing about my friend is we are on the same wavelength when it comes to these sorts of marathon talk sessions. We both enter knowing that the bottle of wine would be finished about the same time we were. There we were, right around 3 AM, almost completely talked out, with just one glass of wine for us to share.
Just when I was going to admit that I had not spent a night talking like this in almost a decade and that this was the sort of conversation people only dream about or see in movies, we began a new conservation, this one laced with metaphor and innuendo. All of a sudden, what had been a night of wild conversation mixed with cerebral moments of extreme calm, had become a storm of word play the likes of which I may have been completely unprepared for. This is the sort of deep conversation that leaves you sore for days, mentally sore, I think.
I sipped the last glass of wine and shared it with my beneficial friend. We smiled. So much talk, I believe for both of us, had left our lips tired, sore and puffy. We would need rest, but the conversation was so enticing, the communication so filled with passion and respect, neither could break away, even for an instant.
I dragged myself home early this morning, intellectually spent after a night of talk, endless, wild, seductive and creative talk. Nothing off limits will leave you like that, tired, whirling and exhausted in the best way possible.
Yesterday I made the decision to call a fairly new friend and get together just to talk, no other agenda. Talk is what we did. Sure it started simply, as it should. Keep it peaceful so neither one of us gets hurt. There were a couple of glasses on the table. A candle burning and some sort of perfume in the air. After an hour or so of talking one of use decided that it would be OK to put more effort into the communication. Talking turned to heated debate which quickly turned to almost arguing, but how long can one really argue passionately with a friend?
Soon enough we shared a glass of wine and we were quietly talking. Again, this peaceful, slow talk that is important and brings about a sense of calm. Though in our friendship, the passion can arise out of the blue, one moment we are quietly talking, the next, almost screaming and soon after, a whisper.
So it went till early this morning. All that talk had taken its toll on my brain and my body. During the long hours of almost constant talking even my body was feeling the effects and I found myself shifting to more comfortable positions, contorting myself after hours of talk, so I could remain comfortable while still talking away, always talking.
Now the nice thing about my friend is we are on the same wavelength when it comes to these sorts of marathon talk sessions. We both enter knowing that the bottle of wine would be finished about the same time we were. There we were, right around 3 AM, almost completely talked out, with just one glass of wine for us to share.
Just when I was going to admit that I had not spent a night talking like this in almost a decade and that this was the sort of conversation people only dream about or see in movies, we began a new conservation, this one laced with metaphor and innuendo. All of a sudden, what had been a night of wild conversation mixed with cerebral moments of extreme calm, had become a storm of word play the likes of which I may have been completely unprepared for. This is the sort of deep conversation that leaves you sore for days, mentally sore, I think.
I sipped the last glass of wine and shared it with my beneficial friend. We smiled. So much talk, I believe for both of us, had left our lips tired, sore and puffy. We would need rest, but the conversation was so enticing, the communication so filled with passion and respect, neither could break away, even for an instant.
I dragged myself home early this morning, intellectually spent after a night of talk, endless, wild, seductive and creative talk. Nothing off limits will leave you like that, tired, whirling and exhausted in the best way possible.
Another crazy candidate
As if the ever racist candidate Jasper Flem, currently the leading republican presidential candidate for president in 2012, was not enough, now we have this guy.
Enjoy.
And order pizza, because that can be the only reason this guy is running.
Enjoy.
And order pizza, because that can be the only reason this guy is running.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Gay Gay Gay
Hey the idiots who run the state of Tennis or something want teachers in public schools to not admit they are gay, or something like that.
Now, I was in high school a few days ago, until the police arrived and I had to "escape" via a trail no one was familiar with in the back of the school, side note, trails no one knows about are often unkempt and dangerous.
So the good, or bad, elected idiots of this southern state (why is it always the southern states?) have outlawed the teaching of gay. Now if you spend as much time as I do in high schools you would know two things, tight pants are hardly every appropriate and almost 90 percent of all teachers are gay, the other ten percent are what is known in the medical community as Super Gay.
So, the question the lawmakers, in their imperial wisdom, forgot to ask themselves is this, if you are not allowed to "gay it up" in schools anymore, just where are these teachers supposed to be wearing their dresses (male teachers of course) and Carharts and leather riding gear (females)?
Now I am all for gay people returning to Closetland or wherever it is gay teachers come from. Everyone knows that gay teachers make students feel gay and then pretty soon we have a generation of gays everywhere. Gay here, gay there, here a gay, there a gay, everywhere...well you get the concept.
So, lawmakers from the former great state of Inbredland, I'm sorry, that's what all the other states call you behind your back, the lawmakers of Tennis (or whatever) I want you to know we are proud of you. The people of America (those living in trailers) are proud of you. You have taken a giant step back in history and that is always fun to watch. What's next? Blacks only allowed in the back of the bus? Hey, that's a pretty good idea and it would totally work in the south, right?
Since Presidential candidate Jasper Flem usually has something to say about these things, he already has released a statement on the gays. That is here.
Now, I was in high school a few days ago, until the police arrived and I had to "escape" via a trail no one was familiar with in the back of the school, side note, trails no one knows about are often unkempt and dangerous.
So the good, or bad, elected idiots of this southern state (why is it always the southern states?) have outlawed the teaching of gay. Now if you spend as much time as I do in high schools you would know two things, tight pants are hardly every appropriate and almost 90 percent of all teachers are gay, the other ten percent are what is known in the medical community as Super Gay.
So, the question the lawmakers, in their imperial wisdom, forgot to ask themselves is this, if you are not allowed to "gay it up" in schools anymore, just where are these teachers supposed to be wearing their dresses (male teachers of course) and Carharts and leather riding gear (females)?
Now I am all for gay people returning to Closetland or wherever it is gay teachers come from. Everyone knows that gay teachers make students feel gay and then pretty soon we have a generation of gays everywhere. Gay here, gay there, here a gay, there a gay, everywhere...well you get the concept.
So, lawmakers from the former great state of Inbredland, I'm sorry, that's what all the other states call you behind your back, the lawmakers of Tennis (or whatever) I want you to know we are proud of you. The people of America (those living in trailers) are proud of you. You have taken a giant step back in history and that is always fun to watch. What's next? Blacks only allowed in the back of the bus? Hey, that's a pretty good idea and it would totally work in the south, right?
Since Presidential candidate Jasper Flem usually has something to say about these things, he already has released a statement on the gays. That is here.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Houdini experiment
I was sound asleep at 3AM this morning and my phone was ringing. My lover rolled over, grabbed it, saw who it was, pushed it into my face and said "Houdini."
Answering, I said:
Me; Yeah.
Houdini; Can you come pick me up?
Me; I thought you were in Afghanistan.
Houdini; I was.
Me; Where are you now?
Houdini: Blocknik Coffee, they're open 24 hours.
Me; My Blocknik Coffee?
Houdini; One and the same. Sign says they are going out of business.
Me; That sign is at least 5 years old.
Houdini; Ah, the old Persian rug story.
Me; That seems to be the gag.
Houdini; At some point you have to go out of business, may as well advertise it and people will come in feeling sorry for you, for years.
Me; So, 3 AM and you call to talk about rugs.
Houdini; You still have the Volkswagon van?
Me; I do, it's in the garage, not sure if it starts. Why?
Houdini; Gonna need it.
Me; Look, I have kids, if this involves the transport of illegal weapons, drugs or bodies, I can not get involved.
Houdini; You're already involved. Remember Karl Tivey?
Me; Yeah.
Houdini; He's here, with me.
Me; I'm on my way.
I quickly got dressed, got in my old Volkswagon van, tried to start it, it would not, so I opened the garage door and pushed it down the alley, which has a slight slope, I got some speed, jumped back into the drivers seat and put the clutch in, popped it into third gear and let the clutch out. The engine popped and complained, but started and picked up the old sound of it's better years. Right as I got the engine started I hit the brakes and a police car came around the corner, lights on like a drunken Christmas tree.
Over his loudspeaker the officer ordered me to turn off the engine. I rolled down the window and told him that I could not do that. Over the loudspeaker he said, in a very firm voice this time, turn off the engine. Again, I told him that I was unable to do that. Another police car was now behind me. I turned off the engine.
It took about five minutes to explain why I was in an old Volkswagon van, pushing it down an ally in a high crime neighborhood at 3:15 in the morning. I told them how happy I was to see such vigilance from the police. We parted ways. I drove to Blocknik Coffee.
The Blocknik Coffee shop was something of an institution, opened 24 hours every day of the year, right next to the university, always busy and has always managed to change with the times. Now they have hired a bunch of kids with haircuts and tattoos and slightly arrogant attitudes. The place has those big black and white square tiles on the floor and bright lights, so it stands out and almost emits a glow from a block away.
I walked in. Houdini came up to me first. Tall, pale white, bright red hair, he had not changed in the 20 years I had known him, sans a wrinkle or two around his eyes when he smiled and he smiled a lot. We hugged. Tivey came up behind him, we were not close friends. He was shorter than Houdini, plump cheeks from too many donuts and not enough situps. We shook hands. I followed them to a table filled with empty to-go cups and what appeared to be gardening tools.
Sitting down, I looked at Houdini, who did not seem to want to make eye contact. I looked at Tivey, who stared at me with a blank look in his empty eyes.
Me; So guys, you get me down here at this ungodly hour, what's the problem.
Tivey; I killed a bitch.
Me; Of course you did. And I suppose the garden tools are so we can dismember her in the car.
Tivey; Would that be OK?
Me; Sure, I hardly ever use the old van anymore.
Tivey; So, how's the kids?
Me; They're fine. One of them was just found not-guilty for treason.
Tivey; Imagine that, not-guilty, you must be proud.
Me; Could not be prouder.
Tivey; And your lover?
Me; They're fine.
Tivey; They?
Me; Why not.
Tivey; Good point.
Me; So, I can try this one more time. Why am I here?
Houdini; A few years ago Karl and I borrowed your van to drive to Montreal, remember.
Me; I think borrow is kind of a loose term.
Houdini; You were in Amsterdam, how could we have asked?
Me; Email, phone, twitter. Plenty of ways to stay in touch. Facebook.
Tivey; Facebook is a good way to stay in touch.
Me; I don't trust Facebook. I now do all my social networking at Squirrel&Moose.com.
Tivey; Seriously?
Me; Yeah.
Houdini; He's jerking you off.
Me; Am not.
Houdini; Are too.
Tivey; Yeah, stop jerking me off.
Me; So if I remember, you two took my van a couple years ago while I was traveling.
Tivey; We tried to ask. Did not know how to get in touch.
Houdini; Plus, I guess at the time we figured you would have said no.
Me; I would have not said no, I like you guys.
Houdini; But we needed it to transport illegal aliens from Montreal to Boston.
Me; Seriously?
Tivey; That's the truth.
They continued. So, while I was sunbathing on the shores of the Liptenshitz River in Amsterdam, these two morons were using my classic '66 VW Van to transport French Canadians to work in exclusive Boston restaurants for almost nothing. That may not make sense, the French Canadians were paid a fair wage, Houdini and Tivey were basically paid enough to cover gas to drive these illegals into the country. They did the trip 17 times that summer, all the while I was bike riding the streets of Amsterdam and having the worst time of my life.
Me; So again, why do you need the van tonight? Why did you wake me at 3?
Houdini; Well, see, apparently one of the beauties lost an earring.
Tivey; That part is true.
Me; Wait, are you saying that you woke me, had me drive all the way down here, so you could look through a van for an earring lost 2 years ago on a run of illegal French Canadians into Boston?
Houdini; Not exactly. Well, actually.has it really been 2 years?
Tivey; Yes, I do believe that to be true.
Me; Go look.
Tivey sauntered out and opened the back sliding door, dove into the empty area and within a few minutes came out hold a small earring between his thumb and index finger. He had a big dumb smile on his face.
Me; You guys are going to now track down the woman who lost the earring?
Houdini: I guess.
Me; Wait, did you not know there was an earring in the back of the van?
Houdini; Karl remembered someone talking about it in French.
Me; Two years ago?
Houdini; They were in the van talking about it 2 years ago, yeah.
Me; But you just got around to checking for it tonight, I mean this morning, at 3?
Houdini: I've had too much coffee, got to use the little boys room.
Me; Do you really call it the lille boys room still?
Houdini; (standing) That's what it says on the door.
Houdini stood and walked to the door that has "little boys" written on it. I sat, picked up one of the to-go cups, smelled it, took a sip and began to relax. I sat there for a good ten minutes and realized Houdini had been in the "little boys" room for a long time. I looked out at the van, the sliding door was closed and Karl Tivey was no where to be seen. I stood and walked to the little boys room door, opened it, which opened to a long hallway. I followed it, another door, which opened to the employee parking lot behind the building. Houdini and Tivey were gone.
I got in the van, drove home, crawled into bed, my lover asked where I had been and I said I just went out for a little coffee and we fell back asleep.
Answering, I said:
Me; Yeah.
Houdini; Can you come pick me up?
Me; I thought you were in Afghanistan.
Houdini; I was.
Me; Where are you now?
Houdini: Blocknik Coffee, they're open 24 hours.
Me; My Blocknik Coffee?
Houdini; One and the same. Sign says they are going out of business.
Me; That sign is at least 5 years old.
Houdini; Ah, the old Persian rug story.
Me; That seems to be the gag.
Houdini; At some point you have to go out of business, may as well advertise it and people will come in feeling sorry for you, for years.
Me; So, 3 AM and you call to talk about rugs.
Houdini; You still have the Volkswagon van?
Me; I do, it's in the garage, not sure if it starts. Why?
Houdini; Gonna need it.
Me; Look, I have kids, if this involves the transport of illegal weapons, drugs or bodies, I can not get involved.
Houdini; You're already involved. Remember Karl Tivey?
Me; Yeah.
Houdini; He's here, with me.
Me; I'm on my way.
I quickly got dressed, got in my old Volkswagon van, tried to start it, it would not, so I opened the garage door and pushed it down the alley, which has a slight slope, I got some speed, jumped back into the drivers seat and put the clutch in, popped it into third gear and let the clutch out. The engine popped and complained, but started and picked up the old sound of it's better years. Right as I got the engine started I hit the brakes and a police car came around the corner, lights on like a drunken Christmas tree.
Over his loudspeaker the officer ordered me to turn off the engine. I rolled down the window and told him that I could not do that. Over the loudspeaker he said, in a very firm voice this time, turn off the engine. Again, I told him that I was unable to do that. Another police car was now behind me. I turned off the engine.
It took about five minutes to explain why I was in an old Volkswagon van, pushing it down an ally in a high crime neighborhood at 3:15 in the morning. I told them how happy I was to see such vigilance from the police. We parted ways. I drove to Blocknik Coffee.
The Blocknik Coffee shop was something of an institution, opened 24 hours every day of the year, right next to the university, always busy and has always managed to change with the times. Now they have hired a bunch of kids with haircuts and tattoos and slightly arrogant attitudes. The place has those big black and white square tiles on the floor and bright lights, so it stands out and almost emits a glow from a block away.
I walked in. Houdini came up to me first. Tall, pale white, bright red hair, he had not changed in the 20 years I had known him, sans a wrinkle or two around his eyes when he smiled and he smiled a lot. We hugged. Tivey came up behind him, we were not close friends. He was shorter than Houdini, plump cheeks from too many donuts and not enough situps. We shook hands. I followed them to a table filled with empty to-go cups and what appeared to be gardening tools.
Sitting down, I looked at Houdini, who did not seem to want to make eye contact. I looked at Tivey, who stared at me with a blank look in his empty eyes.
Me; So guys, you get me down here at this ungodly hour, what's the problem.
Tivey; I killed a bitch.
Me; Of course you did. And I suppose the garden tools are so we can dismember her in the car.
Tivey; Would that be OK?
Me; Sure, I hardly ever use the old van anymore.
Tivey; So, how's the kids?
Me; They're fine. One of them was just found not-guilty for treason.
Tivey; Imagine that, not-guilty, you must be proud.
Me; Could not be prouder.
Tivey; And your lover?
Me; They're fine.
Tivey; They?
Me; Why not.
Tivey; Good point.
Me; So, I can try this one more time. Why am I here?
Houdini; A few years ago Karl and I borrowed your van to drive to Montreal, remember.
Me; I think borrow is kind of a loose term.
Houdini; You were in Amsterdam, how could we have asked?
Me; Email, phone, twitter. Plenty of ways to stay in touch. Facebook.
Tivey; Facebook is a good way to stay in touch.
Me; I don't trust Facebook. I now do all my social networking at Squirrel&Moose.com.
Tivey; Seriously?
Me; Yeah.
Houdini; He's jerking you off.
Me; Am not.
Houdini; Are too.
Tivey; Yeah, stop jerking me off.
Me; So if I remember, you two took my van a couple years ago while I was traveling.
Tivey; We tried to ask. Did not know how to get in touch.
Houdini; Plus, I guess at the time we figured you would have said no.
Me; I would have not said no, I like you guys.
Houdini; But we needed it to transport illegal aliens from Montreal to Boston.
Me; Seriously?
Tivey; That's the truth.
They continued. So, while I was sunbathing on the shores of the Liptenshitz River in Amsterdam, these two morons were using my classic '66 VW Van to transport French Canadians to work in exclusive Boston restaurants for almost nothing. That may not make sense, the French Canadians were paid a fair wage, Houdini and Tivey were basically paid enough to cover gas to drive these illegals into the country. They did the trip 17 times that summer, all the while I was bike riding the streets of Amsterdam and having the worst time of my life.
Me; So again, why do you need the van tonight? Why did you wake me at 3?
Houdini; Well, see, apparently one of the beauties lost an earring.
Tivey; That part is true.
Me; Wait, are you saying that you woke me, had me drive all the way down here, so you could look through a van for an earring lost 2 years ago on a run of illegal French Canadians into Boston?
Houdini; Not exactly. Well, actually.has it really been 2 years?
Tivey; Yes, I do believe that to be true.
Me; Go look.
Tivey sauntered out and opened the back sliding door, dove into the empty area and within a few minutes came out hold a small earring between his thumb and index finger. He had a big dumb smile on his face.
Me; You guys are going to now track down the woman who lost the earring?
Houdini: I guess.
Me; Wait, did you not know there was an earring in the back of the van?
Houdini; Karl remembered someone talking about it in French.
Me; Two years ago?
Houdini; They were in the van talking about it 2 years ago, yeah.
Me; But you just got around to checking for it tonight, I mean this morning, at 3?
Houdini: I've had too much coffee, got to use the little boys room.
Me; Do you really call it the lille boys room still?
Houdini; (standing) That's what it says on the door.
Houdini stood and walked to the door that has "little boys" written on it. I sat, picked up one of the to-go cups, smelled it, took a sip and began to relax. I sat there for a good ten minutes and realized Houdini had been in the "little boys" room for a long time. I looked out at the van, the sliding door was closed and Karl Tivey was no where to be seen. I stood and walked to the little boys room door, opened it, which opened to a long hallway. I followed it, another door, which opened to the employee parking lot behind the building. Houdini and Tivey were gone.
I got in the van, drove home, crawled into bed, my lover asked where I had been and I said I just went out for a little coffee and we fell back asleep.
The insane shoe defense
I knew this day would come.
Almost every morning I check a couple of sites to see what is happening in the world. This morning while I am reading the electronic front page of the New York Times a little yellow show began dancing in the lower left corner of my screen. This was the future I used to warn my friends about. Instead of finishing the article on Israels reaction to the presidents controversial speech, I started watching the dancing shoe.
A beautiful yellow shoe, it seemed to be talking to me, seducing me with both its structure and style. It swirled and pranced, the rest of the page faded to blank as my only focus was on the shoe. I had to have it. A primal power within me focused solely on that shoe, it must be mine. I clicked the ad. A second page dedicated to that shoe and it's variety of soft and sexy other colors appeared. Immediately I clicked on the yellow one, the original seductress. Again, a new page, now we were alone. For 110 dollars it would be mine. My mind reeling with the possibilities, but once I came back to reality, I knew in my heart that one pair could not ever be enough. I ordered 5. Later at checkout I changed it to 10.
Now I wait. I wait for those shoes. Ballet slippers in a variety of earth tones. My patience knows no bounds. I will wait. Shipping was free at the Jcrew catalog. I am waiting. I guess, since I am going to be waiting for a couple of days, I may as well go back to the New York Times site and check out what has happened in the world while I have been busy.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Flem attacks
I am monotoring the reaction to yesterdays heroic and awkward announcement that famed industrialist and gentleman barber Jasper Flem is running for the republican nomination for president.
Of course Fox News bent over forward to praise the wealthy Southern gentlemen. Bill O'Reilly said during his show, "I'm insane and you're stupid" last night that "Flem is the sort of Republican Reagan would be proud to call son, or Dudly, or almost anything." He then went on to call democrats the walking dead, dangerous to all of humanity and devils. Later that night clinically insane Glen Beck crowed the Flem "is sexy in his tights and bat suit." No one was quite sure what to make of this, so basically, it was a typical day on the Glen Beck show.
Rush Limbaugh, the enormous mouthpiece of the retarded and dangerous went on his show yesterday and said, "folks, I am going to tell your something about Jasper Flem. This is a real American hero. Flem has been around for a long time, in the background of the political movement we all support. Flem is one of us. Flem will represent us, not just the super rich, but the regular rich and even the mostly wealthy. Now, I am not fully supporting him at this point, but when I look at the pool of candidates to beat the Kenyan from Hawaii, I know Jasper Flem has the best chance of bringing this country back to where it belongs, giving hige tax cuts to me and my super wealthy friends and cutting the welfare programs and safety net that the poor people continually take advantage of. My friends, Jasper Flem is the real deal."
Most disturbing was the reaction of a woman described as the former governor of Alaska. Now, don't get me wrong, but Alaska was once an actual state of the United States before the purging of useless land and oil wells in the fall of 2004. Ms. Palin took to her Twitter platform last last night and without any sense of irony claimed that Jasper Flem is, "an empty suit, with no real ideas, no real plans for the future and no Twitter or Facebook accounts."
While dining with his wife and one of his maids last night in rural West Virginia, Flem only said, "I've had way too much beer to discuss that empty headed idiot." With that he threw his doggy bag at the TMZ camera operator, Fench kissed his maid and gave his wife the keys to his truck and drunkenly said, on camera, "honey, make yourself useful and get daddy his truck."
Flems official reaction to the Palin attack is here.
This blog is dedicated not only to the Flem campaign, how could we not be, but also to helping spread Flem every chance we get. As Jasper Flem has already said at every juncture, "folks, it's always better to spread Flem than Santorum."
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
President Flem
"I want to bring White back to the White House," and with those telling words, Jasper Flem, famed industrialist, father of two lovely all white children and half a dozen or so not so white children, announced this morning that he would be running for president as a republican candidate.
Flem, who kicked off his candidacy in the flooded Memphis Museum of Cowboys and Adulterers told the rapt audience that this country "can not afford to go back to the tax and spend policies of the former administration" although no one in attendance knew what administration he was referring too.
Flem, who grew up in a trailer in rural Alabama, said that his motivation to seek the nomination came from "being real fed up with those suit wearing hippicrits in DC." As he said this he adjusted his overalls and spat twice.
Flems' wife, the former Baton Rouge beauty queen Joan Fillibaster Flem was not at the announcement, choosing instead to stay at the couples palatial estate outside of Greensburg South Carolina. When asked about his absent wife, the candidate turned to the New York Times reporter covering the announcement and said, 'well, unlike intellectual Jews, our women like to cook."
Flem was asked about the controversial nature of his campaigns website, where the tag line reads, "bringing white back to the white house." Flem laughed off the controversy, "well, there you liberal media elites go again, trying to stir the shit. The American people know the truth and I am speaking the truth, so be it."
In the past two weeks alone Jasper Flem has had to answer a number of personal questions regarding his apparent insatiable lust for Latin women. The Associated Press and The National Enquirer both published long winded essays on the former Bottle King of the Souths illegitimate children, at last count 7, but everyone admits that number is certainly going to go higher. At this mornings announcement, Flem took the controversy head on. "I will say this, if you have never been with a Latin woman, you have no clue what I am talking about, but those of you who have traveled South of the Border will know, once you cross the border, you ain't coming back without at least one or two extra ponchos." The gathered reporters almost all began to scratch their collective heads.
In most election cycles a candidate like Flem might not be taken seriously, but with the recent withdrawal of super serious candidates like Donald Trump and OJ Simpson, the republicans are reaching out to lesser qualified possibilities. A recent Pew Poll showed that Jasper Flem is already 37 points ahead of Newt Gingrich in Iowa, New Hampshire and most of the South. When asked about this powerful lead and any advice he would have for the former speaker turned Fox News blow hard, Flem said this, "my friend Newt should have taken my advice back in '94, come with me to Brazil is what I told him then, and instead he went to the cancer ward and divorced his wife. I kept telling Newt, not now, not now. Did he listen to old Jasper? No. Now who is on top of the polls Newt? Huh? Can't hear you..."
Flem left the museum, got in his truck and began his campaign by stopping at the gas station across the street and filling up his tank while waving at women who drove by.
Flem, who kicked off his candidacy in the flooded Memphis Museum of Cowboys and Adulterers told the rapt audience that this country "can not afford to go back to the tax and spend policies of the former administration" although no one in attendance knew what administration he was referring too.
Flem, who grew up in a trailer in rural Alabama, said that his motivation to seek the nomination came from "being real fed up with those suit wearing hippicrits in DC." As he said this he adjusted his overalls and spat twice.
Flems' wife, the former Baton Rouge beauty queen Joan Fillibaster Flem was not at the announcement, choosing instead to stay at the couples palatial estate outside of Greensburg South Carolina. When asked about his absent wife, the candidate turned to the New York Times reporter covering the announcement and said, 'well, unlike intellectual Jews, our women like to cook."
Flem was asked about the controversial nature of his campaigns website, where the tag line reads, "bringing white back to the white house." Flem laughed off the controversy, "well, there you liberal media elites go again, trying to stir the shit. The American people know the truth and I am speaking the truth, so be it."
In the past two weeks alone Jasper Flem has had to answer a number of personal questions regarding his apparent insatiable lust for Latin women. The Associated Press and The National Enquirer both published long winded essays on the former Bottle King of the Souths illegitimate children, at last count 7, but everyone admits that number is certainly going to go higher. At this mornings announcement, Flem took the controversy head on. "I will say this, if you have never been with a Latin woman, you have no clue what I am talking about, but those of you who have traveled South of the Border will know, once you cross the border, you ain't coming back without at least one or two extra ponchos." The gathered reporters almost all began to scratch their collective heads.
In most election cycles a candidate like Flem might not be taken seriously, but with the recent withdrawal of super serious candidates like Donald Trump and OJ Simpson, the republicans are reaching out to lesser qualified possibilities. A recent Pew Poll showed that Jasper Flem is already 37 points ahead of Newt Gingrich in Iowa, New Hampshire and most of the South. When asked about this powerful lead and any advice he would have for the former speaker turned Fox News blow hard, Flem said this, "my friend Newt should have taken my advice back in '94, come with me to Brazil is what I told him then, and instead he went to the cancer ward and divorced his wife. I kept telling Newt, not now, not now. Did he listen to old Jasper? No. Now who is on top of the polls Newt? Huh? Can't hear you..."
Flem left the museum, got in his truck and began his campaign by stopping at the gas station across the street and filling up his tank while waving at women who drove by.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Mightly big pipe
We are a culture overly sensitive about the size of our infrastructure. The picture to the right is a large truck containing some impressive pieces of pipe. When I passed it this morning I thought how fun it is to live in a country where you can see such examples of our greatness on a daily basis.
Then as I passed the truck, the trucks driver leaned out his window, flipped me the bird and screamed "if you Jews would stay out of my pocket, the whole place wound be better off."
Seriously.
So I wrote down the pipe company name, mostly because I thought that the driver might be a tad bit insane. Really I get yelled at all the time. If not for being a drunken Native American, then for my Polish ancestors, if people hear my accent, they immediately mock me because I sound Australian, if they see me in a kilt, 9 times out of 10 I get beaten up for being a man in a dress and the other time I get spit on for being a damn Scot. My African American brothers and sisters regard me as a traitor because I no longer go by my African name, Baxter. I felt it was holding me back, I'm sorry.
Honestly, I can deal with a little hatred now and then.
But a big pipe driving trucker? So I called the Zippo Pipe Bending offices.
A brutish young woman answered, or at least I thought it was a woman, because soon into our negative and overly angry conversation I believe I said something to the effect of, "Ma'am, would it be OK if I spoke to your supervisor?" And he/she said, "oh, I ain't no Ma'am mother fucker..." and hung up.
This is the sort of person I have to deal with and all I wanted to do was bring an end to the highway anti-Jew.
Well, I did call back and then the manly woman answered, I diverted the call by using a fake accent, Australian thank you very much, and asked to speak to whomever might be in charge of drivers. She/he paused for a second and said, "fool, you ain't thinks we gots caller ID, dumb mother fucker." She hung up again. Foiled.
So I did what any modern right thinking American would do, I quickly got online, went to the company website (a little risque for my tastes) and send a quick email to Mr. Zippo, owner of the Zippo Pipe Design company. Hah, so much for "you want our hands on your pipe" customer support Mr. Zippo.
MF
The phone began ringing sometime around 3 AM.
I answered it at 3:30.
Me; Hello, who is this and why are you calling me, letting it ring, not leaving voice mail and then calling back and doing the exact same thing?
Houdini; You mean you checked to see if you were getting voicemail, which is one word by the way, and you did not bother to just answer the fucking phone?
Me; The phone is sexless.
Houdini; As am I.
Me; That much I presumed.
Houdini; I've been arrested.
Me; That much I presumed.
Houdini; Seriously.
Me; Seriously?
Houdini; Yes, the chambermaid is claiming I tried to put the moves on her.
Me; You can get arrested for trying to put the moves on. Wait a second, what is a chambermaid?
Houdini; A house keeper.
Me; I believe housekeeper is one word.
Houdini; Touche.
Me; Indeed.
Houdini; Seriously. I was staying in Bangkok.
Me; I'm sorry, say that again.
Houdini; Bangkok, it's a city. What's wrong with you? It's like talking to a teenager.
Me; I'm betting that too could get your arrested in, where are you again?
Houdini; Bangkok.
Me; Yes, Bang Cock.
Houdini; Anyway, the maid is claiming I asked her to disrobe.
Me; Her?
Houdini; Yes, she is claiming I asked her to disrobe.
Me; You asked her?
Houdini; That's what she claims.
Me; That you asked her?
Houdini; Are you numb? Yes, that is what she claims.
Me; No, I mean, she claims you asked her to disrobe for you, or for her to disrobe you?
Houdini; Does it matter?
Me; In Bang Cock it might.
Houdini; Seriously?
Me; How in fuck would I know, I never go Bang Cock.
Houdini; You can stop saying the city name now.
Me; Call my attorney, her firm can handle anything. (Commercial plug right here).
Houdini; Was that just a commercial plug?
Me; Yes, could you throw one in too?
Houdini; Sure. If you need good lawyer stuff, try Libitard and Associates.
Me; I'm not sure it's Libitard and Associates anymore.
Houdini; It was when they handled my divorce.
Me; You got divorced.
Houdini; Again.
Me; You were divorced before?
Houdini; Water under the bridge.
Me; So, did you leave?
Houdini; No, I am still in Bangkok.
Me; Hah.
Houdini; I really don't know why I called.
Me; Facing imminent arrest.
Houdini; Yeah, so what's your suggestion?
Me; The IMF is probably hiring.
Houdini; Already applied.
Me; That and I would say, get out of Bang Cock.
Houdini; That's the plan. See, here's the deal.
Me; Oh no. Not the deal. This always involves money.
Houdini; See, I have a ticket, but to change the date I need 1500 dollars, and it has to be cash.
Me; Bullshit.
Houdini; Bullshit?
Me; Everyone takes plastic, especially the Bangkok airline agencies.
Houdini; Seriously. If I want to get on a flight today or tomorrow, 1500 dollars.
Me; Did you hear that.
Houdini; What? I am not hearing anything.
Me; (Hanging up the phone). Of course you're not hearing anything. Phone went dead.
I answered it at 3:30.
Me; Hello, who is this and why are you calling me, letting it ring, not leaving voice mail and then calling back and doing the exact same thing?
Houdini; You mean you checked to see if you were getting voicemail, which is one word by the way, and you did not bother to just answer the fucking phone?
Me; The phone is sexless.
Houdini; As am I.
Me; That much I presumed.
Houdini; I've been arrested.
Me; That much I presumed.
Houdini; Seriously.
Me; Seriously?
Houdini; Yes, the chambermaid is claiming I tried to put the moves on her.
Me; You can get arrested for trying to put the moves on. Wait a second, what is a chambermaid?
Houdini; A house keeper.
Me; I believe housekeeper is one word.
Houdini; Touche.
Me; Indeed.
Houdini; Seriously. I was staying in Bangkok.
Me; I'm sorry, say that again.
Houdini; Bangkok, it's a city. What's wrong with you? It's like talking to a teenager.
Me; I'm betting that too could get your arrested in, where are you again?
Houdini; Bangkok.
Me; Yes, Bang Cock.
Houdini; Anyway, the maid is claiming I asked her to disrobe.
Me; Her?
Houdini; Yes, she is claiming I asked her to disrobe.
Me; You asked her?
Houdini; That's what she claims.
Me; That you asked her?
Houdini; Are you numb? Yes, that is what she claims.
Me; No, I mean, she claims you asked her to disrobe for you, or for her to disrobe you?
Houdini; Does it matter?
Me; In Bang Cock it might.
Houdini; Seriously?
Me; How in fuck would I know, I never go Bang Cock.
Houdini; You can stop saying the city name now.
Me; Call my attorney, her firm can handle anything. (Commercial plug right here).
Houdini; Was that just a commercial plug?
Me; Yes, could you throw one in too?
Houdini; Sure. If you need good lawyer stuff, try Libitard and Associates.
Me; I'm not sure it's Libitard and Associates anymore.
Houdini; It was when they handled my divorce.
Me; You got divorced.
Houdini; Again.
Me; You were divorced before?
Houdini; Water under the bridge.
Me; So, did you leave?
Houdini; No, I am still in Bangkok.
Me; Hah.
Houdini; I really don't know why I called.
Me; Facing imminent arrest.
Houdini; Yeah, so what's your suggestion?
Me; The IMF is probably hiring.
Houdini; Already applied.
Me; That and I would say, get out of Bang Cock.
Houdini; That's the plan. See, here's the deal.
Me; Oh no. Not the deal. This always involves money.
Houdini; See, I have a ticket, but to change the date I need 1500 dollars, and it has to be cash.
Me; Bullshit.
Houdini; Bullshit?
Me; Everyone takes plastic, especially the Bangkok airline agencies.
Houdini; Seriously. If I want to get on a flight today or tomorrow, 1500 dollars.
Me; Did you hear that.
Houdini; What? I am not hearing anything.
Me; (Hanging up the phone). Of course you're not hearing anything. Phone went dead.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Prayer outside of schools
I was driving home this evening, in the midst of a sweeping left and I looked over to the right, on the wall was a sign that read, "have you prayed today."
Almost immediately I pulled over. I found a parking space and turned off the engine. There was a silence in the car and I put my hands together.
I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have actually prayed in my life time. When people think about me, one of the last things they generally remark on is how often they see me pray. I probably do not have a prayers chance in prayerland to get admitted to praying university. I don't pray a lot.
There I was, a bright spring sun shining through the sunroof. The car starting to heat up. My hands together, really a moment of truth if ever there was one. If you can not be completely honest in that moment of prayer, when can you be? If you are speaking directly to god, you had best have something important to say.
I remember another time I prayed. I bet this is common. A condom broke and I was driving home and every possible thought that could pop into my brain worked its way around inside my head. Lucky for all of us the big floods of 2019 ended all those condom worries. Right? Am I right?
Sitting in my hot car I focused at first on my hands, together in front of me. I looked up at the sunroof, through it, to the skies. Now would be a good time to say something, at least that's what I was thinking.
I think it is painfully obvious to anyone who reads this blog that I have been seriously taking dance lessons the last few months and if you have really been paying attention, especially to the comments, you would know that I have plateaued. I thought for an instant that I should pray that my dancing improves to the point that I might begin to feel comfortable auditioning for off broadway plays again.
Then again I could pray for my dog, who was hit by a car this weekend. At least that's what I was told when I walked into the living room on Saturday afternoon only to find her head laying sideways off the couch, one leg tethered to a cushion, another, dangling off the other side, blowing in the wind. I asked my maid Hector what had happened and he said, "she get hit by car."
That seems prayer worthy, although later that day she was up and running and nimble enough to twist and contort and lick herself for a good 7 minutes, not that I was timing, I was watching the final 39 seconds of an NBA playoff game and while that was going on, the dog was inspecting her nether region with a vigorous tonging.
Then it dawned on me. The only time I have taken the time to seriously pray was when I was in the midst of something terrible. Since my life is as simple as a cow right about now, I decided to pray for something bigger than myself. I wanted to focus my prayer on something beyond my hum drum boring little existence. I knew then that the only way to honestly make a difference is to take this rare prayer opportunity and use these valuable seconds to make a point that is far and above my simple drama. So I did.
Almost immediately I pulled over. I found a parking space and turned off the engine. There was a silence in the car and I put my hands together.
I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have actually prayed in my life time. When people think about me, one of the last things they generally remark on is how often they see me pray. I probably do not have a prayers chance in prayerland to get admitted to praying university. I don't pray a lot.
There I was, a bright spring sun shining through the sunroof. The car starting to heat up. My hands together, really a moment of truth if ever there was one. If you can not be completely honest in that moment of prayer, when can you be? If you are speaking directly to god, you had best have something important to say.
I remember another time I prayed. I bet this is common. A condom broke and I was driving home and every possible thought that could pop into my brain worked its way around inside my head. Lucky for all of us the big floods of 2019 ended all those condom worries. Right? Am I right?
Sitting in my hot car I focused at first on my hands, together in front of me. I looked up at the sunroof, through it, to the skies. Now would be a good time to say something, at least that's what I was thinking.
I think it is painfully obvious to anyone who reads this blog that I have been seriously taking dance lessons the last few months and if you have really been paying attention, especially to the comments, you would know that I have plateaued. I thought for an instant that I should pray that my dancing improves to the point that I might begin to feel comfortable auditioning for off broadway plays again.
Then again I could pray for my dog, who was hit by a car this weekend. At least that's what I was told when I walked into the living room on Saturday afternoon only to find her head laying sideways off the couch, one leg tethered to a cushion, another, dangling off the other side, blowing in the wind. I asked my maid Hector what had happened and he said, "she get hit by car."
That seems prayer worthy, although later that day she was up and running and nimble enough to twist and contort and lick herself for a good 7 minutes, not that I was timing, I was watching the final 39 seconds of an NBA playoff game and while that was going on, the dog was inspecting her nether region with a vigorous tonging.
Then it dawned on me. The only time I have taken the time to seriously pray was when I was in the midst of something terrible. Since my life is as simple as a cow right about now, I decided to pray for something bigger than myself. I wanted to focus my prayer on something beyond my hum drum boring little existence. I knew then that the only way to honestly make a difference is to take this rare prayer opportunity and use these valuable seconds to make a point that is far and above my simple drama. So I did.
Presidential politics
As most of you know, I am a registered republican, and as such, I blindly vote republican whenever and as often as possible.
Now, like you, I am deeply disappointed in Kenyan born possible president B. Hussein Obama, but I am also disappointed in my parties choices for president, except of course, probably future President Richard Millhous Santorum.
Why do I like Santorum? Well, first, I just do. Second, because Santorum is what this country needs more of. We need more Santorum in Washington DC. We need more Santorum in every house in America. Heck, if I had my way, I would have Santorum with me in my office at work.
Santorum, if not now, when?
Of course, if you are like me, you may want to google yourself some Santorum.
The Paisley Tie
Even though today is an informal day for me at work, I am wearing a red paisley tie, not so much to impress my co-workers, a group of people who show disdain for me in a new way on a daily basis. No, I am wearing this tie to honor my fallen brothers and sisters.
Falling is never easy or fun, but the ironic thing is, it is often funny. This morning, wearing my paisley tie of memory, I was crossing Grant Avenue and a pesky little brick jumped right out of its place and tripped me. I splattered across the crosswalk. I'd imagine I will have some scratching and possibly some bruising, but mostly my ego has been damaged by the sneers and laughter from the car dwelling populace.
Of course, because I am a genetic link to neanderthal man, I immediately jumped to my feet, forgetting the pain and humiliation, grabbed my briefcase, my cup of spilled coffee and my now cracked cell phone. I briskly walked to the corner, nothing to see here, no injuries, nothing, move about your daily business.
I am not sure where the paisley tie came from.
A couple of days ago I was in the closet, and let me stop right there and demand that phrase back from the gays. Dammit, you see how the gays continue to ruin everything? Why, just this past saturday I had a gay old time. But I can not tell you I had a gay old time. Nor can I mention that I lit a fag while having a gay old time. Or that at some point a very queer man approached me and questioned how I was able to continuously have a gay old time while lighting fags.
See what I mean? Dear Gay Mafia, we need some words back for the sake of this blog, plus, I need to admit I was in the closet looking for clothes, without sounding like I was hiding my sexual preference, which I would never do, ask my wife, Beardy McBeardsly, whom, if you know anything, I purchased on the now defunct website, drunkenirishlasses.com.
There I was, stuck in the closet, trying to find a tie to wear and the paisley seemed to call my name. I had never seen the tie before. Now, recently, I was getting dressed and there was this pair of underwear type of device in my underwear drawer, a pair of some sort of jock strap, underwear mix that I never had seen before, and for the life of me, I have no idea where it could have come from, but there it was, so I figured like anyone else would, in such a situation, that those kinky freaky functionless undies were mine, which they most certainly were not, but I put them on and wore them then entire uncomfortable day. Just to prove a point. I think.
Many decades ago, during a terrible argument with a very dear friend, I made a decision that has haunted me ever since. I decided that this great and smart person could not longer be my friend. So I decided to walk away. As I was leaving, for whatever reason, I grabbed a paisley tie and put it in my pocket. Then, for many years, I would sometimes wear the tie on interviews or to work. I would cherish it as a token of a lost friendship that seemed to have boundless potential. The tie was my link to a life changed in an instant.
The paisley tie I am wearing today is probably not the same tie. That paisley tie would have had to survive a lifetime of abuse in just 10 years. No, this tie, much like the undies of no known ownership, is a tie left here to both torment and ornament me. Today, while serving as ornamentation, it decided to change things up and cross me up in an intersection. While I could be more of a man and not blame the tie, instead I will just say this, the paisley tie can be found in the public garbage can at Grant and Sixth Avenue, wear it at your own risk.
Falling is never easy or fun, but the ironic thing is, it is often funny. This morning, wearing my paisley tie of memory, I was crossing Grant Avenue and a pesky little brick jumped right out of its place and tripped me. I splattered across the crosswalk. I'd imagine I will have some scratching and possibly some bruising, but mostly my ego has been damaged by the sneers and laughter from the car dwelling populace.
Of course, because I am a genetic link to neanderthal man, I immediately jumped to my feet, forgetting the pain and humiliation, grabbed my briefcase, my cup of spilled coffee and my now cracked cell phone. I briskly walked to the corner, nothing to see here, no injuries, nothing, move about your daily business.
I am not sure where the paisley tie came from.
A couple of days ago I was in the closet, and let me stop right there and demand that phrase back from the gays. Dammit, you see how the gays continue to ruin everything? Why, just this past saturday I had a gay old time. But I can not tell you I had a gay old time. Nor can I mention that I lit a fag while having a gay old time. Or that at some point a very queer man approached me and questioned how I was able to continuously have a gay old time while lighting fags.
See what I mean? Dear Gay Mafia, we need some words back for the sake of this blog, plus, I need to admit I was in the closet looking for clothes, without sounding like I was hiding my sexual preference, which I would never do, ask my wife, Beardy McBeardsly, whom, if you know anything, I purchased on the now defunct website, drunkenirishlasses.com.
There I was, stuck in the closet, trying to find a tie to wear and the paisley seemed to call my name. I had never seen the tie before. Now, recently, I was getting dressed and there was this pair of underwear type of device in my underwear drawer, a pair of some sort of jock strap, underwear mix that I never had seen before, and for the life of me, I have no idea where it could have come from, but there it was, so I figured like anyone else would, in such a situation, that those kinky freaky functionless undies were mine, which they most certainly were not, but I put them on and wore them then entire uncomfortable day. Just to prove a point. I think.
Many decades ago, during a terrible argument with a very dear friend, I made a decision that has haunted me ever since. I decided that this great and smart person could not longer be my friend. So I decided to walk away. As I was leaving, for whatever reason, I grabbed a paisley tie and put it in my pocket. Then, for many years, I would sometimes wear the tie on interviews or to work. I would cherish it as a token of a lost friendship that seemed to have boundless potential. The tie was my link to a life changed in an instant.
The paisley tie I am wearing today is probably not the same tie. That paisley tie would have had to survive a lifetime of abuse in just 10 years. No, this tie, much like the undies of no known ownership, is a tie left here to both torment and ornament me. Today, while serving as ornamentation, it decided to change things up and cross me up in an intersection. While I could be more of a man and not blame the tie, instead I will just say this, the paisley tie can be found in the public garbage can at Grant and Sixth Avenue, wear it at your own risk.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
The bald headed woman who knows a ghost
This bald headed woman I know emailed me two songs, with a message that read simply, "listen to these and let them inspire you, then write about it."
For a few days I didn't bother to open the files, first, I hate homework, and I really did not like anyone, you know, sending me props. Speaking of which, if you want to send me props, email me and we can work out a FedEx sort of thing. Props.
I was going to host a party for the bald headed woman I know, then she sends me this messy email, prompting me to actually listen and find some sort of feminist inspiration, but instead, I bitch and complain. So, what I will do, is stop right here, listen to these things, music I believe and then, when I get back, I will be inspired.
One more thing. There is always one more thing. I was at a funeral yesterday, it was a celebration, which is the sort of funerals I really appreciate. There I was, a warm, maybe hot, spring day, in the sun, wearing dark glasses, a matching suit and watching the people mourn. For a moment, I was a ghost, hovering over the family, the mourners, everyone in dark clothes, the grieving wife, a grown son with red eyes and a pudgy wife and a much younger daughter, the family stories surrounding her creation are legendary.
I watched for a while, then in a second, I turned and walked up the well manicured lawn, over a slight hill, down the other side, to the parking lot. I got in my car, turned on the radio and slowly drove away. A ghost in a dark suit, and I was not the only one.
The phone rang. For a long time I stopped talking on Sundays. That is very true. Not a word. I think this was the first indication to my wife at the time that she might be dealing with someone not operating on all eight cylinders. Or something. No words. We developed sign language, it was awkward, especially in public, where I refused to speak.
I would recommend this to anyone. First it forces your brain to think in a completely different way. We are all so used to speaking, when you remove that option, communication gets interesting. I did this pre-texting, so maybe a day without speaking is no longer such a big deal. In fact, without the words that fall out of my fingers to fill this blog, I would not speak at all. Strange.
Most Sundays I do not speak, but I almost never answer the phone. Until it rang just a few minutes ago.
Me; Hello.
Mother; Matthew?
Me; Mom?
Mother; How many other mothers do you have?
Me; If I remember correctly the question was always how many fathers, only had one mother.
Mother; That's not how I remember it.
Me; Then again, you have Alzheimers.
Mother; Do not.
Me; Seriously, last time I saw you, the diagnosis was Alzheimers.
Mother; Matthew, stop playing.
Me; I'm being serious.
Mother; You aren't capable of being serious.
Me; Ouch.
Mother; How are the kids?
Me; See what I mean?
Mother; What?
Me; You asked about the kids. You are searching for information.
Mother; You, I know about, I have no interest in you.
Me; Ouch again.
Mother; Do you have secrets I need to know about?
Me; Maybe. Probably. Some.
Mother; At this point, any secrets you have, I would not be interested in at all.
Me; And the purpose of this call?
Mother; You missed mothers day again.
Me; I thought about you.
Mother; And for you, that's enough?
Me; It seemed to be all I could muster.
Mother; Your sister called.
Me; How is she.
Mother; So funny, always with the jokes.
Me; I missed it, which was the joke?
Mother; Your brother sent flowers.
Me; I stopped the car, I walked on a beach, I threw a rock in the water, I read a poem, I had a sip of your favorite scotch. That's how I spent mothers day.
Mother; How nice for you. Your other brother sent me a painting, of him of course, but still, it's the thought.
Me; I'm sorry I forgot about mothers day.
Mother; It's OK, I understand you have memory issues.
Me; Not nearly as serious as yours.
Mother; Ouch.
Me; I know, right?
Mother; There was something I wanted to ask you.
Me; Yes.
Mother; I seem to have lost it. Wait for a second and it will come back. I may be getting old.
Me; May be? Understatement.
Mother; The jokes, the jokes, they are killing me.
Me; And I had my money on the cigarettes.
Mother; Your father wants to know if you want him to pick you up a fishing pole.
Me; Seriously?
Mother; Yes, that's what I forgot.
Me; Seriously?
Mother; Yes, he is going fishing.
Me; But I am not.
Mother; Yes, I know.
Me; So, logically, I have no need for any such fishing pole.
Mother; Oh you know that and I know that.
Me; And Dad knows that too.
Mother; I imagine that's true.
Me; Well, again. Thank you for that. I think.
Mother; I have to go son, it was good to hear your voice.
Me; It was good to hear your voice too, mom.
Mother; I know, right?
For a few days I didn't bother to open the files, first, I hate homework, and I really did not like anyone, you know, sending me props. Speaking of which, if you want to send me props, email me and we can work out a FedEx sort of thing. Props.
I was going to host a party for the bald headed woman I know, then she sends me this messy email, prompting me to actually listen and find some sort of feminist inspiration, but instead, I bitch and complain. So, what I will do, is stop right here, listen to these things, music I believe and then, when I get back, I will be inspired.
One more thing. There is always one more thing. I was at a funeral yesterday, it was a celebration, which is the sort of funerals I really appreciate. There I was, a warm, maybe hot, spring day, in the sun, wearing dark glasses, a matching suit and watching the people mourn. For a moment, I was a ghost, hovering over the family, the mourners, everyone in dark clothes, the grieving wife, a grown son with red eyes and a pudgy wife and a much younger daughter, the family stories surrounding her creation are legendary.
I watched for a while, then in a second, I turned and walked up the well manicured lawn, over a slight hill, down the other side, to the parking lot. I got in my car, turned on the radio and slowly drove away. A ghost in a dark suit, and I was not the only one.
The phone rang. For a long time I stopped talking on Sundays. That is very true. Not a word. I think this was the first indication to my wife at the time that she might be dealing with someone not operating on all eight cylinders. Or something. No words. We developed sign language, it was awkward, especially in public, where I refused to speak.
I would recommend this to anyone. First it forces your brain to think in a completely different way. We are all so used to speaking, when you remove that option, communication gets interesting. I did this pre-texting, so maybe a day without speaking is no longer such a big deal. In fact, without the words that fall out of my fingers to fill this blog, I would not speak at all. Strange.
Most Sundays I do not speak, but I almost never answer the phone. Until it rang just a few minutes ago.
Me; Hello.
Mother; Matthew?
Me; Mom?
Mother; How many other mothers do you have?
Me; If I remember correctly the question was always how many fathers, only had one mother.
Mother; That's not how I remember it.
Me; Then again, you have Alzheimers.
Mother; Do not.
Me; Seriously, last time I saw you, the diagnosis was Alzheimers.
Mother; Matthew, stop playing.
Me; I'm being serious.
Mother; You aren't capable of being serious.
Me; Ouch.
Mother; How are the kids?
Me; See what I mean?
Mother; What?
Me; You asked about the kids. You are searching for information.
Mother; You, I know about, I have no interest in you.
Me; Ouch again.
Mother; Do you have secrets I need to know about?
Me; Maybe. Probably. Some.
Mother; At this point, any secrets you have, I would not be interested in at all.
Me; And the purpose of this call?
Mother; You missed mothers day again.
Me; I thought about you.
Mother; And for you, that's enough?
Me; It seemed to be all I could muster.
Mother; Your sister called.
Me; How is she.
Mother; So funny, always with the jokes.
Me; I missed it, which was the joke?
Mother; Your brother sent flowers.
Me; I stopped the car, I walked on a beach, I threw a rock in the water, I read a poem, I had a sip of your favorite scotch. That's how I spent mothers day.
Mother; How nice for you. Your other brother sent me a painting, of him of course, but still, it's the thought.
Me; I'm sorry I forgot about mothers day.
Mother; It's OK, I understand you have memory issues.
Me; Not nearly as serious as yours.
Mother; Ouch.
Me; I know, right?
Mother; There was something I wanted to ask you.
Me; Yes.
Mother; I seem to have lost it. Wait for a second and it will come back. I may be getting old.
Me; May be? Understatement.
Mother; The jokes, the jokes, they are killing me.
Me; And I had my money on the cigarettes.
Mother; Your father wants to know if you want him to pick you up a fishing pole.
Me; Seriously?
Mother; Yes, that's what I forgot.
Me; Seriously?
Mother; Yes, he is going fishing.
Me; But I am not.
Mother; Yes, I know.
Me; So, logically, I have no need for any such fishing pole.
Mother; Oh you know that and I know that.
Me; And Dad knows that too.
Mother; I imagine that's true.
Me; Well, again. Thank you for that. I think.
Mother; I have to go son, it was good to hear your voice.
Me; It was good to hear your voice too, mom.
Mother; I know, right?
Tranny troubles
I woke up again with my ear on the lap of some sort of poly blend fabric, the smell of marijuana and cheap beer in the air. When my eyes began to focus I realized the not very beautiful woman's lap my face was on was indeed that of a fairly nice looking man, dressed as a fairly unhealthy looking woman. How did this happen? Again.
First, a few months ago I started taking a medication. I was supposed to stop in a couple of weeks, but then a few weeks ago, a new medication was added to the mix, this one was designed to get inside my head and help heal some long inflicted wounds.
Guess what? By all estimates it is working wonders. Why, even on my birfday, I was dancing naked in a fountain. Which is a marked improvement, because when you dance fully clothed in a fountain, you usually end up walking home cold and wet.
Bottom line, those little highways and biways that make up my super complex thinking process are being rebuilt and I am now thinking and acting like a teenager, which is both good and super good.
So with my big giant brain once again working completely perfectly, I went out dancing. Of course, because when people come out of a coma the very first thing the do is have sex with Madonna, and then they order a cheeseburger. For me, having already engaged in the Madonna sex ritual numerous times (nothing special) and now an avowed vegan, I had to pass on the burger, so instead, I went dancing.
One thing led to another, which is what things do, on their own, without so much as a whisper from me, and there I was, passed out, my face in the lap of a fairly ugly woman. That's when I noticed, this is no woman, and this is no woman's lap, if you know what I mean. There is much more to this story, but right now, the nurse is here for my bath and medication.
First, a few months ago I started taking a medication. I was supposed to stop in a couple of weeks, but then a few weeks ago, a new medication was added to the mix, this one was designed to get inside my head and help heal some long inflicted wounds.
Guess what? By all estimates it is working wonders. Why, even on my birfday, I was dancing naked in a fountain. Which is a marked improvement, because when you dance fully clothed in a fountain, you usually end up walking home cold and wet.
Bottom line, those little highways and biways that make up my super complex thinking process are being rebuilt and I am now thinking and acting like a teenager, which is both good and super good.
So with my big giant brain once again working completely perfectly, I went out dancing. Of course, because when people come out of a coma the very first thing the do is have sex with Madonna, and then they order a cheeseburger. For me, having already engaged in the Madonna sex ritual numerous times (nothing special) and now an avowed vegan, I had to pass on the burger, so instead, I went dancing.
One thing led to another, which is what things do, on their own, without so much as a whisper from me, and there I was, passed out, my face in the lap of a fairly ugly woman. That's when I noticed, this is no woman, and this is no woman's lap, if you know what I mean. There is much more to this story, but right now, the nurse is here for my bath and medication.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Hacking and crashing
Oh, look. Someone at Google is allowing posting again. Brilliant job there Google.
For the past few days, between a persistent hacker and the complete meltdown at Google inc, this blog, plus maybe others (who has time to read others?) this blog has been down, so to speak.
This is actually just a little pithy test post to see if things are working.
Then it will be a few more days to post a real post, mostly because, as anyone who reads this blog with any regularity knows, I am incredibly lazy.
Finally, I had the best experience yesterday with a Paisley Tie.
For the past few days, between a persistent hacker and the complete meltdown at Google inc, this blog, plus maybe others (who has time to read others?) this blog has been down, so to speak.
This is actually just a little pithy test post to see if things are working.
Then it will be a few more days to post a real post, mostly because, as anyone who reads this blog with any regularity knows, I am incredibly lazy.
Finally, I had the best experience yesterday with a Paisley Tie.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Another funny video
Apparently today is hysterical video day. Keeping that in mind, what is funnier than STD's? Well, how about the government warning regarding fake STD treatments.
First, if you are so stupid to believe the claims of some snake oil salesman, then your STD is the least of your problems. That said, if you watch this short film, the doctor who spends way too much time in front of the camera convinced me, the only thing worse that a funky STD on your junk would be going to her clinic to get tested.
First, if you are so stupid to believe the claims of some snake oil salesman, then your STD is the least of your problems. That said, if you watch this short film, the doctor who spends way too much time in front of the camera convinced me, the only thing worse that a funky STD on your junk would be going to her clinic to get tested.
Funny
I do not recommend this movie.
I am not suggesting you go see this movie.
I would never even think to say that you should watch any movie.
But this clip? Kind of funny.
I am not suggesting you go see this movie.
I would never even think to say that you should watch any movie.
But this clip? Kind of funny.
The gift
Imagine a world where Bloknik Coffee, which has been going out of business for over 7 years now, shares space with the LT&K law firm (Libitard, Tranny and Kitty).
Are you imagining it? Could it be near Uzebeckyistan?
A little patience and these places will be real. Or kind of real. Like, Kardashian real. Without the boobs.
Are you imagining it? Could it be near Uzebeckyistan?
A little patience and these places will be real. Or kind of real. Like, Kardashian real. Without the boobs.
Victory at last
My sense is that many people deal with many "issues" in a variety of ways. That sentence does not make any sense, thus, in editing, I will remove it, which means, this sentence, referring to a sentence that makes no sense will also be removed.
Last summer we hired a slow witted Native American psychotic fake jew to help with our garden, which came to be known as our victory garden. We called it a victory garden because prior to the summer a certain degree of tranquility has settled on our ghetto. This would have been the time prior to angry momma moving in, a woman unable to parent, eat properly or find happiness. Strange how that happens.
Slow witted Native American Fake Jew (SWNAFJ) came to us via a slum lord who had rented a nearby house to a severely retarded young man with a massive amount of tattoos and an equally massive amount of missing teeth. Somewhere in this blog are posts referring this young mans self proclaimed ability to not only kill people but to be able to dispose of bodies without a trace. I believe the vast majority of those winners on death row had this same story.
Our knowledge of SWNAFJ was based solely on what he told us. He had grown up on a reservation in some god forsaken area of the world, maybe Pakistan, maybe Utah, at the time we could care less and over time, we found the ability to care even less. His story, almost all made up on the spot, involved tragic tales of drunken family members, fake stories of abuse only found in bad books and Dr. Phil shows and even his own fight with demons like drugs and alcohol. What we found out in the few hours we employed SWNAFJ was that every word he said, every thought he had, every sandwich he made was developed in his tiny little brain, that had one function and one function only, create spellbinding stories that had no basis in reality.
SWNAFJ used a shovel to turn the ground that would become our victory garden. One day, while actually working, because quite honestly, SWNAFJ was not really a worker, I am trying to remember the medical condition he suffered from, I believe is started with psycho and ended with drama, but I forget the words in between, then again, maybe there were no words in between.
Anyway, one day I came home from my job at the salt mines and I found SWNAFJ sitting on the front porch, with one or two of our less than employed neighbors, smoking marijuana by the handful and demanding that I order pizza. I knew then what would have to be done. That night I told SWNAFJ that it might be wise for him to pretend to do some studies in a new city. "But..." he stammered, still a little stoned and always a little slow, and I cut him off and said, "now, SWNAFJ, we have tried to be kind. We gave you that room in the basement and we allowed you to eat with the dog and we even lent you a shovel so you could dig up the ground for our garden."
SWNAFJ again said but, and this time he started to put together one of his infamous sentences regarding persecution of his people. The joy of SWNAFJ is that he had piled on enough persecuted people into his personal history, that at any time he could throw out a holocaust reference, or how his native American brothers had been lied to and how not a single treaty, oh never mind, you get my point. Even though SWNAFJ never had been persecuted, or felt the pain of a nations betrayal or even lost a family member to one of these so called genocides, SWNAFJ was able to draw upon a Barrymores worth of emotion to seek sympathy for his pathetic life choices. Plus, we were all pretty sure that SWNAFJ was no either Native American or Jewish. Heck as far as we could tell, he was just a big dumb hick from some small town in the sticks. A hick from the sticks is how the girls referred to him.
"The garden is really all done," I said, avoiding all of his references to past injustices. Then SWNAFJ threw out his last card, tossed it on the table, like it would be the point that would win him the ability to continue to exist in our basement. "Does this have anything to do with me being gay?"
Oh SWNAFJ I wanted to say, no one cares that a fake Native American Jew with a guilt complex and an unwillingness to plant a garden is gay I wanted to say. Instead, I believe I said, yes. This has everything to do with you being gay.
This past weekend my youngest daughter and I planted a beautiful garden. I checked it last night and many of the plants seem to be finding their way. It made me think for an instant of our week with SWNAFJ. Soon after accepting that all of my dislike of him was based solely on his gayness, he moved out and moved on, leaving behind a crusty t-shirt and a box of books no one felt like reading.
A garden has a way of renewing a home. We will have fresh basil for the summer. The salads we have with dinner will be fresh and tasty. Somewhere SWNAFJ is plying people with his sad stories of betrayal and anguish and somewhere someone must be listening and wondering, how could a middle aged man in America not understand which end of the shovel is used to break ground.
Last summer we hired a slow witted Native American psychotic fake jew to help with our garden, which came to be known as our victory garden. We called it a victory garden because prior to the summer a certain degree of tranquility has settled on our ghetto. This would have been the time prior to angry momma moving in, a woman unable to parent, eat properly or find happiness. Strange how that happens.
Slow witted Native American Fake Jew (SWNAFJ) came to us via a slum lord who had rented a nearby house to a severely retarded young man with a massive amount of tattoos and an equally massive amount of missing teeth. Somewhere in this blog are posts referring this young mans self proclaimed ability to not only kill people but to be able to dispose of bodies without a trace. I believe the vast majority of those winners on death row had this same story.
Our knowledge of SWNAFJ was based solely on what he told us. He had grown up on a reservation in some god forsaken area of the world, maybe Pakistan, maybe Utah, at the time we could care less and over time, we found the ability to care even less. His story, almost all made up on the spot, involved tragic tales of drunken family members, fake stories of abuse only found in bad books and Dr. Phil shows and even his own fight with demons like drugs and alcohol. What we found out in the few hours we employed SWNAFJ was that every word he said, every thought he had, every sandwich he made was developed in his tiny little brain, that had one function and one function only, create spellbinding stories that had no basis in reality.
SWNAFJ used a shovel to turn the ground that would become our victory garden. One day, while actually working, because quite honestly, SWNAFJ was not really a worker, I am trying to remember the medical condition he suffered from, I believe is started with psycho and ended with drama, but I forget the words in between, then again, maybe there were no words in between.
Anyway, one day I came home from my job at the salt mines and I found SWNAFJ sitting on the front porch, with one or two of our less than employed neighbors, smoking marijuana by the handful and demanding that I order pizza. I knew then what would have to be done. That night I told SWNAFJ that it might be wise for him to pretend to do some studies in a new city. "But..." he stammered, still a little stoned and always a little slow, and I cut him off and said, "now, SWNAFJ, we have tried to be kind. We gave you that room in the basement and we allowed you to eat with the dog and we even lent you a shovel so you could dig up the ground for our garden."
SWNAFJ again said but, and this time he started to put together one of his infamous sentences regarding persecution of his people. The joy of SWNAFJ is that he had piled on enough persecuted people into his personal history, that at any time he could throw out a holocaust reference, or how his native American brothers had been lied to and how not a single treaty, oh never mind, you get my point. Even though SWNAFJ never had been persecuted, or felt the pain of a nations betrayal or even lost a family member to one of these so called genocides, SWNAFJ was able to draw upon a Barrymores worth of emotion to seek sympathy for his pathetic life choices. Plus, we were all pretty sure that SWNAFJ was no either Native American or Jewish. Heck as far as we could tell, he was just a big dumb hick from some small town in the sticks. A hick from the sticks is how the girls referred to him.
"The garden is really all done," I said, avoiding all of his references to past injustices. Then SWNAFJ threw out his last card, tossed it on the table, like it would be the point that would win him the ability to continue to exist in our basement. "Does this have anything to do with me being gay?"
Oh SWNAFJ I wanted to say, no one cares that a fake Native American Jew with a guilt complex and an unwillingness to plant a garden is gay I wanted to say. Instead, I believe I said, yes. This has everything to do with you being gay.
This past weekend my youngest daughter and I planted a beautiful garden. I checked it last night and many of the plants seem to be finding their way. It made me think for an instant of our week with SWNAFJ. Soon after accepting that all of my dislike of him was based solely on his gayness, he moved out and moved on, leaving behind a crusty t-shirt and a box of books no one felt like reading.
A garden has a way of renewing a home. We will have fresh basil for the summer. The salads we have with dinner will be fresh and tasty. Somewhere SWNAFJ is plying people with his sad stories of betrayal and anguish and somewhere someone must be listening and wondering, how could a middle aged man in America not understand which end of the shovel is used to break ground.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Debt collectors
Why, just right now I am being visited by our Chinese overlords and I have to say, they are much nicer than I imagined.
See, in college I loaned a "friend" 20 dollars. A couple of days later, I saw him at a party and I said "hey "friend" you have that 20 I lent you." He was all drunk and stuff and I believe he told me to stuff it, because this was a long time ago, before rap and short dresses ruined the country and people said terrible things to one another. I imagine if the same thing happened now I would approach my so-called friend and request my 20 dollars and he would say, "was up, you want me to glock in your ass?"
Times change. The point is, of course, often times when you loan people money out of the goodness of your heart and then they force you to become some sort of shyster just to get the money back that they were kind enough to loan you. Does that make sense? Because over months of be begging and cajoling, I never did get that 20 dollars back.
Now, if you follow the global politics like I do, and chances are you have a happy and productive life, so why bother, right? But I do, and I can tell you this, China was nice enough to lend up a few TRILLION dollars and my sense is, pretty soon, they want it back, and while we may still be stupid drunk frat boys at a party, the threat of a glock in their tiny little Chinese asses is not really going to bother them, much.
Where was I? Oh, our Chinese overlords have sent some of their lovely children, oh hang on a second.
Dear Chinese Overlords,
Special Bulletin.
From-American caring for your young and wonderful children.
First, they remain safe and well fed, and in some cases, insanely well fed.
I am just stopping this blog post to thank you and keep me and my children in mind when you take over our once powerful country.
In our decadence we have lost our souls, that much is obvious.
So please be kind to those of us who, with supreme kindness and complete respect, took tim eout of our not so busy schedules to care and feed you super smart and productive children.
Thank you.
Now, again, where was I?
Oh, yes, well, the Chinese have sent spies, I mean children, to visit and we have a house full right now as I write this. I am hiding in my bedroom, a good two floors above the mayhem.
For what it's worth, I have to say, the Chinese appear to be good people and when they do come to collect their trillions of debt and all we have to offer is a couple of trailers in West Virginia and Lindsay Lohan, and then in their anger they take over everything, from TV news shows on Fox to the Ford Motor Company.
I for one will welcome it. Do you hear me my all powerful overlords? I said, I will welcome it when your well dressed debt collectors come and take the country. I have no special tie to America, in fact, in many ways, I am turning Chinese, I think I'm turning Chinese, I really think so.
Again, thank you for this chance to mingle with your teenage children. If there is one thing I have learned from your culture that seems to translate to my culture, it is this, in every language, a parent must learn to say, "turn that fucking music off, if music is even the right word for that garbage..."
See, in college I loaned a "friend" 20 dollars. A couple of days later, I saw him at a party and I said "hey "friend" you have that 20 I lent you." He was all drunk and stuff and I believe he told me to stuff it, because this was a long time ago, before rap and short dresses ruined the country and people said terrible things to one another. I imagine if the same thing happened now I would approach my so-called friend and request my 20 dollars and he would say, "was up, you want me to glock in your ass?"
Times change. The point is, of course, often times when you loan people money out of the goodness of your heart and then they force you to become some sort of shyster just to get the money back that they were kind enough to loan you. Does that make sense? Because over months of be begging and cajoling, I never did get that 20 dollars back.
Now, if you follow the global politics like I do, and chances are you have a happy and productive life, so why bother, right? But I do, and I can tell you this, China was nice enough to lend up a few TRILLION dollars and my sense is, pretty soon, they want it back, and while we may still be stupid drunk frat boys at a party, the threat of a glock in their tiny little Chinese asses is not really going to bother them, much.
Where was I? Oh, our Chinese overlords have sent some of their lovely children, oh hang on a second.
Dear Chinese Overlords,
Special Bulletin.
From-American caring for your young and wonderful children.
First, they remain safe and well fed, and in some cases, insanely well fed.
I am just stopping this blog post to thank you and keep me and my children in mind when you take over our once powerful country.
In our decadence we have lost our souls, that much is obvious.
So please be kind to those of us who, with supreme kindness and complete respect, took tim eout of our not so busy schedules to care and feed you super smart and productive children.
Thank you.
Now, again, where was I?
Oh, yes, well, the Chinese have sent spies, I mean children, to visit and we have a house full right now as I write this. I am hiding in my bedroom, a good two floors above the mayhem.
For what it's worth, I have to say, the Chinese appear to be good people and when they do come to collect their trillions of debt and all we have to offer is a couple of trailers in West Virginia and Lindsay Lohan, and then in their anger they take over everything, from TV news shows on Fox to the Ford Motor Company.
I for one will welcome it. Do you hear me my all powerful overlords? I said, I will welcome it when your well dressed debt collectors come and take the country. I have no special tie to America, in fact, in many ways, I am turning Chinese, I think I'm turning Chinese, I really think so.
Again, thank you for this chance to mingle with your teenage children. If there is one thing I have learned from your culture that seems to translate to my culture, it is this, in every language, a parent must learn to say, "turn that fucking music off, if music is even the right word for that garbage..."
Monday, May 9, 2011
oh honey
I just wanted that one more moment.
It seemed like we were always an airport off
a missed phone call away
there you were on a map
a city of history and I never made it there.
A polaroid of memories can not do you justice
your perfect body and a smile that swooned
there was a moment with you where the world stood still
and no one noticed except us.
I have never touched anyone the same
I probably never will.
I kept thinking, I should go visit.
I never did.
Every now and then a tug at my heart and I would call
an email of pictures and promises
in the end, everyone is busy with a life worth leading.
You had a house on Lookout Mountain
I had a big boat in the harbor
Between us we shared a fat cat named Permer
And one time, a sports car with the top down,
Permer asleep on the back seat and a cold beer in my hand,
I was sure life would never get any better
Perfectly imperfect and drop dead beautiful
I keep thinking I should call
You would answer and have secrets to tell.
I emailed a stranger, asking for your latest address
and I got back your obituary.
How did that happen
you were younger than me
and healthier
strong, smarter, sexier
the notice said you died of heart disease.
need I say more?
It's been a long time since I kissed you
walked on a beach with you
held your hand and smiled with you
Something so bright can only burn so long
it was an honor to be loved and to love
if I never find that again
what we shared was enough
It seemed like we were always an airport off
a missed phone call away
there you were on a map
a city of history and I never made it there.
A polaroid of memories can not do you justice
your perfect body and a smile that swooned
there was a moment with you where the world stood still
and no one noticed except us.
I have never touched anyone the same
I probably never will.
I kept thinking, I should go visit.
I never did.
Every now and then a tug at my heart and I would call
an email of pictures and promises
in the end, everyone is busy with a life worth leading.
You had a house on Lookout Mountain
I had a big boat in the harbor
Between us we shared a fat cat named Permer
And one time, a sports car with the top down,
Permer asleep on the back seat and a cold beer in my hand,
I was sure life would never get any better
Perfectly imperfect and drop dead beautiful
I keep thinking I should call
You would answer and have secrets to tell.
I emailed a stranger, asking for your latest address
and I got back your obituary.
How did that happen
you were younger than me
and healthier
strong, smarter, sexier
the notice said you died of heart disease.
need I say more?
It's been a long time since I kissed you
walked on a beach with you
held your hand and smiled with you
Something so bright can only burn so long
it was an honor to be loved and to love
if I never find that again
what we shared was enough
Jupiter rising
In a dream I met Issabella. I was in South Texas on an extended vacation. I spent most of my days at the beach and some nights just walking around the small oil town of Lorenzo. Issabella was a waitress at the only decent Italian restaurant in the town. When business was slow she would bring a bottle of wine and sit with me. I considered these dates, I believe she once told me they were awkward attempts at seduction.
One night I asked if she wanted to walk with me to the ice cream shop, a couple of blocks from the restaurant. She walked over and said something to the only other diners, removed her apron and we walked in the hot summer night, holding hands and smiling at the timing.
That was as close as we would get. Her husband returned from the war in Pascovillia, a bitter and tormented man, although, when Issabella was a little drunk, she would admit that when he left for the war he was already quite bitter and tormented. If anything, the war had brought him calm.
For a few more weeks I would frequent the best Italian restaurant and Issabella would bring me a glass of red wine and a perfectly cooked chicken breast and we would smile at one another. When I moved on we exchanged email address and I left her my cell number. Strangely, we have stayed in touch and I think we are much closer now than ever.
At 1:20 this morning, while I was dancing in my bedroom in boxers and a wife beater t-shirt, my cell phone buzzed.
Issabella; Is that you? I am sorry to be calling so soon.
Me; Early. You are calling early. It is 1 in the morning.
Issabella; Were you awake.
Me; Yes I was dancing.
Issabella; Yes of course.
She went on to tell me a gruesome story involving raccoons, an elderly walnut salesman and the complete destruction of a pumpkin field. I was tired and needed rest, so I laid back in bed, the phone cradled to my ear. She told me of her son, Dante, now a chemist with Exxon, but he hates the work, he hates that he helps create the biggest profits in the history of the world while damaging the soul of our very society. That weights heavy on him, she said. I never met Dante and I was starting to drift.
Issabella; I was reading the story about poo on the internet.
Me; I have no idea what you are talking about.
Issabella; If I could, I would link to it right here.
Me; Get your own blog. Is there a point to this call?
Issabella; No. I am just a prop for you to test fun new devices.
Me; Thought so.
Then I fell asleep. Only to wake again at 4:15, dreaming of a large bumble bee hovering over my bed, trying to decide if it should sting me or find a path out of my bedroom.
One night I asked if she wanted to walk with me to the ice cream shop, a couple of blocks from the restaurant. She walked over and said something to the only other diners, removed her apron and we walked in the hot summer night, holding hands and smiling at the timing.
That was as close as we would get. Her husband returned from the war in Pascovillia, a bitter and tormented man, although, when Issabella was a little drunk, she would admit that when he left for the war he was already quite bitter and tormented. If anything, the war had brought him calm.
For a few more weeks I would frequent the best Italian restaurant and Issabella would bring me a glass of red wine and a perfectly cooked chicken breast and we would smile at one another. When I moved on we exchanged email address and I left her my cell number. Strangely, we have stayed in touch and I think we are much closer now than ever.
At 1:20 this morning, while I was dancing in my bedroom in boxers and a wife beater t-shirt, my cell phone buzzed.
Issabella; Is that you? I am sorry to be calling so soon.
Me; Early. You are calling early. It is 1 in the morning.
Issabella; Were you awake.
Me; Yes I was dancing.
Issabella; Yes of course.
She went on to tell me a gruesome story involving raccoons, an elderly walnut salesman and the complete destruction of a pumpkin field. I was tired and needed rest, so I laid back in bed, the phone cradled to my ear. She told me of her son, Dante, now a chemist with Exxon, but he hates the work, he hates that he helps create the biggest profits in the history of the world while damaging the soul of our very society. That weights heavy on him, she said. I never met Dante and I was starting to drift.
Issabella; I was reading the story about poo on the internet.
Me; I have no idea what you are talking about.
Issabella; If I could, I would link to it right here.
Me; Get your own blog. Is there a point to this call?
Issabella; No. I am just a prop for you to test fun new devices.
Me; Thought so.
Then I fell asleep. Only to wake again at 4:15, dreaming of a large bumble bee hovering over my bed, trying to decide if it should sting me or find a path out of my bedroom.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
The ghost from mothers day past
I grew up the son of a poor dirt farmer, which meant that we had to learn a variety of survival techniques from a very early age. On of which was cashing in on the imperialist American holiday complete and total fuckery.
My father was a brilliant illegal immigrant. While unable to hold down a job or get a proper education, he quickly managed to understand the shallowness of the American culture he was so readily mocking and emulating on a daily basis. His favorite new American holidays were Valentines Day and Mothers day. He explained to us that these were days where guilt was the over riding link, not love, honor or respect.
His plan, on a yearly basis, was spend most of Saturday before, say Mothers day, cruising local funeral homes and other places of worship. Find flowers is what he would say. As his scheme grew over the years, when he had literally hundreds of people working for him, he would tell people, the best way to profit is by not spending money.
Words of wisdom to lead your life by.
Anyway, he would bring all the stolen or otherwise free flowers back to his leased warehouse, where he would hire his family and later his children and then much later hoards of other illegals to pick through the flowers and create new and beautiful bouquets. On the sunday of Mothers Day, or any Valentines Day, my father would hire homeless people and other "down and outers" to stand on street corners and sell the flowers.
The brilliance of this plan was quite simple, free flowers sold by lowly paid people to guilt ridden idiots, equals big profits. Enough, in the later years, to afford a mansion in the south of France and a private jet. All true.
If my father taught me nothing, he taught me that a way to a womans heart is a cherry covered in chocolate. It was his romantic gesture that he portrayed on a yearly basis to my often overly medicated mother. In my business minded fathers world view, if things were going well in the relationship, you could pick up any package of chocolate covered cherries. When things were bad in his relationship with my violent and quite possibly insane mother, you had to find the very best chocolates. A wise lesson would be a month outside of major holidays, he would clean up his act and begin seducing her with charm, that way, when the holiday arrived, she was again back in love with lowered expectations. Sometimes I think my father only treated my mother nice a month before romantic holidays solely to save 10 dollars on chocolates.
Which brings me to the latest mothers day. I found myself alone on a saturday night, dancing to the music blaring over the loud speakers at the new Trashy Crap You Don't Need store. TCYDN has been opening warehouse style stores all over the country and all you have to do to become one of the super special members is show an ID and pay 50 dollars. For that, you get an array of tasty free samples of processed chicken parts and stale tortilla chips. One time a man died in the mens room and was not found for 3 days, even though someone kept signing the form that showed the bathroom had been reviewed and inspected on an hourly basis. Heads would roll. None ever did.
My point is that if you love someone enough, you should get out on a night before any type of holiday, and do something, well, special.
The point is, on Mother's Day I make a point to go to a store, find the Fiddle Faddle section of purchase a box for my mother.
My father was a brilliant illegal immigrant. While unable to hold down a job or get a proper education, he quickly managed to understand the shallowness of the American culture he was so readily mocking and emulating on a daily basis. His favorite new American holidays were Valentines Day and Mothers day. He explained to us that these were days where guilt was the over riding link, not love, honor or respect.
His plan, on a yearly basis, was spend most of Saturday before, say Mothers day, cruising local funeral homes and other places of worship. Find flowers is what he would say. As his scheme grew over the years, when he had literally hundreds of people working for him, he would tell people, the best way to profit is by not spending money.
Words of wisdom to lead your life by.
Anyway, he would bring all the stolen or otherwise free flowers back to his leased warehouse, where he would hire his family and later his children and then much later hoards of other illegals to pick through the flowers and create new and beautiful bouquets. On the sunday of Mothers Day, or any Valentines Day, my father would hire homeless people and other "down and outers" to stand on street corners and sell the flowers.
The brilliance of this plan was quite simple, free flowers sold by lowly paid people to guilt ridden idiots, equals big profits. Enough, in the later years, to afford a mansion in the south of France and a private jet. All true.
If my father taught me nothing, he taught me that a way to a womans heart is a cherry covered in chocolate. It was his romantic gesture that he portrayed on a yearly basis to my often overly medicated mother. In my business minded fathers world view, if things were going well in the relationship, you could pick up any package of chocolate covered cherries. When things were bad in his relationship with my violent and quite possibly insane mother, you had to find the very best chocolates. A wise lesson would be a month outside of major holidays, he would clean up his act and begin seducing her with charm, that way, when the holiday arrived, she was again back in love with lowered expectations. Sometimes I think my father only treated my mother nice a month before romantic holidays solely to save 10 dollars on chocolates.
Which brings me to the latest mothers day. I found myself alone on a saturday night, dancing to the music blaring over the loud speakers at the new Trashy Crap You Don't Need store. TCYDN has been opening warehouse style stores all over the country and all you have to do to become one of the super special members is show an ID and pay 50 dollars. For that, you get an array of tasty free samples of processed chicken parts and stale tortilla chips. One time a man died in the mens room and was not found for 3 days, even though someone kept signing the form that showed the bathroom had been reviewed and inspected on an hourly basis. Heads would roll. None ever did.
My point is that if you love someone enough, you should get out on a night before any type of holiday, and do something, well, special.
The point is, on Mother's Day I make a point to go to a store, find the Fiddle Faddle section of purchase a box for my mother.
Friday, May 6, 2011
The homo texts
About a year ago I had to tell a friend that his behavior was kind of scary and that I thought he should maybe find another family to adopt.
This friend, who I will call my Homo Friend, took it well.
A little history, Homo Friend presented himself as a nice enough guy, and as we got to know one another, I would get these super friendly texts, asking how my day was, or how the dog was or something like that. Homo Friend is incapable of depth, so everything always centered around something simple, new cartoon shows, how anything "was" and asking if I had a date or something. Simple stuff.
As our friendship seemed to grow, the texts grew in volume. I would wake to 2 or 3 texts describing a movie Homo Friend had seen, or a party Homo Friend had attended. As we became closer, I would get descriptions of dates that Homo Friend had been on, at first in only general terms, "had a wonderful date tonight" and then, over the months, "hot sex with a twink" or something like that.
For whatever reason, possibly because Homo Friend does not have a blog, the texts were Homo Friends way of keeping me posted on daily life. The problem was and remains, I am not interested in the vast majority of Homo Friends daily life.
Once I started to get the gay sex updates I realized that I could not continue with the constant texts. At first I told Homo Friend that his texts would come at all hours of the day and my phone would buzz or beep, waking me at 3 AM to learn that Homo Friend had again met some amazing man who was probably the one. Of course, with Homo Friend, at 3 PM the amazing man was history, a stained t-shirt and a distant memory.
I did learn a lot about the transient and shallow nature of Homo Friends lifestyle. Now, do not get me wrong or begin right now composing emails telling me I am both homophobic and hateful to the gay lifestyle and all sorts of other silliness. I am Homo Friend phobic and I am not impressed with his transient/hookup at any cost lifestyle, but that is his choice in life, not all gays, not healthy gays anyway.
Anyway, around this time last year I texted Homo Friend, because that really is the only way to communicate with him, and I said the constant texting needed to stop. Of course, he misread this, thinking the late night-early morning texting needed to stop. So midafternoon airport bathroom hookups could still be documented, as would his photos taken on his phone and shared with his contact list, those too kept being shared.
It took another month or two before I again confronted Homo Friend and said, please I can not stand the constant texts with the shallow updates. This one sank in, because if there is one thing Homo Friend feared more than late night rejections, it was being called on his shallowness. Quickly I was removed from the barrage of texts and text photos. Soon, my phone was silent and I began to love the peace. Homo Friend had long ceased to be interesting and once the daily updates disappeared so did my interest in all things Homo Friend.
Our friendship fizzled and as is the plight of a Homo Friend, he moved on to other people with smart phones and a need to hear about online hookups, airport hookups, late night club hookups and college dorm hookups. I was out of the loop and could not have been happier.
I have not heard in any form from Homo Friend for over 10 months and I have to say, until I started writing this post, I had not thought much about him.
Recently I was interviewed for a study on brain damage and the doctor who spoke to me happened to be gay. We had a nice talk and he mentioned something about an extra ticket for a show that was produced in a downtown theater. Of course I could go, I said. I gave the good Gay Doctor my cell and told him to call or text and I would meet at the theater the next day.
As I was walking to my car I got a text, telling me how nice it was to meet. Over the next few hours I got many texts, looking forward to the show, a link to the productions website, a question about whether I could meet earlier for a drink, possibly dinner. The texts came at a furious pace. For the most part my response was no, no drinking, no meeting, no website, no no no no.
Into the night the texts kept coming.
After the play the texts kept coming. Gay Doctor had one thing in common with Homo Friend, an almost addictive need to continually update and text for no reason other than the ability to text.
This went on until last night. I was preparing to pass out and my phone, sound turned off, kept buzzing. It was Gay Doctor, texting away with concepts and plans, news and events, scores and show openings. Would I be interested in this, that, something else.
Finally I got up, grabbed my phone, and wrote a simple text, please stop, I am ill and your constant texting is making me poop.
Not a response. Nothing this morning, maybe nothing ever again.
Which would be fine with me. As much as Gay Doctor is much more interesting that Homo Friend, the need to update me with almost hourly reports on rather uninteresting lives is problematic, to say the least. Now, I am not so sure this is a gay thing, because quite honestly, I am often walking around downtown and people on a daily basis walk into me because their heads are down, focused on their screens, texting important messages to people who can not wait to read that their friend is walking to lunch.
I know, this is the world we live in. I accept that. But, like the loud outdoor cellphone speakers who either think their conversations are worthy of everyone's attention, or they are deaf and yelling into their phone is the only conversation they are capable of, but for the life of me, our society is moving quickly into insane times solely based on over communication of the most inane details. Homo Friend was a banal and shallow sex addict, which meant that his texts were at least salacious. Gay Doctor was just lonely, which meant that in his willingness to befriend, he became obnoxious. I miss the days prior to cell phones, where when you saw your friend you could sit and have a drink and get caught up. Now, I get constant updates on aspects of lives I have no interest in.
There is a solution to this. If more people just led more interesting lives, I would welcome the text updates. But once you have read about the latest traveling Broadway production coming to town, or the super hot guy someone has just met, it all becomes a blur of too much information. I have an idea, do something fascinating and then text me a sentence about the shuttle flight, or the cure for cancer or something of substance, because your personal life should remain just that, personal.
This friend, who I will call my Homo Friend, took it well.
A little history, Homo Friend presented himself as a nice enough guy, and as we got to know one another, I would get these super friendly texts, asking how my day was, or how the dog was or something like that. Homo Friend is incapable of depth, so everything always centered around something simple, new cartoon shows, how anything "was" and asking if I had a date or something. Simple stuff.
As our friendship seemed to grow, the texts grew in volume. I would wake to 2 or 3 texts describing a movie Homo Friend had seen, or a party Homo Friend had attended. As we became closer, I would get descriptions of dates that Homo Friend had been on, at first in only general terms, "had a wonderful date tonight" and then, over the months, "hot sex with a twink" or something like that.
For whatever reason, possibly because Homo Friend does not have a blog, the texts were Homo Friends way of keeping me posted on daily life. The problem was and remains, I am not interested in the vast majority of Homo Friends daily life.
Once I started to get the gay sex updates I realized that I could not continue with the constant texts. At first I told Homo Friend that his texts would come at all hours of the day and my phone would buzz or beep, waking me at 3 AM to learn that Homo Friend had again met some amazing man who was probably the one. Of course, with Homo Friend, at 3 PM the amazing man was history, a stained t-shirt and a distant memory.
I did learn a lot about the transient and shallow nature of Homo Friends lifestyle. Now, do not get me wrong or begin right now composing emails telling me I am both homophobic and hateful to the gay lifestyle and all sorts of other silliness. I am Homo Friend phobic and I am not impressed with his transient/hookup at any cost lifestyle, but that is his choice in life, not all gays, not healthy gays anyway.
Anyway, around this time last year I texted Homo Friend, because that really is the only way to communicate with him, and I said the constant texting needed to stop. Of course, he misread this, thinking the late night-early morning texting needed to stop. So midafternoon airport bathroom hookups could still be documented, as would his photos taken on his phone and shared with his contact list, those too kept being shared.
It took another month or two before I again confronted Homo Friend and said, please I can not stand the constant texts with the shallow updates. This one sank in, because if there is one thing Homo Friend feared more than late night rejections, it was being called on his shallowness. Quickly I was removed from the barrage of texts and text photos. Soon, my phone was silent and I began to love the peace. Homo Friend had long ceased to be interesting and once the daily updates disappeared so did my interest in all things Homo Friend.
Our friendship fizzled and as is the plight of a Homo Friend, he moved on to other people with smart phones and a need to hear about online hookups, airport hookups, late night club hookups and college dorm hookups. I was out of the loop and could not have been happier.
I have not heard in any form from Homo Friend for over 10 months and I have to say, until I started writing this post, I had not thought much about him.
Recently I was interviewed for a study on brain damage and the doctor who spoke to me happened to be gay. We had a nice talk and he mentioned something about an extra ticket for a show that was produced in a downtown theater. Of course I could go, I said. I gave the good Gay Doctor my cell and told him to call or text and I would meet at the theater the next day.
As I was walking to my car I got a text, telling me how nice it was to meet. Over the next few hours I got many texts, looking forward to the show, a link to the productions website, a question about whether I could meet earlier for a drink, possibly dinner. The texts came at a furious pace. For the most part my response was no, no drinking, no meeting, no website, no no no no.
Into the night the texts kept coming.
After the play the texts kept coming. Gay Doctor had one thing in common with Homo Friend, an almost addictive need to continually update and text for no reason other than the ability to text.
This went on until last night. I was preparing to pass out and my phone, sound turned off, kept buzzing. It was Gay Doctor, texting away with concepts and plans, news and events, scores and show openings. Would I be interested in this, that, something else.
Finally I got up, grabbed my phone, and wrote a simple text, please stop, I am ill and your constant texting is making me poop.
Not a response. Nothing this morning, maybe nothing ever again.
Which would be fine with me. As much as Gay Doctor is much more interesting that Homo Friend, the need to update me with almost hourly reports on rather uninteresting lives is problematic, to say the least. Now, I am not so sure this is a gay thing, because quite honestly, I am often walking around downtown and people on a daily basis walk into me because their heads are down, focused on their screens, texting important messages to people who can not wait to read that their friend is walking to lunch.
I know, this is the world we live in. I accept that. But, like the loud outdoor cellphone speakers who either think their conversations are worthy of everyone's attention, or they are deaf and yelling into their phone is the only conversation they are capable of, but for the life of me, our society is moving quickly into insane times solely based on over communication of the most inane details. Homo Friend was a banal and shallow sex addict, which meant that his texts were at least salacious. Gay Doctor was just lonely, which meant that in his willingness to befriend, he became obnoxious. I miss the days prior to cell phones, where when you saw your friend you could sit and have a drink and get caught up. Now, I get constant updates on aspects of lives I have no interest in.
There is a solution to this. If more people just led more interesting lives, I would welcome the text updates. But once you have read about the latest traveling Broadway production coming to town, or the super hot guy someone has just met, it all becomes a blur of too much information. I have an idea, do something fascinating and then text me a sentence about the shuttle flight, or the cure for cancer or something of substance, because your personal life should remain just that, personal.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Love at last
My fiance and I went dancing last night and did not return until early this morning. Why is this a big deal? Well, if this was my first attempt at chicken farming I would say it was a big deal, but this would be my fifth fiance, that's right, 5 count them.
First though, a little information on my latest fiance. We met online a couple of weeks ago, which is, according to Oprah and other desperate women, exactly how everyone meets anyone now days. So there I was, clicking away on this really great single Jewish dating website and all of a sudden a little "chattah" window opened up. The Jews can not just go with the flow on anything, and when it comes to online dating, not only do you have to pay prior to establishing an account, but they have cute Jewish names for everything.
So I was Chattahing with this complete stranger, let's call her "Linda" because that is what I call almost all the women in my life. It really streamlines the conversations, because they almost always go something like this:
Me; Hi Linda.
Linda: My name is not Linda.
Me; Then what is your name?
Linda; Becky.
Me; Well, I will call you Linda.
See how easy that is? Try it yourself sometime.
So I was Chattahing with Linda on the Jew date site and all of a sudden, we were sharing incredibly personal information with one another. I'd say we chatted for well over half an hour and in that time, I learned that she had been engaged once before, she had an abortion in college, she has a tattoo of an Irish shamrock in a sexy part of her body, she has a cat named Felix, has been working downtown for the last 7 years at a job that is both rewarding and frustrating and she has just recently rejoined the dating ranks after a year of therapy and spending time really getting to know herself. In that same time chatting with me she learned that I had banana and granola for breakfast.
So, even electronically I could tell there was something special about Linda, so I asked her out. We met in my neighborhood, between the prostitute and the crack dealer and strangely, she knew where that was. We spent that entire night chatting, talking and communicating. It was sublime and almost immediately I knew this was the woman for me. Around 7 AM I asked her to marry me and she said yes. Thus, fiance number 5 was developed.
Since I have had at least four previous finances, the concept of fiance 5 was not a big deal to me, but the fact that I broke all my own rules is something to crow about, or write home about, or scream from the mountain tops about. Either way, what I decided after breaking it off with fiance 4 (psycho fiance 4 for those keeping score) I knew I had to change the way I went about these things.
In the past I took a "get to know the person" philosophy about both dating and long term commitments. My entire life of fiances has brought me to the realization that getting to know someone is damn near impossible, and by the time you actually really do know someone, chances are you are close to 70 and probably impotent. What I realized after dropping fiance 4 off at the local mental institution was this, I need to spend less time actually getting to know a fiance and more time playing crossword puzzles online.
Linda met all the really important qualities I like in a fiance. She spoke english, which is nice. After that, for me, everything is gravy. What I really like about Linda is that she actually brought gravy to that first meeting, winner.
A lot of you are probably scratching your heads or possibly the head of the person in the cubicle next to you, which might be awkward, but to each his own. You may wonder, how did an obese leprechaun like me ever manage to get 5 fiances. Well, the vast majority of the people who frequent this blog are actually too stoned to remember how this post started, much less have the brain capacity to think about how anyone actually meets anyone else.
The point is this, I have had way more than my fair share of fiances, but the real question is, why have I never married? That would be a good question to answer, but instead, let's look over some of the fiances who came close to the alter, but for whatever reason, in some cases restraining orders, why did we not tie the knot? Or, if we did tie the knot, why did it not stay tied? Or even, if it was tied in such a way as to remain tied, why is there now a Linda who is officially fiance numero Cinco?
First things first. My very first fiance was my high school sweetheart, whom I shall call inflatable doll Becky, only to protect her and her pending patent. She deflated after a year of strenuous usage, and once all the air was out of her, the relationship itself fizzled.
Fiance 2 was actually a living breathing human. We met in college, fell head over heals in love with me, because that's how these things work, and at some point, while she was in bed with another man, I asked her to marry me, and we all laughed a long time. It ended up that the other man thought I was asking him to marry me, and keep in mind, this is long before there were gays or gay marriage or anything else gay.
Fiance two ran off with a woman.
Fiance 3.
What can I say about the love of my life. A classical musician, she was trained at both Julliard and the Barneby Slauson School of Classic Music and Cotton Candy Institute. To say that 3 stole my heart would be an understatement. She did steal my heart, but also my favorite jeans, a tube of toothpaste and 3 coupons for reduced fat potato chips. She also died on 9-11, so for that I try and show respect. Of course, it was September 11, 2003, but still.
Fiance four was kind of like spitting into the wind. Mostly because that was her only talent, spitting, windy or not. She was a backwoods babe, equally comfortable in overalls as she was nude. This was a fiance who did not know the word no. Which is sad because no is a two letter word and everyone knows it. She did not know the word no, yes, deposit, skill, brain or abbreviation.
Dumb as a sack of rocks, fiance two also died tragically in a farming accident, which was a bit ironic since, A - she did not live on a farm and 3- she was attracted to the tractor that ended up running her over because "it's all green and stuff."
What I did learn from all of these fiances is that you can spend days or weeks or even in some cases, years, getting to know someone, only to have the hand of god reach down and pluck them from you like a perfectly formed peach. It was with that knowledge that I agreed to meet Linda, and within 6 hours I was engaged and we plan to actually get married this weekend.
It is all very romantic. I am head over heals in love and the world is a better place. It is amazing what profound love can do to ones soul.
Oh dear. I just got a text. It seems as though "Linda" has read this blog and does not see a future in someone so "shallow, self centered and grammatically challenged."
I do like the sound of fiance 6.
First though, a little information on my latest fiance. We met online a couple of weeks ago, which is, according to Oprah and other desperate women, exactly how everyone meets anyone now days. So there I was, clicking away on this really great single Jewish dating website and all of a sudden a little "chattah" window opened up. The Jews can not just go with the flow on anything, and when it comes to online dating, not only do you have to pay prior to establishing an account, but they have cute Jewish names for everything.
So I was Chattahing with this complete stranger, let's call her "Linda" because that is what I call almost all the women in my life. It really streamlines the conversations, because they almost always go something like this:
Me; Hi Linda.
Linda: My name is not Linda.
Me; Then what is your name?
Linda; Becky.
Me; Well, I will call you Linda.
See how easy that is? Try it yourself sometime.
So I was Chattahing with Linda on the Jew date site and all of a sudden, we were sharing incredibly personal information with one another. I'd say we chatted for well over half an hour and in that time, I learned that she had been engaged once before, she had an abortion in college, she has a tattoo of an Irish shamrock in a sexy part of her body, she has a cat named Felix, has been working downtown for the last 7 years at a job that is both rewarding and frustrating and she has just recently rejoined the dating ranks after a year of therapy and spending time really getting to know herself. In that same time chatting with me she learned that I had banana and granola for breakfast.
So, even electronically I could tell there was something special about Linda, so I asked her out. We met in my neighborhood, between the prostitute and the crack dealer and strangely, she knew where that was. We spent that entire night chatting, talking and communicating. It was sublime and almost immediately I knew this was the woman for me. Around 7 AM I asked her to marry me and she said yes. Thus, fiance number 5 was developed.
Since I have had at least four previous finances, the concept of fiance 5 was not a big deal to me, but the fact that I broke all my own rules is something to crow about, or write home about, or scream from the mountain tops about. Either way, what I decided after breaking it off with fiance 4 (psycho fiance 4 for those keeping score) I knew I had to change the way I went about these things.
In the past I took a "get to know the person" philosophy about both dating and long term commitments. My entire life of fiances has brought me to the realization that getting to know someone is damn near impossible, and by the time you actually really do know someone, chances are you are close to 70 and probably impotent. What I realized after dropping fiance 4 off at the local mental institution was this, I need to spend less time actually getting to know a fiance and more time playing crossword puzzles online.
Linda met all the really important qualities I like in a fiance. She spoke english, which is nice. After that, for me, everything is gravy. What I really like about Linda is that she actually brought gravy to that first meeting, winner.
A lot of you are probably scratching your heads or possibly the head of the person in the cubicle next to you, which might be awkward, but to each his own. You may wonder, how did an obese leprechaun like me ever manage to get 5 fiances. Well, the vast majority of the people who frequent this blog are actually too stoned to remember how this post started, much less have the brain capacity to think about how anyone actually meets anyone else.
The point is this, I have had way more than my fair share of fiances, but the real question is, why have I never married? That would be a good question to answer, but instead, let's look over some of the fiances who came close to the alter, but for whatever reason, in some cases restraining orders, why did we not tie the knot? Or, if we did tie the knot, why did it not stay tied? Or even, if it was tied in such a way as to remain tied, why is there now a Linda who is officially fiance numero Cinco?
First things first. My very first fiance was my high school sweetheart, whom I shall call inflatable doll Becky, only to protect her and her pending patent. She deflated after a year of strenuous usage, and once all the air was out of her, the relationship itself fizzled.
Fiance 2 was actually a living breathing human. We met in college, fell head over heals in love with me, because that's how these things work, and at some point, while she was in bed with another man, I asked her to marry me, and we all laughed a long time. It ended up that the other man thought I was asking him to marry me, and keep in mind, this is long before there were gays or gay marriage or anything else gay.
Fiance two ran off with a woman.
Fiance 3.
What can I say about the love of my life. A classical musician, she was trained at both Julliard and the Barneby Slauson School of Classic Music and Cotton Candy Institute. To say that 3 stole my heart would be an understatement. She did steal my heart, but also my favorite jeans, a tube of toothpaste and 3 coupons for reduced fat potato chips. She also died on 9-11, so for that I try and show respect. Of course, it was September 11, 2003, but still.
Fiance four was kind of like spitting into the wind. Mostly because that was her only talent, spitting, windy or not. She was a backwoods babe, equally comfortable in overalls as she was nude. This was a fiance who did not know the word no. Which is sad because no is a two letter word and everyone knows it. She did not know the word no, yes, deposit, skill, brain or abbreviation.
Dumb as a sack of rocks, fiance two also died tragically in a farming accident, which was a bit ironic since, A - she did not live on a farm and 3- she was attracted to the tractor that ended up running her over because "it's all green and stuff."
What I did learn from all of these fiances is that you can spend days or weeks or even in some cases, years, getting to know someone, only to have the hand of god reach down and pluck them from you like a perfectly formed peach. It was with that knowledge that I agreed to meet Linda, and within 6 hours I was engaged and we plan to actually get married this weekend.
It is all very romantic. I am head over heals in love and the world is a better place. It is amazing what profound love can do to ones soul.
Oh dear. I just got a text. It seems as though "Linda" has read this blog and does not see a future in someone so "shallow, self centered and grammatically challenged."
I do like the sound of fiance 6.
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